Blood Highway

by Gina Wohlsdorf

  “I’m fine.”

  “You’re—”

  Crying. He left the accusation unfinished.

  My tears rolled down in perfect silence. I wiped my nose on Blaine’s coat, until his fist appeared holding a bouquet of tissues.

  I’d once asked in History, “So there’s the year 1 BC and the year 1 AD, but what do we call the year between them? Zero?” Must’ve been strange to live in Year Zero and not know it was Year Zero. The thing that divided time for the rest of recorded time wasn’t felt everywhere, not by a long shot. It was this quiet event in a stinky hog shed.

  Living in Year Zero was nonliving. Limbo living.

  Was I alive? You can see me, right?

  Blaine got my hair out of the way. Dinner came up in an acidy puree, onto the snow, making it steam. My trajectory carried me off the bumper. When I was done, I put my forehead on the ambulance’s dirty license plate. “Do you have a mint?”

  “Yeah. Wait—hang on.”

  Puking has such a sedative effect. Almost makes you understand the appeal of bulimia.

  “Here.” Gum. Cinnamon. Blaine’s hand trembled holding it out.

  A clatter came from the direction of my front door. Hydraulics smacked. Wheels squeaked on slick concrete, and Mom commenced her last gallivant down the driveway. I thought of her in the sun, waving at little Louie Schweitzer going by on his bike. She strolled to the mailboxes, met the mailman. She commented on the weather, her voice singsong and banal. Sounding of sweetness, not psychosis.

  A dull thud—they were loading her. My eyes were clamped so tightly shut that the muscles there hurt. It was interesting, pure viscerality. I observed it, the whimpering noise I made when the two doors closed. My hands slapping over my ears when the engine started. A deep-down drill sergeant shouted at me to shape up, bear up, man up—but something automatic and autonomic and subatomic told it, “Fuck you, leave me alone, she was crazy but she was all I had.”

  “C’mon. I gotcha. C’mon, up we go.” I heard a car door creak open, and I gave some weak resistance. He cupped the top of my head like they do on TV. “It’s okay. Trust me, it’s okay.” I fell into a seat. I had my ears in my hands like they’d molt if I let go. I couldn’t focus. It was as if I were trying to make sense of a picture that’s made up of a million smaller pictures.

  I see this large picture of my pretty, pretty mom. Zoom in, and here’s her taking a tenderizing hammer to the phonograph one sunny afternoon for no particular reason, or maybe because I was singing along to “Songbird” and she thought the evil spirits dug the melody. Chunks of record and record player shooting in different directions. Shrapnel. Her face feral.

  Here’s her in the tub. Bored. She’d never again look anything but bored, ’til the skin tanned and tightened-back in her coffin, exposing a helpless smile.

  I opened the car door and dove sideways, just missing the seat. This time was more effortful. Less to chuck up.

  “Epic,” I told my sad pool of bile. Blaine had put me in the passenger’s side. “Thank him,” I said, mental-noting. “Remember to thank him.”

  The coroner’s van beeped, reversed. Its headlights were a bright, painful surprise. I contorted for a few handfuls of snow and gargled. Blaine came around the car in the middle of this attractive process. He approached like he wanted to help.

  I held up a hand. “I got it.”

  “Sure?”

  “Yeah.”

  I looked a second later, and he was gone. I nuzzled the door’s armrest. “Thank him a lot.”

  I rocked back into my seat, shut the door, cranked the rearview, and attacked my blotchy pallor with wet tissues. I wanted to hunt for more gum, but rifling through a police cruiser didn’t seem like the best idea. Blaine was on the lawn, talking to three other uniforms and a guy in a suit. The suit asked something, and Blaine checked his watch before replying, tipping his hand back and forth to show approximation. He pointed at the car and stepped toward it.

  I stared at the dashboard clock. The driver’s side opened, closed. The car started. I’d arrived home less than an hour ago.

  Blaine’s hand waved over the numbers. He’d said something, but I’d missed it.

  “Sure,” I said.

  “Or we can go straight there.”

  “No, it’s fine.”

  “You’re positive?” he said.

  “Positive.”

  I played a game, guessing what I’d agreed to: Pit stop for cigarettes? Nude modeling? Ritual goat sacrifice? My house disappeared and reappeared on my right.

