Taking the Highway

by M. H. Mead

  “Too complicated.” He handed her some extra pillows before joining her. “I move around a lot when I sleep,”

  “I bet,” she said.

  “I used to fall out of bed when I was a kid. I can barely find the edge of this monster.”

  They nested together, moving his squadron of pillows until they were comfortably inextricable. He spent a few minutes afraid she was going to bring up the potentially inflammable subject of what they would be doing about this tomorrow, but she was either as content as he was, as smart as he was, or just as terrified as he was. He hoped.

  “Just promise me you won’t date my brother.” The words left his mouth before he could take them back.

  Sofia snorted. “The one who gave me a score? Not a chance.”

  “You heard that, huh?”

  “I think he wanted me to hear.”

  “I hate it when he does that.”

  She snuggled into him, her fingers cool and slim and somehow right on his arm and ribs. He was contemplating going for a bottle of wine or suggesting coffee when Sofia asked, “Andre, why do you fourth?”

  “Why not?” he answered easily. “Something like half our department moonlights.”

  “Yes, but why fourthing? Why can’t you be a security guard like a normal cop?”

  “I’m allergic to doughnuts.”

  “Very funny.”

  “I’m not big and beefy. How am I supposed to bounce a room?”

  “Don’t give me that. People respond to a shield and a gun and a certain air of authority.”

  “That must be how you do it.”

  Sofia sat up. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Nothing. Sorry.” For a second, he wished she had asked him instead about their future together, then he shook himself. “What was the question again?”

  Sofia threw a pillow at him. “Why do you fourth?”

  “I like it.”

  “I like tea, but I don’t make a second career out of drinking it.”

  Andre grabbed the pillow Sofia had thrown and put it behind his head, considering. He thought of Bob Masterson, living nowhere, doing nothing, happy working a less-than-part-time job for almost no wages. He could never do what Bob did, but he understood what Bob got out of it. The pleasures of fourthing were immediate. Customers wanted you. They assumed they would like you. They chose you above all others and were happy to have you in their cars.

  No one was ever happy to see a cop. Even if you needed them, even if they were on your side, the police only showed up when something bad happened to you. By the time you called the police, you were already having one the worst days of your life. Of course, Andre still felt the satisfaction of helping, of doing a good job, but the pleasures of being a cop were subtle and unsure. Sometimes, you gave your all and nobody cared. Sometimes you were even punished for it.

  He meant to tell Sofia that, to explain it all to her, but what popped out was, “Job security.”

  “Security? You’ve chosen the most insecure job there is.”

  Andre smiled in the dark. “Not if you’re good.”

  “Are you?”

  “I get by.”

  “So you’re not fully invested in fourthing, either.” Sofia rolled away from him, giving him her back.

  Andre sat up and rubbed his left eye. How did she do that? Most women didn’t see through him so quickly. He retreated to his pillow nest, knowing at any moment Sofia would get dressed and leave.

  He held his breath in the awkward silence. Sofia didn’t move, waiting for something, perhaps for the truth. It was worth a try. “My dad was an executive at Quensis. He gave them thirty years and they gave him a polished wingtip on the backside and not much else. Being your own boss is the only real job security. It isn’t that I don’t trust the department, but you know what they say about The Job. You fall in love with it—it doesn’t fall in love with you.”

  Andre reached for her but she’d scrambled to the far side of the bed, an ocean of blankets between them. “I got promoted once—”

  “Most people see that as a good thing.”

  “—right after the biggest screw-up of my career.”

  “And what this has to do with fourthing . . .”

  He kept his eyes closed, not daring to look, attempting to hold her with his words. “You know I came over from Internal Affairs? I’ve seen the worst of both sides of the law. So many cops walking a line between arresting criminals and becoming one.” His voice sounded as if it belonged to someone else, someone bitter and old with it. “I guess as long as I’m a fourth, I can tell myself I’m not all cop and I’m not in danger of making those mistakes.”

