Holland Suggestions

by John Dunning

  I don’t remember much about that morning’s drive. There were many towns, I know, and once I hit a bad spot where they had the road ripped up and cars were just crawling through. Somewhere I lost 29 and slipped over onto Route 17. It must have been early afternoon when I stopped for a hamburger at a roadside ice cream freeze. The morning had slipped by so easily I could hardly believe the time had gone. And when I started out again I saw that I had left 17 and was now on Route 50, heading west. My first reaction was strong disgust, but that was replaced at once by curiosity. The road felt right, even though the sun was in my eyes and the highway marker said Route 50 West. I resisted the urge to stop, check my direction, and correct it before I lost the entire day meandering. But that was too much trouble. It was too easy to go on and too much trouble to stop; as in a hypnotic trance, I knew exactly where I was and what was happening to me. I knew I could bring myself out of it any time I wanted to. But proving it just wasn’t worth the effort

  When I crossed the West Virginia state line I forced myself back to reality. Damn it, I was going the wrong way. I stopped for gas in a town called Capon Bridge. While the attendant was filling the tank I went inside and got a road map. But I stuffed the map into my back pocket and forgot it was there. I did notice the time; a large wall clock said five to one, and here I was some goddamn place in West Virginia, probably as far from New York as ever. Possibly, by pushing it, I could still make it late tonight, but I didn’t want to drive like that, especially when it wasn’t necessary. The worst of it was this strong new sensation I felt, almost an ambivalent attitude toward the whole New York project. My eagerness of the morning had vanished; doubt had taken its place. I paid the man and forced my attention backward, edging into the eastbound lane and accelerating quickly. Almost in tempo with my rising speedometer needle came my strongest attack of depression since mid-March. It grew, consumed me, and became a physical monster, clutching at my gut and ringing in my ears as though some little man inside me had set off the burglar alarm of my nervous system. Faster, harder, and louder it came: I had to stop; I was surely having a heart attack.

  I stopped at roadside and waited, breathing hard. Nothing happened. Immediately my distress eased and disappeared. Indigestion? Maybe, but I thought it was something else. Gingerly, remembering the numbers 50, 96, and 12, I eased around to turn back into the westbound lane. Only one car was coming up behind me, a large black Oldsmobile. I waited for it to pass, then turned back toward Capon Bridge.

  My decision took less than ten seconds. New York was out, at least for the moment, and something else was in. I watched the speedometer needle climb with mounting excitement.

  At dusk I crossed into Ohio.

  4

  THE FLASHING LIGHT OF a small motel caught my eye sometime after seven. Though the lure of the road was difficult to resist, I was simply too tired to go on. I turned in and registered, getting the last available room, if I could believe the old woman who rented it to me. The room was unnecessarily large, with a double bed, a single, and a rollaway. The fifteen dollars I paid for it was, I thought, a bit steep; since I never argue over bills I paid it, took the key, and made myself at home. I didn’t unload the car; took only my overnight bag and the Holland folder, locked all the doors, and headed nonstop for the shower. The water had a kind of yellow tint, like rust, but that cleared up in about five minutes, just as the temperature began to vary from freezing to boiling. But I felt better after the shower; I dressed, went outside, and walked down Main Street looking for a restaurant.

  It was one of those towns where everything closes at seven o’clock. I passed two dismal cafes, both happily closed, and reached the end of the main drag in about ten minutes. Here the highway turned, zigzagged through a small residential district and continued across country. Just around the bend was a walk-in-drive-in combination, where I ate a greasy hamburger and resolved, for sure, to eat something good tomorrow.

  On the way back to the motel I saw an ice machine and thought of the bourbon in my backpack. I passed it by, feeling no need for alcohol of any kind. I would sleep well enough. For the first time in months I felt completely at peace with myself. I paused at the motel entrance and observed the car parked directly across the street. You don’t see many big black Oldsmobiles any more, and somewhere, today, I was sure I had seen this one. That might not be anything more than an unlikely coincidence, two travelers crossing paths twice in one day; but, curious, I crossed the street for a closer look. The first thing I saw was that it bore Florida license plates with the numbers 38-3414. I walked around the car and peeped in through the window. The inside was nicely done, with thick carpeting and new seat covers and a tape deck. There was a telephone too, rather an unusual piece of equipment for a car. The ashtray was full. And that was all I noticed about the big black car before I began to feel conspicuous. I hurried back to my motel room.

  In the darkness I undressed; then I slipped between the sheets of the double bed. It was hard and good and I was asleep almost at once. I awoke at three-thirty, after seven hours’ sleep, my mind clear and ready for the long drive ahead. When I came outside I saw that the black Oldsmobile was still parked innocently across the street. I shrugged it off, still not completely satisfied that it was a coincidence, and eased my own car out into the westbound lane of Route 50. In a moment the town’s business section slipped into the gloom behind me.