  “Do you miss where you’re from?” I said.

  “I’m from here.”

  “Where you grew up, though.”

  “I grew up here. You can smoke if you want. Crack the window first.”

  “I’m fine,” I said. The Minneapolis skyline took over the windshield. Traffic had gone from nonexistent to nuts in a few quick turns, and horns sounded around us. Gotcha-blizzards reliably turned rush hour into rush three-hours, as the IQs of otherwise functional drivers liked to sink along with the temperature. Blaine surprised me by taking the highway. We saw three accidents in eight miles. All had police on scene already, taking statements and assessing damage, trying not to get run over. Gusts tore drapes of snow into horizontal funnel clouds. The roads only got more treacherous, but Blaine kept up a casual stream of questions: Any college plans? Got an idea of a career yet? Do you play sports? I said I was on the fence about more school and what came after, told him about track and cross-country. That last question I could bandy back; I asked what sports he played in high school.

  “All of ’em,” he said, and signaled our exit at one of 35W’s worst cloverleafs. He hugged the inside of the ramp, calm, like outside was sunny and sixty-five.

  “You’re a good driver,” I said.

  “Thanks. I do EVOC every other weekend.”

  “I don’t know what that is.”

  “Emergency Vehicle Operations Course. I teach cops not to crash cars.”

  “Life skill.”

  “Right,” he said. “How’s Denny’s?”

  “Have you ever crashed?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Not once?” Apparently, what I’d agreed to earlier had been food. My stomach was not any species of up to that. “Never?”

  “Nope. My dad taught me to drive on the EVOC track.”

  “Your dad was a cop, too.”

  “His dad, too. Irish New Yorkers, so. What’s your dad do?”

  “Died,” I said. “Before I was born.”

  “Sorry.”

  “It’s fine. I never met him.”

  “That’s why I’m sorry.”

  We exited less than a mile before Bloomington, where the airport and Mall of America shone their promises. The Denny’s vow was much humbler: Grand Slam $7.99! Employees’ cars clustered by the Dumpster. We were the only other vehicle. The KFC and the Aéropostale and the Taco Bell across the street were these tiny lighthouses, warning people away. It looked like the end of the world.

  Blaine blew into his cupped hands as we crossed the lot. His coat encased my shoulders, warm as a big bag of yak fur. “Here,” I said, pulling my arm from a sleeve.

  “You’re keeping it.”

  “I run warm.”

  “You weigh what, one-twenty?”

  One-fifteen, fuck-bucket.

  Blaine hurried ahead and got the door. “I’m insulated. Keep it.”

  I smelled meat and butter and forgot my acrobatic vomiting from a half hour ago. Kylie Minogue sang “Santa Baby” on the Muzak with this goo-goo-ga-ga elocution, and it was just death. The hostess’s voice matched it perfectly. “Hi there,” she said. Her nails were red talons. I pictured her swooping down on Blaine from above—cawww!—and carrying him to her nest.

  “Hi, yourself,” Blaine said. He was smiling this smile that made him look like a game show host. “Two, please. Smoking. I don’t suppose there’s a wait, huh?”

  Oh man. This poor fortysomething with her ’
80s eyeliner.

  “If I made you wait, would you arrest me?”

  “Nah,” Blaine said. “Citation only.”

  She led us to a booth. “Coffee?”

  Blaine replied, “Only if it’s hot,” and she rushed off to fetch.

  I tented my menu, hiding laughter behind food-porn pancakes and omelets. I lit a cigarette.

  “How long you been hooked?” he asked. “Cigs.”

  “As opposed to my heroin habit.”

  “As opposed to that, yeah.”

  I shut my menu and laid it flat. “How long have you been practicing that George Clooney bit you were doing a minute ago?” The only sexy I could pull off was the ironic kind, and I went full throttle on it now. I channeled Sharon Stone in Basic Instinct, pouting my lips, letting smoke mist my face.

  Blaine nabbed the Parliaments. A grin escaped his first inhale. Sly. At most, amused. Nowhere near happy.

  She was back. “Piping hot.”

  “Thanks,” Blaine said.

  “I brought cream, too. And extra sugar. In case you like it sweet.”

  “Thank you. We’re ready to order.”