  He stopped. Here he was, with a beautiful woman in his bed, a fantastic ending to a shitty day, and he was ruining it by babbling nonsense. He moved cautiously to her side, laying himself along the length of her and gently kissing her ear. “What about you? Why are you a cop?”

  “My dad’s a cop. Mom’s a social worker. I come by it honestly.” Sofia leaned into his embrace and he felt a glow in his chest. She would stay. “But we’re not talking about me.”

  “Why not?” Andre brushed his fingers over her side, feeling her warm skin under his hand. “I like talking about you. I could talk about you all night. So, your dad was a cop. What’s it like to be born in blue?”

  “He didn’t shield me.” Sofia’s voice was slow and sleepy. “Not from anything.”

  “Yeah, all kids think that.”

  “I chowed through a rare steak while Dad gave me every detail of a fatal stabbing. The blood didn’t bother me.”

  “Jesus. How old were you?”

  “I don’t know. About seven. It was just dinner conversation. The thing is, that was normal at my house. When I was nine, he taught me how to fight off a rapist.”

  She didn’t say the rest. Didn’t have to. The way her body tensed told him she’d needed those skills, maybe not long after she’d learned them. Andre snuggled closer behind her, holding her until she relaxed.

  He listened to her talk, trying to picture what it was like to be an only child of parents like hers. Sofia told him happier stories about her dad and her family and her childhood—Tigers games, sledding, Sleeping Bear Dunes—until she wore herself out and fell asleep.

  He stayed awake long after, absently running his fingertips across her arm, thinking about family. What was it like to have parents who actually told you the truth about their jobs? All of it? What kind of family never hid things from the children? He hadn’t known his dad’s job was in danger until it was already gone. He hadn’t known Dad was an alcoholic until he’d drunk himself to death.

  He watched Sofia sleep, content, wishing he could have some of that for himself. But if he couldn’t have her contentment, he could at least share it. He put his head on her pillow, matched her breath for breath, and tried not to think about his brother.

  MOM COULDN’T WAIT TO get out of Detroit. A week after Dad’s funeral, she accepted a job on a friend’s herb farm in Sedona. She’d put her house on the market, bought a condo in Sedona, hired brokers to sell the furniture and movers to pack the rest. Then Oliver stepped in. He bought her an airplane ticket and volunteered to drive the contents of her life to Arizona. Somehow, without ever raising a hand or saying a word, Andre had volunteered as well.

  Even now, twelve years later, his memories of that trip kept coming back to the word straight. The endless straight highways of the Midwest, with farms on either side. Corn farm, wind farm, corn farm, wind farm. As they’d turned south, it had become wheat farm, solar farm, wheat farm, solar farm. The heartland of America grew food and energy in an unbroken pattern.

  The rental truck’s sound system didn’t work properly and they were forced to listen to broadcast radio. As they drove through the Midwest, the all-news stations were full of controversy over Detroit’s new footprint. The shrinking of the city’s borders in a last-ditch effort to balance the budget and save the city was seen as foolhardy by half its populace and
visionary by the other. Talk of riots on the horizon, 1967 all over again. Talk of greenbelts and federal grants and new prosperity on the other horizon, as the mayor and the city council tried to steer Detroit in the right direction.

  The further they drove, the less news they heard, until somewhere in southern Indiana, every station filled the truck with twangy country guitars and exhortant preachers. Oliver snapped it off in disgust.

  They neared cities and were surrounded by commuters alone in their cars. Unthinkable now, normal then. They left cities and saw fewer vehicles. An occasional truck. An occasional car.

  Straight roads, straight driving, straight through. That’s what bothered Andre the most. His brother never stopped the damn truck.

  He stared out the window, counting defunct oil wells. “I’m hungry.”

  Oliver steered with one hand, the other drumming a rhythm on his leg. “You’re always hungry.”

  “So let’s stop for food.”

  Oliver picked up the bag of potato chips that sat on the seat between them and threw them into Andre’s lap. “Eat these.”

  He put a handful of chips in his mouth. “Now I’m thirsty.”

  “Water bottles in the back.”