  I turned the bend at the end of town, passed the grease pot where I had taken my last meal, and stopped. My nagging hunch about the black Oldsmobile would not pass, so I parked under a tree at the side of the road and got out. The walk back to the bend was short, but even before I reached it I saw the headlights of an oncoming car. I jumped behind a tree just as the car turned the bend; it was well past me before I tried a look. It was not an Oldsmobile, at least not the Oldsmobile, because the first thing I saw was a large silver star painted on the door around the word POLICE. Local cops always scare me anyway, but this police car coming at this time was especially sobering. I had no doubt that I could be jailed and held for at least a day on nothing stronger than the fact that I was ducking around a dark street in a small Ohio town at four o’clock in the morning. That and my being a stranger might actually get me a jail term in some police courts. So I stood in the shadows until the car was out of sight, and since the bend was just a few steps away, I quickly walked to it and looked far down the street. It was at least six blocks back, but there were sporadic streetlights, and I could just make out the Oldsmobile still parked across from the motel, where I had last seen it

  A light rain had begun to fall by the time I left the town, and when I got to the next town the rainfall was heavy. I found an all-night restaurant, stopped, and got some black coffee for my thermos. The rain was even heavier when I got on the road again; it pounded my windshield with a monotonous patter. I drove slowly, keeping both hands on the wheel and my eyes on the slick pavement. A Route 50 West marker flashed by; then a sign that said Athens and something that looked like 25 miles, but might have been 35 or 55. It didn’t matter; Athens was nothing to me. It was just something I noticed the way a traveler notices signs on the road and ignores them at home. My fascination with the road, if it had ever existed, was worn thin. I wanted badly to get on with it, to get where I was going, and, most of all at the moment, to get out of this goddamn rain. There was a long straight stretch, and as I made the bend I saw a light bobbing at the side of the road. It was a flashlight. The person who carried it began to swing it in a wide arc, as though trying to flag me down. Nice try, but I had no intention of stopping. As I drove past I heard a cry for help. There was no question about it; the voice was female. For an instant my foot hovered between the gas and brake; then I touched the brake and brought the car to a stop.

  I was fully a hundred yards past her, and in the rear-view mirror I could see her light bobbing as she ran to catch up. I backed the car toward her; in a moment we met and she was peering in through my steamy window. She pulled open the door.
/>
  “You going to Athens?”

  She was young. Even in the dim light I could see that clearly. Her face was smooth and the features delicate. A small curl of black hair dropped from under the hood she wore and a stream of water dripped off her hair and ran down her cheek.

  Thunder rolled and I shouted over it: “I don’t know; is that on this road?”

  “Yes, it’s straight ahead.”

  “Then I’ll pass through it.”

  “Can you take me there?”

  “Get in.”

  She almost fell into the seat beside me. The hood dropped away, revealing a thick growth of black hair, which now fell down over her shoulders. She was breathing hard, and for a minute neither of us said anything. I got the car going, and when her breath came easier she said, “Sorry about all the water. God, I was afraid you weren’t going to stop.”

  “I usually don’t pick up hitchhikers at four o’clock in the morning. Come to think of it, I don’t know if I’ve ever seen one. You seemed to be in trouble.”

  “No trouble; not now. I just had to get away from here.”

  “What’s the rush?”

  She glanced at me out of the corner of her eye. “I guess you’ve got to know that.”

  “Only if you’ve just robbed a gas station. Look, as long as it’s legal, what you do is your own business.”

  “Okay. Can I get these wet things off first?”

  “Sure. Put your coat under the heater; that’ll help dry it out.”

  I didn’t push her. For a time she arranged her coat, hood, scarf, and sweater under the heater, then sat back and stared blankly at the dark road. She seemed to have lost any inclination she might have had to tell me about herself, so I figured what the hell, she would soon be gone anyway. She spread out the sweater more evenly, shivered, then hugged herself for warmth, even though the heater was up full and the blouse she wore seemed fairly dry. When I had given up hope of getting conversation of any kind from her, she half turned on the seat and said, “Thanks for stopping.”

  I nodded. “You’re going to…Athens, did you say?”

  “That’ll do. At least till I get a job and make some money to get me back to California.”

  “That your home?”

  “I can get by there. I’ve got friends.”

  A long time passed before either of us spoke again. She was not going to tell me her life story and that was just as well. We were getting close to Athens now; there were some houses and lights and a gas station, a grocery and more houses. I looked over at her, but she was staring out at the rain-spattered darkness.

  “Anywhere in particular?” I said.

  “No.” She sighed. “One place is as good as another, I guess.” She turned and smiled a sad, strained smile. “Are you going on?”

  “Yes.”

  “Far?”

  “I’m not sure. I’m on vacation; just driving to see the country. But yes, I’ll be on Route Fifty for a while yet.”

  “Any chance you’d take me to Cincinnati?—if you’re going that far, I mean.”

  I hesitated. “I don’t know.”

  “Well, I’m not a fugitive, if that’s still bothering you. I just want to get away from here, from this whole part of the country, you know? I’m afraid Athens might not be far enough—or big enough.”

  “It still sounds sinister. Look, miss, it’s just my vacation; I’m not James Bond or anyone like that. I just don’t want to get mixed up in something I don’t understand.”

  “I’m leaving my husband. It’s as simple as that.”

  “And that’s why you have to leave at four o’clock in the middle of a storm?”