  I felt bad for her. She was flummoxed. She scribbled my pancakes and turned to him, excited. He grunted all caveman, ordering his Grand Slam. “We’re gonna need some time,” he said. “Leave the pot. No refills or anything.”

  I thought that was a bit much.

  “Better?” he asked me. He slid a steaming mug across the table.

  I dumped cream to make it pale tan and pulled my knees up under my chin, turning to look out the window. “Why are we here?”

  “I figured you were hungry.”

  “Why are we really here?”

  “Did I tick you off somehow?” he said.

  “What a coincidence. She’s thinking the same thing.”

  “Who?”

  I sipped. Heaven. Out the window looked as beautiful and boring as heaven. A van slunk into the parking lot. Snow striped its black panels. Its bumper had a sticker that urged me to free Tibet. It went around the back of the Dumpster to the lot’s other side. I hoped whoever was in the van didn’t get seated near us, but a couple of minutes passed and no one came in.

  “I’m lost, Rainy. You want me to be mean to her, or you want me to be nice to her?”

  I looked at him like: Well, there you are.

  Blaine went, “Chuh!” and shook his head. I read someplace that blue-eyed men are consistently rated by women to be the most attractive and the least trustworthy. I’m watching Blaine, and suddenly, I get it. That clear, cool color let me observe the lies as he formed them and set them aside, landing on the truth.

  “CPS is slow.” He shifted in the booth’s bench, caging his elbows around his mug. “Child Protection Services. I got a contact there I called. She said December’s the worst for finding beds, so it’d take a few hours.” He shrugged. “Only places to wait at the station are interrogation rooms, cells, or the pit. Desk pit—you’ll see it. I thought you’d be more comfortable here.”

  “Oh.” The Jackson 5 were singing “Santa Claus Is Coming to Town.” I thought of asking Blaine to please, please shoot the speakers. “I started when I was eleven. Cigarettes.”

  He undid his silverware and laid the napkin in his lap. I was about to mimic him when I heard, “Pancakes?”

  I about bit into the plate. They were good. Once I doused them in syrup and butter, they were better. People bash Denny’s, and I don’t understand. It’s food. It’s edible. Anybody who had to bathe his palate in truffle oil in order to not bitch about a meal was warped.

  I set the dish aside, took a long pull of coffee. Reaching for the carafe, I saw Blaine staring. His Grand Slam still steamed in front of him. I’d forgotten to slow down and hoovered the whole stack in a minute.

  He pushed his plate to me.

  “No, thanks,” I said.

  “I’m grown,” Blaine said. “I don’t need it.”

  Shame is warm, sticky. His cakes’ syrup called to me, assuring me I’d never see him again. That my present humiliation was already a memory. Mariah Carey started singing “All I Want for Christmas Is You” while I ate.

  “When I was a kid,” Blaine said, “we lived in this walk-up on Union. That doesn’t mean anything to you, but back then, it wasn’t a very good neighborhood. Is now, or it’s getting there. You can tell if you count the Starbucks in a five-block radius, right?”

  A corner of my mouth rose, totally on its own, because: “Right.”

  “There was this alley between our building and the Vietnamese restaurant next door, and they threw out a bunch of fish every night. I’m not exaggerating, Rainy—had to be at least two hundred cats living there. In a space maybe a quarter of this dining room.”

  All I had was hash browns left. I picked for the crispy ones.

  “My bedroom was fourth floor, right above that alley. I got the fish smell, I got woke up by meows and hisses, even in winter. But summertime? When they were in heat?”

  Blaine winced and pointed to the ceiling. Just as Mariah hit her high note.

  Caught off guard, I did this hot coughing fit, spitting into my napkin. Blaine laughed, too, and pushed a glass of ice water so all I had to do was bend down and suck the straw. I put my head on my arms on the table. It was cathartic. Deeply not cute.

  The waitress asked Blaine if that was everything, and he asked for pie—whatever kind, surprise him. She brought two pieces of cherry, plus the check. Blaine gave me his slice, and I didn’t argue. I’d wolfed it down before he’d managed to slip her a twenty.

  “Change?” She batted spidery lashes.

  “No. Thanks, everything was great.”