  Andre turned in his seat and snagged a nearly-empty bottle. He drained it. “Now I have to pee.”

  Oliver pointed to the empty water bottle.

  “Yeah. You first, bro.”

  “You used the restroom at the last stop.”

  “Three hours ago.” Andre made a fist and thumped the window. “Stop the truck.”

  “No.”

  “I’m carsick.”

  “I’m not stopping.”

  “I will give you ten thousand dollars if you get off at the next exit. It doesn’t have to be a sit-down restaurant. Fast food. A coffee shop. Something. I need a break.”

  “We’ll be in Amarillo in two hours. We’ll stop then.”

  “You mean, we’ll drive through.”

  “We’ll stop.”

  Andre stopped thumping the window. “For how long?”

  Oliver put his signal on before changing lanes on the empty highway. “I can’t give you a number.”

  “Of course not.” Andre transferred his fist’s energy to the potato chip bag. He held it closed with one hand and pummeled the bag flat with the other.

  “I was going to eat those,” Oliver said.

  Andre shook the bag in his face. “Go ahead.” Oliver swatted it away.

  Andre snapped one corner of the bag open and tilted his head back, dumping the crumbs into his mouth. “We should have shipped Mom’s stuff.”

  “And make her unload it? Nice, bro. Real nice.”

  “We could have driven the Challenger to Sedona. That car was made for road trips. Take turns driving, go straight through, arrive in plenty of time to unload.”

  “Do you know how much that would cost? The gas, the wear on the tires, the engine. We’d need several oil changes just to get there.”

  “Why is it always money with you?”

  “Says the kid who offered me ten thousand dollars to take a piss.”

  “You’re an asshole, Oliver.”

  “And you’re stupid. Do you have ten thousand dollars? No. Shut up right now or I swear to God you won’t ever see the Challenger again.”

  The road-haze on the horizon seemed to swell until it obscured everything. Oliver always had some threat, something he could use. Now he would use the Challenger. “That car is mine just as much as yours,” Andre said.

  “Yeah?” Oliver didn’t bother looking over, just kept his eyes on the road like there was something to see there. “Who’s paying the rent on that garage? Who pays for the upkeep and maintenance? It sure as hell isn’t you.”

  Andre struggled with an anger so immense that it hurt to breathe. As quickly as his vision had blurred it now became dangerously clear, the tiny scrub bushes sharp and distinct before they flashed by, the roadside reflector posts tracing the line of the road into infinity. “Dad said—”

  “‘Dad said. Dad said!’“ Oliver’s voice was high and cruel. “Dad said a lot of things, you fucking crybaby. Grow up! You don’t even have a place to keep it. Where would you park it, outside your dorm?”

  “Stop the truck.” Andre cracked the door and the roar of wind filled the cab. “I swear I’m diving out right now, I don’t care how fast you’re going. I’m getting out.”

  Oliver reached over and grabbed a handful of shirt. “Don’t even think about it.”

  “Stop the fucking truck or you can explain it to some state trooper!”

  Oliver slammed on the brakes, wrenched the wheel to the right, and crunched onto the shoulder. The truck skidded to a halt between the blacktop and a dry ditch, the inertia of the stop levering the door open and giving Andre momentum that he used. He started walking.

  He heard the driver’s side door slam and the crunch of Gucci shoes on gravel. Strong fingers dug into his shoulder and whirled him around. Andre batted the hand away and stood in a fighter’s crouch.

  “What is your problem?” Oliver didn’t look the least bit lawyerly in that moment. He looked like a football player who’d lost his helmet in a brawl.

  “My problem? You’re my problem! You’re always the problem!”

  The pissed-off jock disappeared and Oliver was back. “I’m doing my best, here.”

  “You’re doing what’s best for Oliver LaCroix. Period.”

  “I’m taking care of Mom, aren’t I? I’m taking care of you. Dad’s estate—” Oliver pursed his lips and looked over the horizon. A family van passed them—parents staring straight ahead, kids in the back seat pressing their faces to the windows.

  “What about Dad’s estate?”

