Driving With a Stranger

Part III


     Frank follows the highway, bored. He has driven this stretch of road several hundred times, and there is nothing to look at, nothing but corn and bean fields for miles. They stretch out into the distance, while he guides the silver car between the broken yellow line to his left, and the solid white line to his right. He is satisfied, not minding the boring drive this day, though it is much better going the other direction. Still nothing to look at, but something to look forward to. This way, though. This way is different. Heading home, after having spent a beautiful summer day away, it's hard to turn the car around and go home. To quiet and work and everyday life, where there is no little boy to grab his hand and ask for 'fishy' stories, no grown son to discuss politics with, no pretty daughter-in-law to fawn over him and bring him endless cups of coffee just the way he likes.
     Anna sits quietly next to him, he can not tell if she is truly asleep or just lost in thought. He reaches for her hand. She is a comfort, his Anna. He understands that she is sad to leave as well, they are, the two of them, the same in this. They celebrate the day, and mourn the day's end. They are lucky, though. Jeff and his wife and little Ben are only an hour away. He gets uneasy thinking that Jeff's job could transfer him. He thinks that it would not take much to convince Anna to pull up stakes and follow if the kids were to move further away. He knows that she loves their home, the home they worked hard to pay off, the home they raised Jeff in, but he also knows that even the sixty odd miles that stand between them all are sometimes too much for her. For him, as well.
     The sky darkens, and Frank clicks on the headlights. He thinks of his son, a man now, with a son of his own. He takes comfort in knowing that Jeff is a good man. He is a good father. He does not seem to suffer from the doubt that plagued Frank when Jeff was young. Frank knows that he always tried, but he did not ever know or feel as if he was doing things 'right'. Now that he has seen Jeff with little Ben, he is more sure than he has ever been that he did okay. They have raised up a good man. A man who works hard and is kind and generous and loving. He is somewhat inclined to believe that it is to Anna's credit, more than his own, that their son turned out to be someone they are both deeply proud of. He knows that Anna would disagree with this.
     Guiding the car to the top of a hill, Frank sees something move off the pavement and down into the ditch. His foot automatically comes off the gas pedal, his mind thinks, "deer", and he leans forward in his seat, squinting. It is still too far away to tell. Anna stirs next to him. She is upright now, seeing the same thing he has seen. It is not a deer. It is a person. A person with a light colored shirt. Closer now, he sees it is a woman.
     Passing her, Frank wonders about the circumstances which would lead such a little thing to be walking out on the darkened, nearly abandoned highway. He thinks of the news he has seen, and the newspaper articles he has read. He thinks of well meaning people who unknowingly endangered themselves. He thinks of Grace and little Ben, and what he would want if they were stranded.
     "Frank." Anna says, from his right.
     "Hmmm." He answers, knowing. He knows. He knows it is not right to keep driving, but that is dangerous to stop.
     "Frank, that was a girl."
     "Anna....no." He answers. He is not willing to put his wife in danger's way. He does not know this woman's story, nor does he wish to know it.
     "Frank." She insists.
     "Anna." He answers, firm.Out of the corner of his eye, he sees his beloved wife cross her arms. She is angry. She has dug her heels in and will spend the rest of this drive silently judging him. That is fine. He is willing to risk her ire. He is not afraid of getting involved, not afraid to help, and truth be told, if he did not have Anna in this car with him, he would have stopped. But he worries for her.
     "What if we'd had a daughter?" She whispers out into the silence.
His anger flashes.
     "No daughter of mine would be walking out on the highway at night." He retorts. And even as he says it, he knows that this is wishful thinking. His imaginary daughter could encounter all manner of things, dangerous and otherwise.
     And so, he finds himself pulled over on the shoulder, waiting for a stranger in the dark. His wife is right. It is the right thing to do, though even as he knows this, he is hoping that the woman turned in the opposite direction towards the gas station, and does not, in fact, approach their car at all. But this is not to be.
