Lu took it as a sign.
I took it as a sign the guy knew how to reset the odometer and might be into that show about Satan.
But the seats were buttery soft black vinyl, the windows cranked up and down by hand, and the bed in back was wood and not lined with that stuff that could withstand an atom bomb.
I sprawled on the passenger side of the big bench seat as she cruised down the narrow road, her window yawning wide so one hand could swim in the warm air as it rushed past.
We’d left Chicago behind us, following the road past tall buildings and crowded sidewalks, then into neighborhoods with cracked pavement, old parks and older churches, until we’d threaded out into Cicero. Lu hadn’t stopped at Henry’s Drive-in for a hot dog. She hadn’t stopped in Lyons or McCook or Romeoville. When we rolled past the Rich and Creamy ice cream stand withJoliet Kicks on 66written across a giant ice cream cone set behind two life-size statues of the Blues Brothers dancing on the roof, I figured Lu wasn’t gonna stop driving all day.
She was focused, but easy, letting the road spool out behind us like there was something out there calling her name and all she had to do was follow it.
Illinois spread around us, flat and wide. The sun caught yellow in the deep green of cornfields and tall grasses, the sky arched in powder blue above scattered oak and maple trees. Lorde panted like a fuzzy sentinel between us, staring out the open window on my side, but not crowding me out of my seat to get to it.
I nodded at the Gemini Giant in Wilmington, the thirty-foot tall statue of a man in green coveralls and space helmet, still grinning about the silver rocket in his hands after all these years. Then I watched as Braidwood, Godley, and Gardner came and went.
Lu stopped at the Ambler’s Texaco Service Station to let Lorde out onto the grassy area to do her business. The little white cottage with the green roof had been built in 1933, and pumped gas for the next sixty-six years or so. It had fallen into disrepair for some years before it was restored as a visitor’s center.
Didn’t look like anyone but us had visited for awhile.
I leaned against the fire engine red Texaco Sky Chief gas pumps and tipped my head to get the kink out of my neck. The billboard behind the picnic tables declared:My Family’s Destination is Dwight Illinois. I wondered if the unimpressed man in the fedora on the sign was supposed to be Frank Sinatra.
After that, a steady row of small towns rose up and grew small as we continued on: Odell, Cayuga, Pontiac, Lexington.
“Don’t name it Silver,” I finally said after we’d passed through the old growth hickory, oak, and maple trees of Funks Grove, leaving theMaple Sirupsign—spelled just that way—behind. We were mid-way through the route in Illinois, and Lu was still driving.
“How about Silver? That’s a good name.” Lu reached out and scratched behind one of Lorde’s kitten-soft ears.
I grunted. “You’ve already named a snail, a cow, and a Studebaker Silver.”
“Silver’s good. The Lone Ranger’s horse was Silver, and he was strong and reliable. Just like you.” She patted the dash.
The truck coughed, shuddered, and made a grossly exaggerated popping sound.
“No, no, no,” she breathed, fighting the wheel as she lost speed.
“How about Anchor?” I suggested, watching the dials bottom out and stay there. “Scrap Metal? Shipwreck? I mean, Bad Decision might be a bit on the nose, but it could work.”
The truck lurched, howled at the injustices of life, then banged like a sawed-off shotgun before coming to a dead stop.
She blinked a couple times while the dust kicked up from the road did a slow roll through the cab, leaving behind a layer of brown.
“Or, you know, you could call it the I Told You So,” I said.
“Damn-to-hell. If you are laughing at me, Brogan, so help me, I’ll make you pay.”
I grinned and leaned her way waggling my eyebrows even though she couldn’t see me. “Oh, big words. How you gonna make me any worse off than I already am, darlin’?”
She thunked her head back on the bench and blew out a big breath. “It was just a few more miles.”
“To the junkyard, where this thing belongs?” I asked.
“We’re closer to McLean than Shirley, aren’t we?” she muttered.
“Yes.”
“Walk or call?” she asked Lorde.
“Call a tow,” I said. “Lorde. Tell her to call a tow.”