  Why’d his dismissal shrink her proportions, slump her back? Why’d chicks do this to themselves, prostrate themselves, simplify themselves to a shorthand of willingness for guys to accept or reject? Why couldn’t I do it, what stopped me? My first and only date when I was fifteen, this senior I knew from track—we went to a scary movie, and he asked, at the scariest part, if he could hold my hand. And I’m ensconced in the movie, I’m way into the movie, so I shake him off. When we go to the parking lot, I say I’ll take the bus. I figure he’ll try and kiss me, but he just gets in his car and goes. The next day, he told the entire school I was a lesbian. I clocked a lot of friend time with a lesbian; it was an easy sell. I acted like it bugged me, but it simplified my life quite beautifully. I hated that whole game. How girls were destined to lose.

  Blaine topped off our mugs. He sipped, staring at me.

  “What?” I said.

  “Do you wanna talk about it?”

  “About what?”

  “Most important part of being a cop is knowing how to listen. I’ll listen.”

  I couldn’t believe his nerve. I was furious, out-of-this-world furious. Because now I owed him, and he knew that. And he was using it. The kicker was, I understood. I’d have been intrigued if we were the other way around. Locked-up kitchen. Dry-eyed daughter suffering momentary stabs of grief she recovers from. Caffeine and a big meal were duking it out for control of my brain, energy shutter-clicking my thoughts, lethargy gumming them up. Yet I stayed steady, gave no indication of the chaos inside.

  “Look,” Blaine said. “People are mostly doing the best they can—”

  “Don’t do that. Don’t platitude me. People are mostly doing the best they’re willing to do, not the best they can. A person’s actual best is pretty damn good, but it’s a lot of work. So most people find the maximum amount of work they’re willing to do and then they call that their best.” It came out in a rush. I’d never had that particular thought before. I loved it instantly, its mercilessness.

  This might be fun.

  I sneered, and I hoped it made me ugly. “What do you want to know?”

  “Nothing.” He slid sideways. “Nothing, let’s go.”

  “You ever play What If as a kid? What if your mom picked you up from school every day but this one afternoon she was really late? What
would you do?”

  Blaine resettled, literally on the edge of his seat. “How far is it?”

  “Two miles.”

  “Winter?”

  “Spring.”

  “I’d walk.” He was keyed, his fingers white around his cup.

  “’Kay, awesome. You walk. You get home and there’s a key rock. You use the key. You go in and you cue up some Super Mario.”

  I was in my house. My living room. I was eleven. I was beating a level I’d never beaten before, pumped about it. Watching Mario stomp on a winged turtle in midair, getting coins. Ding! Ding-ding! “The door opens. She comes in. She takes the video game console and throws it. It hits the lamp right next to me. She screams that she was running around, asking everyone if they’d seen me—secretaries, teachers. She tells me it was embarrassing. It was embarrassing for her. I’m on the floor and she’s over me, and she’s slapping me, saying, ‘I was so embarrassed’ again and again, and her hand comes across on the ‘bar’ in ‘embarrassed.’ Her hand’s really strong from cooking and dusting and folding towels and making beds. You wouldn’t think that makes you strong, but it does.”

  I left out that the slaps had actually started coming on the word “hate” instead. As in “I hate you, I hate you.” Blaine might have interrupted, told me she didn’t mean it. She did mean it. Mom had blue eyes, too. Lightning had seemed to flash inside them, to travel out along with her hand, stinging my left cheek, getting it soft and tender. Something she planned to cook later.

  “And I’m taking it like usual.” And I know I’m screwing this up. How do you explain the thing that defines you? The thing that’ll always define you, no matter what else happens. The thing that cracked the lens you see yourself through. “Only, I’m getting mad. She’s the one who was late. I’m thinking, ‘Yeah that’s why she’s so mad, that’s why it’s got to be on me, because it can’t be on her.’ She has to put it away from her, that she messed up. Projection—except I hadn’t studied psych yet. I didn’t know the term, but I knew that’s what it was. My first adult thought, I think. And I kicked out.”

  My stomach contracted. Gorge backflooded my pipes. I swallowed, and: “I kicked her. Not that hard. I kicked her in the knee. She made this—it was a guh sound. She sat back on her butt, and it was right then, on the impact: a light went out. I watched it happen. I’d learn—I didn’t know then, but I’d learn—psychotic breaks can be triggered by anything.”