     In the rear view mirror, he watches her draw nearer to the car, and even in the darkness, he can see that he was wrong. This is not a woman at all, this is a girl. Anna was right about that, as well. She is young, and dust covered. Her expression is one of shock, then fear. Frank rolls down his window.
     "Need some help?" He asks the darkness.
     He feels Anna reach for the straps of her purse. Frank knows that she is suddenly fearful of what she has gotten them into. The girl stands outside the car, leaning a bit, to see who she is talking to. At once, he notices that her upper arms do not match the other skin. They are dark, as if smudged with ink or soot. They are bruised, he knows. And deep within his belly, somewhere underneath....he understands that those bruises came from a human hand, wrapped around the soft flesh of a small bicep. It is unmistakable. He has seen this before. On the arms of a waitress named Anna, before she was his Anna. Frank sucks in his breath through his teeth.
     Anna and the girl are exchanging words, and Frank understand his wife well enough to know that the girl would do well to just save her breath and get into the car. His wife is not to be denied. He can hear it in her voice. Eventually, the girl resigns, and climbs into the back seat.
     Promptly, Frank's nose is assaulted with the smell of cigarette smoke. There is a part of him that misses it, this habit he gave up so long ago. To others it is an acrid, nasty odor, but to him, only sometimes, it is a scent that brings him back to his early days, back to when he didn't think of his own mortality, or that of his loved ones. He also smells what he is sure is vomit. He steals a glance into the rear view mirror at her. She does not appear to be drunk. He can see tracks down her cheeks where tears have fallen recently. Everything about this girl screams, "BROKEN" to him.
     Anna shifts in her seat, he hears lies spewing from the behind his wife, talking about car troubles and he wonders if the lie tastes bitter on the strange girl's tongue. There was no car on the stretch of highway. No flashing yellow hazard lights, no vehicle among the rows of corn and beans. Her car is not what left her stranded out here.
     A short time later, Anna claims that she is thirsty, and he finds himself pulling into a gas station. He knows his wife. She is telling a lie of her own, because she would never ask to stop this close to home. Anna and the girl exchange words, he only catches bits about car trouble and a purse. The three of them push through the glass door into the harsh lighting of the station. The girl does not follow his wife. Anna gently touches the back side of  his arm, and whispers her thanks to him.
     Frank can tell that Anna has lost herself in yesterday. Lost herself in what could have been. Anna herself has credited him with 'saving' her, but he has never thought this. He did not save her, but he watched closely as she saved herself from the monster she had left behind. They discussed it rarely. Frank did not know what she had suffered, exactly, but he knew that in the early days, Anna would flinch if he moved to quickly, and cower and apologize for the smallest, trivial things. It had taken a lot of months for him to earn her trust, for her to cease to lower her eyes when he raised his voice too loudly. It had taken too much time.
     Once, years and years ago, while celebrating with a close friend in a country western bar, Frank had come face to face with Anna's nightmares. And Frank, having never in his life been angry enough to strike another person before, grabbed a hold of this stranger's shoulder, spinning him, and had delivered a blow to his face that had vibrated pain waves all the way down to Frank's toes. In the minutes afterwards, in a flurry of activity, Frank had not felt anything but simple satisfaction in his act. He had given what his Anna had gotten, and there was no regret in that. He had never told her. He had sworn his dear friend to secrecy and lied and told Anna that he had slammed his hand in a car door. And he knows, while standing in this gas station, that if he was given the choice, that if he could revisit that night from so long ago, he would do it again, maybe twice.
     Frank reaches the car before the girl and his wife. In the darkness, while Anna is not paying attention, he slides a fifty dollar bill into her purse.
     Frank slides the gearshift into 'Park', behind a small black pickup truck. This is the address the girl has given. This is the place they will leave her. Anna gets out with her, but Frank stays put. He does not hear their conversation, only something about rides and strangers.
     Anna returns to the car, sighing as she pulls her door shut and simultaneously reaches for her seat belt. Together, they leave the girl behind.