  “It’s there, okay? I’m taking care of it. Your tuition is paid for, your books are paid for. You have a place to live. The Challenger . . . the Challenger you earn.”

  “Yeah, yeah!” Andre laughed scornfully. “When I’m sixty you’ll let me polish the fenders up for Nikhil.” The suddenness of that thought was like a stone into cold water, the ripples spreading. He nodded. “That’s it, isn’t it? You want to hand the keys to your son and tell yourself that’s the way it’s done. Eldest son gets the legacy. Reinvent history the way you like it.”

  “Nikhil is seven and a half.”

  Andre felt small for even mentioning it, bringing Nikhil into this. He wanted back on solid ground. “Dad left the Challenger to both of us.”

  “It’s in my name.”

  “You know it’s meant for both of us. Just because you think I’m a stupid kid . . .”

  Oliver was looking out at the horizon, back the way they’d come. “You aren’t stupid. You could succeed at any damn thing you try.”

  Andre felt even more off balance at the sudden praise, felt the need to keep the argument going. “Maybe I should stay in school a few more years, huh? Change over to business finance instead of criminal justice.”

  “I wouldn’t. You’re smart to get into something steady. People always need cops.”

  “They always need prosecutors, too. That didn’t keep you from joining a big firm.”

  Oliver bent and grabbed a handful of gravel. For a moment, Andre thought his brother would fling the largest stone at him, start a rock fight right here on Interstate 44, give kids in passing cars something more interesting to see than farms. But Oliver picked out some pebbles and threw them at the nearest fencepost, missing it. He dusted his hands together and reached into his pocket. He pulled out his bundle of keys—not the fob with the rental key, but the tangled bunch of responsibilities he’d carried as long as Andre could remember. He sorted through them and stripped off a single teardrop of plastic with a squared-off point. He held it up between his first and second fingers.

  Andre knew the key, could have drawn it from memory. He plucked it from Oliver’s outstretched fingers before Oliver could change his mind. He held it in his palm and rubbed his thumb over the logo on the back.

 
; “Don’t squirt your shorts. The Challenger is staying right where it is. For now.” Oliver lifted a hand, hesitated, then put it on Andre’s shoulder. “You’re holding a promise, there. The car is half yours. When you’re ready for it.” Andre didn’t move or look at him and Oliver dropped his hand, obviously uncomfortable. “Break’s over. Go piss behind that bush and get your ass in the truck.” He climbed back into the driver’s seat.

  In the argument, he’d forgotten he had to go. He stood under the noon sun, not moving, arms folded, the Challenger key an ache in his palm as he clenched his hand around it. Now that he’d been reminded, he couldn’t keep his dignity much longer. Shoving the key into his pocket, he stalked across red clay soil behind a small outcropping of rock.

  He could stick his thumb out and hitch a ride to Amarillo. No, better yet, get Oliver to take him that far, then ditch him at the restaurant and find a bus or train. But as he watered a bush, he knew that he wouldn’t go anywhere that Oliver didn’t take him. He got back into the truck and slammed the door. “I can help, you know. Let me look at Dad’s papers.”

  “I don’t have the time it would take to walk you through them. The situation is complicated. That’s why Dad named me the executor.”

  “Yeah, when you turned eighteen. I was eight.”

  “Now you’re twenty and you still wouldn’t understand the first thing about it.”

  “How am I supposed to learn if you won’t show me? If Dad had—”

  “He didn’t. He never needed to.” Oliver checked his mirrors and pulled onto the empty road. “I’m taking care of things.”

  He slumped against the doorframe and stared up at the punishing blue sky. Andre tapped the pocket with the key, as if sending a telegraph to his father. Dad must have had life-insurance policies, probably a long-ago pension and maybe even a retirement fund. Mom would be set for life. If Oliver wanted to skim a little off the top for his troubles, he guessed that would be acceptable. Oliver had politics on his mind, and politics weren’t cheap. Neither was college for that matter. Andre didn’t want the money. All he wanted was to be kept in the loop, treated like an equal. A little respect went a long way.