  “Yes, now, while he’s still sleeping it off from last night I just reached the end of my rope with him, you know?”

  I didn’t know, but she was into it now and I figured she would tell me the rest

  “He’s just a mean, rotten bastard and I finally had enough. Haven’t you ever known anybody who’s just twisted and ugly inside?”

  I started to say no, I never had, but then I remembered Vivian and I didn’t say anything. That seemed to do it for her; I would have to take her or leave her on that basis. I drove through Athens without stopping, and when we were once more on the open road she relaxed and began to breathe easier. Again, a long time passed between words. I watched her occasionally out of the corner of my eye, but if she noticed the surveillance she did not seem to mind it. Soon her eyes closed and her breathing became deep and regular. I thought she was asleep but she said, “What’s your name?”

  I told her.

  “I’m Amy. Thanks for not putting me out.”

  “Sure. I’ll take you to Cincinnati if that’ll be any help.”

  “How old are you?”

  I found the question surprising, but I answered it: “Thirty-seven.”

  “You don’t look thirty-seven. I’m twenty-two.”

  I looked at her. “Come to think of it, you don’t look twenty-two.”

  “I guess that makes us even.”

  I found this new line of talk disturbing, and I decided to pursue it. “Not quite even. Listen, do you have some ID with you?”

  “What for? You’re not a cop, are you?”

  “No, but I’m getting bad vibrations. There are laws about transporting minors.”

  “Oh Christ; look, I’m not a minor.”

  “Do you have a driver’s license?”

  “No.” She looked at me for a long time, waiting for my reaction. “Goddamn, you’re a worrier,” she said at last. “Do you want me to get out?”

  “I might; we’ll see. I will take you to the next big town, anyway.”

  “I appreciate that. You don’t mind if I rest now, do you?”

  Her voice was cold. She leaned back and closed her eyes; her breathing became very heavy again and I wondered if she was asleep. I adjusted my rear-view mirror downward and to the right, bringing her face into sharp focus with my line of vision. She was nice-looking. There was no telling if she was really of age, so somewhere along the line I would have to make that judgment for myself. In this position she looked all of twenty-two, but then she shifted and the soft dashboard light offered a profile that looked almost babyish. Until she shifted again she might have been no older than my Judy. That illusion, the rain, and the wind vanished almost simultaneously. I turned on the radio, softly, so I wouldn’t wake my passenger, but all I could find was some morning gospel hour and a really crappy country-music show. I turned it off and drove in silence until the sun came up.

  We were well past Chillicothe when the girl stretched and yawned. I gave her one last long look, then straightened the rear-view and adjusted it until I could see the road behind me. In that stark morning light I decided with finality that she was at least twenty-two. Like so many of her liberated generation, she wore no bra; her breasts were fully developed and, while you can’t really go by that, she presented an early-morning image of mature womanhood. So she was no kid, and I could forget about that. But I didn’t want to forget it, not completely; it was a nice excuse, a nice option to have if I wanted to dump her along the way for any reason. I still felt uneasy about her sudden appearance, and nothing she had said had made me more comfortable with her. She stretched and opened her eyes.

  “God—what time is it?” Her voice cracked.

  I looked at my watch. “Almost seven. Good nap?”

  “Yeah, great.” She rubbed her eyes. “Where’re we at?”

  “Somewhere past some town that begins with a C. I can’t pronounce it.”

  “Chillicothe. I thought you’d be farther along than that.”

  “Yeah, we passed it quite a while back. I haven’t been pushing it.”

  “You still taking me to Cincinnati?”

  “I said I would. Cincinnati’s a big town; you ought to be able to find work and get lost there—if that’s what you want. But that’s the end of it for me, okay? You can get yourself over the state line.”

  “God, I really
don’t believe this,” she said a little sarcastically. “Can you really look at me and think I’m under eighteen?”

  “Look, do you want to go to Cincinnati or not? I said I’d take you there.”

  “Fine, fine.” She held up her hands, suggesting that we drop it “In fact, Cincinnati’s just great.”

  “Good. Right now, how about breakfast?”

  I found a truck stop soon, and we went inside and took a booth in a corner. Amy excused herself and went to the ladies’ room, which was located down a dark corridor on the other side of the room. The waitress came and I ordered coffee for both of us. Amy returned in less than a minute—hardly long enough to have made the trip worthwhile—and slipped into her side of the booth.

  “That was quick,” I said.

  “Just wanted to splash some water in my face.”

  “Have anything you want; I’m buying.”

  “I’ve got some money.”

  “Save it; you’ll probably need it before you get to California, or wherever it is you’re going.”

  She looked at me with strange eyes. The waitress came for our orders, and Amy had a full stack of pancakes and an order of bacon and eggs. Either was enough for me; I took the hotcakes. While we were eating she surveyed me with her eyes, much as I had watched her on the road between Athens and Chillicothe. I did not know if she was being intentionally obvious, but I pretended not to notice. Breakfast finished, she settled back with her coffee. “Any idea how much farther you’re going?”

  I shook my head no.

  “I was just wondering. With my money as low as it is, well, the closer I can get to California the better off I’ll be.”