Riding With A Stranger

    Part II

     Anna stares out the passenger window, watching the rows of the corn fields fly by. The fading sun burns hot on her thighs, the khaki, polyester blend pants are hot to the touch, even though the air conditioner in the car has been working overtime since they left.
     She thinks of her son, a tall, dark haired, young man that they have left behind this day. He is smart, and successful, and he loves his mother dearly. He is a good man. A good father. An even better husband than he was a son, which he also excelled at. They have been visiting this day, spending time with a tiny tornado of a grandson, who sings out, "Grammie!" when he wants something out of reach and clings to her neck like a scarf on a cold day. Her heart is full. Nearly overflowing with love.
     Jeff and Grace and little Ben have filled the reserves again, and this will have to last for almost a whole month, because it is summer time, and there are vacations and parties and weddings in the mix. She is happy, happy that they got the weekend, but also, she is melancholy. A month is such a long time when the child is so little, and she wonders what new things he will learn in the time before they are able to see him again. Leaving is always like this. Happy, sad, tired, exhilarated, a study in opposites.
     Beside her, Frank reaches for her hand, knowing her well. Knowing that she is savoring each hug, even while wishing for ten more. Frank knows. He told her once that it is the same for him. He has also reminded her to be thankful that they are so close, Jeff's family. They have friends who see their children and grandchildren only on major holidays, so to take heart and remember that they are an hour's drive away. That Jeff and Grace are more than willing to strap the Cyclone Benjamin into his car seat in the back of their SUV and come to visit. That Jeff calls often and always puts little Ben on the phone to say, "hi" to his Grammie and Gramps. She knows all of this. She understands what it is like for some. She is sad, just the same.
     So, down the highway they go, holding hands, toward home.
     She distracts herself from her sorrowful thoughts by thinking of home. The yard work that is waiting, the washing that needs done. She has been thinking of painting the laundry room again, maybe a buttery yellow. Perhaps she will wait until Jeff comes, so she will have help and company.
     The darkening sky and the lull of the tires against the pavement are tough to fight against after this day, and Anna closes her eyes and thinks of Ben and his big as a saucer, brown eyes. She does not know how long her eyes have been closed when something wakes her, something about the way Frank slows the car without braking, something from inside her telling her to pay attention.
     The lone figure that ducks down into the ditch up ahead is small. Even from her passenger seat, she can see that it is a woman. She says nothing to Frank, only fixes her eyes upon this creature and as they grow closer, she knows that this is not a woman, really, just a girl. A girl with a white tank top and blue jeans. A girl with messy, dark hair and some sort of heavy looking boots. A girl that they are now passed, so Anna watches in the side mirror, as the girl climbs out of the ditch and keeps walking down the road.
     "Frank." Anna says, breaking the silence.
     "Hmm?"
     "Frank, that was a girl." Her lips purse. She has known him too long to think that he does not know what she is about to say.
     "Anna....no. We don't know what the story is."
     "Frank." She insists again.
     "Anna." He answers back.
     Anna crosses her arms. This is her version of drawing a line in the imaginary sand. Frank knows this. He has remarked upon it several times throughout their years together.
     "Anna, stop it. Of all the things to argue about, I'm not going to argue about this. It's dark."
     "Um hmmm." She answers, lips pursed.
     "Anna, it's not safe."
     "Nothing is these days. But that shouldn't stop us from giving help where it's needed."
     "I didn't see a car for miles back there. Where did she come from? Did you think of that?" Frank is frustrated, she can tell.
     "Exactly." Anna nods, because her husband has just made her point for her.
     Frank makes a discouraged noise. Silence descends upon the silver sedan. Minutes pass in a hush. They descend a hill, approaching a stoplight at the bottom, and Frank brings the car to a crawl. This is a dangerous stretch of highway, Anna knows. Crosses litter the ditches on both sides of the road, memorials to people they she does not know, but feels broken-hearted for all the same.
     "What if we'd had a daughter?" Anna almost whispers. "What if that was our girl?" In her peripheral vision, she sees him look over to her.
     "No daughter of mine would be out walking on a barely used highway at night." He spits back.
     "You would hope."
     "What makes you think she would take a ride from us? I'm pretty sure I would have also taught our daughter not to ride with strangers."
     "What makes you think she has any choice?" Anna retorts.
     Frank doesn't respond, just eases the car through the intersection and pulls ahead some distance before letting up on the gas and pulling over to the shoulder. They don't talk, they just wait. Anna knows that Frank is irritated. She knows that he is hoping the girl goes to the right of the intersection, not the left where they are parked and waiting. Something in Anna knows that this is not the case.
     The girl approaches their car, and it looks to Anna as if she is surprised to see it sitting in her path. Frank rolls the window down and calls out to her. The girl looks pensive and scared and dirty, and Frank clicks on the interior light of the car to show her that they are just Frank and Anna. Just two people in a car, headed in the direction of the town, on a humid summer night.
     The girl declines their offer, and Anna feels Frank is ready to roll up the window and move along, so she pushes the button at her side to release her seat belt, and steps out the door onto the pavement.
     "At least let us take you to the gas station. You can call someone from there." Anna tells her. Again, the girl declines. Anna studies her face in the dull light from the car. She is so young. "I've had car trouble before, too, Honey. It's no problem. Get in." Anna opens the passenger side rear door. "Get in. I promise we just want to help. I saw you back there and we've been arguing about turning around to find you ever since." Anna swallows, searching her mind for something to say to sooth this girl.
     "I'm Anna, this is my husband Frank." Anna watches as the girl climbs into the seat. She takes her own place on the passenger side, smiling because she has won this battle. She discovers, after closing her door, that they now have to say something to this stranger in the car. The strange girl who smells like sweat and vomit and dirt.
     "So you say you had car trouble?" Frank breaks the silence.
     "Uh huh." From the now dark back seat.
     "Do you want me to go back and take a look at it?" Frank asks.
     "Oh sure!" Anna chirps cheerfully. "Frank knows a little about cars, maybe it's something easy!" Thinking that this could be a quick fix, taking nothing but a little time and a little gas, Anna has forgotten that there was no car by the side of the road.
     "Ah....no....it's....I'm not sure." Hesitation fills the silence, and Anna knows that they have been duped. She spins in her seat and stares into the darkness, eyes searching. She stares a good long time. Her eyes have taken in the filth, and the grime of the road. She can smell the motor oil and gasoline and cigarette smoke and Anna catches a quick glimpse of a road map of bruises up the girl's arm. The girl is staring down at her lap, her dirty hands folded together and fidgeting with her fingernails. Anna turns back to face forward.
     Her heart knows. Her soul calls out to her and makes her remember things that she does not want to remember. She reaches for Frank in the darkness of the interior of the car. She squeezes his arm and tries to tell him, telepathically, "That is me, there, in the backseat. That is what you saved me from, what I ran away from and what I never want to see again." But there is only silence in the car. Frank can not read her mind, this day, or any other.
     She lies, makes up an excuse to stop. She says that she is thirsty, and Anna understand that Frank is confused because they are only a few miles from home and Anna would wait. Frank is a good man, and he says nothing, only pulls over into the turn lane and pulls into the gas station.
    The girl says that she wants nothing. Under the glaring lights of the gas station Anna sees what no one else could. This girl, this ragamuffin child, she needs rescuing. She needs care and help and to be shown that the world, while cruel, can also be kind. The girl needs someone to reach out. Anna decides that today, she will be that someone. So she lets the girl lie to her once more, about the location of her purse this time, and waves it off like it is nothing. Because it IS nothing. The girl has a layer of pride underneath all that dirt, and tries to tell Anna that she will walk from here. What the girl does not know, what she can never know, is that Anna has lied, too. She has lied about bruises and she has lied about car trouble and she has lied about accidents that were nothing of the kind.
     "Honey," Anna offers, "I've had car trouble before, too." She breaths deeply. "I mean, there are car troubles, and then there are car troubles. Let me get you something to drink." It is less of a request this time, and more of an order. Anna is unwilling to let this girl go.
     They go into the gas station, the girl heads for the bathroom and Anna heads for Frank.
     "Thank you." She says, touching the back of his arm. "Thanks."
     Frank shrugs his answer. It is nothing, but it is everything all at once for Anna. She knows that Frank has forgiven her for being stubborn. She smiles and watches him reach for a bottle of cold Pepsi.
     "Think this is okay?" He asks.
     Anna nods. The girl has not told them what she wants.
     The three of them get back into the car. The girl tells Frank where she wants to be taken, but Anna barely hears. She is lost in thought, lost in another time, a lifetime ago. A time when she, herself, lived with bruises on her arms. She is not that woman anymore. She would not recognize that woman if she met her face to face. Anna only knows that when she thinks of the girl, she thinks of the police woman who stood in between a man and herself and offered peace and sanctuary to Anna. A stranger who offered her a ride to a better life. A stranger who did not mind the blood leaking slowly out of Anna's nose, or the salty tears that fell while she sat in the passenger seat. A stranger who pressed a tissue into Anna's left hand, and held her right hand all the way to the door of a woman's shelter. She thinks of the kindness she received and the scary feelings of starting over with nothing. Of her first job interview and of running into the monster in a grocery store, many years later, with little Jeff strapped into her cart, and of unbuckling him and running for the door. She had left behind a cart full of Cheerios's and milk and yogurt, but she strapped Jeffy into the car seat and never looked back. For a long time afterwards, she drove miles out of the way to avoid that grocery store.
     They pull up to a small house on a quiet street, headlights shining on the back of a small black pickup.
     "You're sure?" Anna asks her.
     "Yeah, this is my house." The girl answers, not meeting Anna's eyes. Anna reaches out for her hand. And presses into it the secret fifty dollar bill that she has hidden from Frank.
     "I can't." The girl says, "I can't take money from strangers."
     Anna smiles. Pride is a hard nut to crack and this girl has not been raised on hand outs, something that makes Anna know that it is even more important that she takes the money.
    "We're not strangers, Honey. We're Frank and Anna." Anna turns and opens her car door. "And sometimes a little help from a stranger is all that it takes."
    Anna and Frank drive away, leave the girl next to the curb. Anna watches in the mirror until she can not see the stranger's figure there any longer.
   

A Ride With Strangers

Part I

 

     The girl stands next to a motorcycle, black and chrome, watching. There are few people in this dirt parking lot, only a white car and an old, faded, blue Ford pickup with the hood up. The heat radiates off the bike, the sun beating down relentlessly. She can feel her fair skin burning, but she stands and waits and watches. The humidity makes it hard to draw in a deep breath, summer is underway and apparently has an axe to grind this year. Her skin feels gritty and the hours until home and a shower seem like a long time away. 

     Fifteen miles down the road, she holds on to a man and watches the miles go by. She watches the heat of the day shimmer off the pavement of the highway. This man ahead of her is angry. He's been irritable all day. He accuses her of shifting to much, of leaning too far. She isn't even sure she understands what any of it means, but she keeps as still as possible, wanting him to forget that she is even back here, counting the miles away and wishing for soap and shampoo and a bottle of water. She is along for the ride, though she is sure they are both wishing she was not. 

     They turn off the main highway, onto a paved, but little traveled road. She knows this road. She used to jump in a car with her friends and a 12 pack and head off into the night. It seems like eons ago, but it was only a few short years. They are less than thirty miles away from home. She takes a deep breath, thankful. It has been a long day. A long, exhausting day of watching what she says, paying careful attention to where her eyes wander, of asking for too little and knowing that it was still too much. A day of counting the number of drinks passed across the bar. She will know better next time. She will not ask to be included. She will stay home and wait anxiously for a call, or for the rumble of the engine, for the garage door to squeak open, anything but this.
     The light is fading. The air smells like summer and recently mowed grass. She knows the crickets will be chirping, though she can not hear them for the angry roar of the bike. A grasshopper flings itself against her leg, at fifty-five or sixty miles an hour, it hurts. She is one who bruises easily and she knows that for days after this ride is over, she will remember the feeling of it hitting her calf. Just below her knee, it will be a black and blue memorial. She squeezes her eyes closed, tightly. Her stomach opposes the amount of caffeine she has had today, the lack of food and also the bug guts that she is sure are splattered on her well worn Levi's.
     All at once, the back tire catches the edge of the pavement and the rumbling machine shakes and scatters gravel and grass. The man ahead of her lets off the throttle and slows. There is an entrance road to a field ahead, and he brings it to a stop on dirt. His right foot catches her thigh as he heaves himself off, screaming and spewing words at her. Blaming her. She accepts the blame, even as she wonders what she did. Her mind is scanning the recent past, but she is inclined to believe it was the Budweiser, and not herself, for the swerve to the edge of the asphalt. She says nothing. It would be unwise, she knows.
     Reluctantly, she takes off her helmet and watches him light a Marlboro Red. He is still telling her that she is at fault. She is quiet and condemned. So she waits. While the light fades and the crickets sing. She waits for her punishment. What will be the penalty for this act of foolishness that she is sure she did not commit? Her thigh throbs where his boot caught it. Another memorial of this day.
     Minutes pass in slow motion. The glow at the end of his cigarette falls to the ground. She lifts the helmet back to her head.
     "What the fuck do you think you're doing?" He asks, while putting his own helmet back on his head.
     In a rush, it occurs to her that he is leaving her. The cost of doing bad business this day will be her, alone, on the side of a highway, miles from home with the day dying. She begins to shake, but remains silent. Perhaps he will change his mind. Perhaps his goal is to make her beg. He says nothing, and hefts the bike from it's stand in the dirt. It grumbles to life, an angry noise that makes her stomach drop. She stares at him, willing herself to apologize even if it will be insincere. But her mouth remains tightly closed, unwilling. Some small part of her is thinking that this is better than his fists. Alone is not the same as beaten and bruised and lying.
     In a shower of rock, dirt and dust, she watches the single taillight, growing smaller and smaller up a hill. When it reaches the top, it brightens with the brake light, then disappears all together. She remains still, wondering of he has changed his mind. Listening to the rumble, trying to determine if it is getting louder or further away. The minutes tick by. There is nothing. Only bugs, caroling their song of summer. The sky is orange with the sunset.
     She starts to walk, because there is nothing left to do. Farmland reaches out across the miles. Houses are few and far between in this area. Her boots turn from black to grey with dust. And a glimmer of rage is growing in her belly. She's learned to stop feeling angry anymore. Fighting back makes it worse, and nothing good has come from it anyway. She thinks about this now unfamiliar ball of fury that is inside her.
     "Fuck him." She says aloud to the twilight. She is, for the first time in many, many months, allowing herself to dream of a different kind of life. She wonders where she will go, and how she will ever get there. She wonders what he will think when he comes home to an empty house. What kind of reaction will he have when it becomes HIS turn to wonder. She finds a sick satisfaction in the thought of repaying her hours of anxiety with the same. Then she begins to wonder if she can do it. If she can survive without him, because after all, he has given her many examples of how inept at living her life she really is. Shaking her head, she banishes that thought. No. She will simply put one foot in front of the other until she finds herself someplace. Someplace that is not the side of a barely used highway with a darkening sky for a blanket.
     Left foot, right foot....there is a blister forming on her left heel.
     Right foot, left foot....a dog is barking in the distance.
     Left foot, right foot....headlights from behind her.
     Her hands turn cold with fear, her feet are tingling. All of the blood has rushed to her face.
     "Please," she thinks, moving off the asphalt down into the grassy ditch. "Please." It does not occur to her to finish the thought. She doesn't know what she is really even asking for.
     The silver car passes, the taillights glowing like angry, red eyes. She exhales loudly, grateful. She climbs the incline of the ditch, returning to the pavement. She walks quickly, long legs eating up the white line. She climbs to the top of a hill and realizes that at the bottom, there is an intersection. A junction of a much used highway, with a stoplight and a gas station a few hundred yards to the left. To the right is the way home. The way back. Neither is an appealing option. Neither place comforts her. She knows that the gas station is a danger. He will probably be there waiting. Watching to see if she will make it this far.
     In an act of defiance, she allows the growing embers of ire within her belly take over and make the decision to cut across a field to the left.
     "Fuck him." She says again, aloud, to no one but the inky darkness that has taken over.
     And so, adding to her punishment, she takes off across the bean field, smashing someone's crop as she goes, and not caring at all. Her rage is fueling her, and she looks back across the field after a time, surprised that she is a short distance from the highway. She's made more progress than she expected.
   She follows the highway, being careful to stay far enough away that she is out of the line of the headlights, but close enough to allow the roadside lights to give her some comfort. Something moves to her left, something that she can not see, can only hear. She stops short, eyes squinted. She can not tell what it is, only that it is under leaves and running in the same direction she is going. Panting, she breaks out into a sheen of panicked sweat and begins to run. Boots pounding, she finds herself at the bottom of a steep ditch, and bends to empty the contents of her stomach, little though they may be. Scared and crying, she kneels in the tall grass and lets the nausea wash over her. This was so stupid. Childish.
     Many moments later, she is again walking. She is so lost in mentally chastising herself, that she doesn't notice the silver car has pulled to the side. On this highway, there is a shoulder, and she is upon the car before she realized it was stopped.
     A head pokes out of the driver's window.
     "Need some help?" The voice asks.
     She can taste the dirt on her tongue as she struggles to answer.
     "No, thank you." Her voice shakes.
     "We noticed you a few miles ago. Where you headed?"
     She is next to the door, now. There is a middle aged man in the driver's seat, grey and balding, and a woman in the passenger seat, holding onto her purse. She realizes what she must look like, dirty jeans, a tank top graying with hours of dust, arms littered with last week's bruises.
     "I...um...had some car trouble. I'm just going home." She spits out , and watches the man's face register her lie.
     "Can we give you a ride?" This comes from the passenger seat, unexpected.
     "No, thank you." She says, though her aching legs scream otherwise. Her father's warnings echo through her head. Never take a ride from a stranger.
     "At least let us take you to the gas station. You can call someone from there." This, again, from the woman in the passenger seat, whose face remains hidden.
     "No, really. I appreciate it, but I'm close to home." She shakes her head and smiles slightly. She is still miles from home, but Dad's warnings didn't fall on deaf ears.
     The passenger door opens and a head rises above the roof of the car. Bottle blond hair and kind eyes peek at her.
     "I've had car trouble before, too, Honey. It's no problem. Get in." She walks to the back of the car and opens the passenger side rear door. "I promise we just want to help. I saw you back there and we've been arguing about turning around to find you ever since."
     "It's fine...really.." She says, but this time, less sure.
     "My name is Anna. That's my husband, Frank." She admits, as she gestures to the backseat.
     And so the girl accepts a ride from strangers. The car smells like vanilla, there is a thin blanket on the driver's side of the backseat. The kind one would use for a picnic, if the occasion arose. She longs to grab the blanket and stretch out across the backseat and close her eyes and let someone else worry about what will happen after that.
     "So you say you had car trouble?" Frank asks.
    "Uh huh." She answers.
     "Do you want to go back and take a look at it?"
     "Sure! Frank knows a little about cars, maybe it's something easy." Anna says, cheerfully.
     "Ah...no....it's....I'm not sure..." The girl hesitates. She knows so little about cars, she can not think of anything to make up.
     Anna turns and stares at her. A burning, stare. She reads the lie on the surface of the girl's skin. The girl's eyes fall to her lap. After a time, Anna turns around, but she remains silent.
     "Well, then...." Frank says, breaking the silence. He does not finish the sentence.
     Minutes pass. Town is closer and closer.
     "Honey, would you mind if Frank stops at the station up there? I'm just dying of thirst and I bet you are too after that long walk."
     "No, it's fine." She remembers that she has no money with her. She has only her driver's license, tucked into her back pocket. The man who left her behind has all of the money. She watches Frank's eyes silently question his wife, and ease the car into the turning lane.
     The girl thinks that they will leave her here, and that is fine. In their shoes, she would leave her here, too. She steps out of the car, under the harsh lights of the parking lot, and looking down, sees that the damage is worse than she thought. She is so dirty. Grass is stuck to the bottom of her boots, her jeans are cruddy and her hands are grimy. She turns from the car and away from Frank and Anna, the Strangers. She is ashamed. This is not the girl she has ever been. This is not who she is, but they will never know that. She will always be only a bedraggled stranger that they found on the side of the highway. They will never know what led her here, what made her decide to take a ride from strangers. They will not know her fate.
     "Hey!" The woman named Anna calls out to her. "Do ya want something?"
     The girl shakes her head.
     "I forgot my purse in my car." She answers, and even as she says it, she knows the bit about the car trouble is transparent. Anna knows that she has lied to them.
     "It's okay. We'll get you something if you want." Under the lights, she can see that this woman stranger is wearing khaki pants and a blue, floral, button down shirt. She has on sensible shoes, the kind that the girl's mother always wore to work.
     "No, really. I'm pretty close to home. I'll just walk from here. Thank you. Thank you so much. You saved me from walking a good six or seven miles."
     "Honey," The woman calls her, because the girl has not offered her name, "I've had 'car trouble' before, too." Their eyes meet, and Anna's eyes move to the bruises that climb up the inside of the girl's biceps. They are undoubtedly the fingerprints of someone's large, strong hands. Both of them know that they are no longer discussing a vehicle that breaks down. "I mean, there's car trouble, and then there's car trouble. Let me get you something to drink."
     The girl follows the strangers into the gas station. She quietly tells Anna that she is going to use the restroom, and slinks off, avoiding the stare of the man behind the counter. She washes her face with the cold water from the dirty sink, and catches her reflection in a water spotted mirror. This day has taken it's toll, but she is grateful for the soap and water. She rinses her mouth with the coppery tasting water. She is thinking that if she stalls for enough time in this bathroom, maybe the strangers will simply drive away into the night, leaving her behind for the second time today.
     Later, much later, after Frank has asked her where she wants to be taken, she stands in front of a small house, and Anna exits the car.
     "You're sure?" Anna asks.
     "Yeah." The girl answers, "This is my house."
     Anna reaches out for the girl's hand.
     "Well, okay, then. I'm sorry for your troubles." The girl can see the tears welling in the stranger's eyes. She reaches out, taking Anna's hand in her own.
     "I don't know how to thank you...." She feels something being pressed into her palm. She pulls back, opening her hand, in which lies a fifty dollar bill. "No." She says, loudly into the darkness. "No. I can't. It's...." She swallows. "I can't take money from strangers." Shaking her head, she hands the bill to Anna, who is backing away.
     "We aren't strangers, Honey. We're Frank and Anna." She opens her car door. "Sometimes a little help from a stranger is all that it takes."
     The strangers drive away into the darkness, while the girl watches.
   
 

   

Ringer

     This week....this week after Easter, when the weather finally turned warmer (read: You will still be cold, just not, you know....blue), this week when I had 900 other things I should have been attending, this week I embarked on a journey. A long-avoided journey with John and a couple of my kids. I started to watch the The Lord of the Rings movies.
     For years I have happily remained stupid to this particular set of books and films. They just never seemed to appeal to me. Also, I've seen the people waiting in line for the first midnight showing, and I gotta tell you....I counted myself better off and grabbed a romance novel instead.
John is a fan. He read the books in high school. (And he SWEARS they were required reading....though I can neither confirm or deny this. I took almost every English class available in high school and I never read them. Not even the Cliff's Notes.) At any rate, he has long claimed that they were so good, he read them again after high school. He has assured me, numerous times, that I will like them. Ashley loves the movies, although she hasn't read the books. Both Brianna and Austin have seen the movies and neither had any really negative reaction. Me? Well, as uninterested as I was in the movies, I hadn't read the books and therefore, (according to my own code of What Is Right and What Is Wrong) I could not see the movies. Bummer. They've asked, on several occasions, for me to watch with them, but I have always taken a pass.
     Then The Hobbit came home with us. (hahaha....not, you know, an actual Hobbit, the movie...because Hobbits aren't real....I don't think.....) Anyway, I don't know what happened. Maybe it was Easter candy overdose. Maybe all the ham I ate affected my decision making abilities, maybe it was the pollen I came into contact with outside on Sunday afternoon while doing some minor yard work. Whatever the case may be, Sunday night found us huddled in the living room in front of the T.V, with the BluRay player glowing in the darkening room.
     I really, really liked The Hobbit.
     So, on Tuesday night we popped in The Fellowship of The Ring. I made it two hours and ten minutes into the movie before all of the "One Step Forward, Two Steps Back" ridiculousness made me contemplate hanging myself from the nearest tree. What the WHAT is the matter with giving folks a little hope, in something less than fifty gajillion hours of movie???? I went to bed. Angry, unsettled, and in my head I had a conversation that went something like this:
          Brain Part #1: I totally told you these movies were suck-o.
          Brain Part #2: Shut up. No one likes a know it all. Also, you liked The Hobbit, too, Bitch.
          Brain Part #1: But the "Fellowship"?? Have we ever been so depressed? Why in Heaven's            name can't they just start a movie, let an hour's worth of stuff happen, then end it on a good note and go from there?
           Brain Part #2: Right? I mean for the love of all that is Holy! This guy is about two frickin' feet tall, and rather than use one of the giant ass birds that the Elves sent to rescue them, he has to WALK across the damn world to get himself half killed every five freaking minutes! For a ring? That his Uncle found?? And what's with Gandolf? He's a G.D. WIZARD, for cripe's sake! Couldn't he help out just a little more? And I'm gonna tell you right now......
          Brain Part #1: WHOA.......you've changed.....you're....I don't know.....different.....You've gone to the dark side.
          Brain Part #2: I have not! Also, that's the wrong set of movies. And I haven't seen those yet    either.

     So, I will have to reluctantly admit that I maybe got myself a tiny little bit invested in this movie. And tonight I came home and watched the rest of it. Let me just say here, (you may quote me on this, if necessary) "WHOA."
     I can't NOT watch the next movie, though I have no earthly idea what it is called. I've got seventy hundred thousand hours of movies left, I think, so no one call me between tomorrow at 6 p.m, and the twelfth of June. Already I am thinking there is no possible way my DNA will allow me to watch these movies, fully aware that they are based on (amazing!) novels, and NOT be the jackass that will eventually walk around saying "The book was totally better".
     I guess the point, Kind Folks, is this: HELP!!! This opens up a whole new Orc hole for me. (You see what I did there? You are welcome.) Fifty babillion kachillion hours of movies, and another eleventy hundred hours of reading to finish this series off because I am actually having trouble sleeping because of all the unanswered questions. (Seriously, Gandolf comes back, right? Also, do they ever get to take back the mountain from the dragon from The Hobbit? And, while I'm asking questions....didn't Gandolf say that freaky little Golum had been following them? What happened to that dude? He's gonna pop out of the dark, I just know it. At some critical point when I have to pee but don't wanna miss anything and then KABLAMMO!)
     Then I guess I will have to eventually watch those Star Wars movies, too, because I'm downright exhausted with being UN-American enough to have NEVER seen them.
     But, aside from all of this, would you like to know what REALLY irks me? (Yes, you would like to know, because I'm telling you even if you don't care.) What really gets my goat, gets under my skin and festers, what really irritates me is: John was right; I really do like these movies.
     I have no idea what is happening right now. Up is down, down is left, right is wrong.....it's all so unclear.