The Girl He Used to Know (Page 41)
Because there is a ban on airline travel, I’m not the only one who’s decided they will rent a car to get where they need to go. The line at Hertz is thirty-seven people deep. Some of them curse and drop out, walking away rolling their carry-on luggage behind them, wheels thumping out the door and down the curb. I want to run after them and ask where they’re going, because maybe they know of some shorter line or magic supply of cars I haven’t thought of. But I don’t and now there are only twenty-nine customers in front of me, and that makes me feel a little better. I will wait as long as I have to and then I will drive straight to Hoboken using the directions my mom printed out for me using something called MapQuest. Clay and Natalia will stay home while Janice and I go into the city to find Jonathan.
I just don’t think it’s going to be as hard as people are saying.
* * *
I arrived at Hertz at seven thirty this morning, and it is almost one before it’s my turn. I’m the last customer, because everyone who was behind me bailed a long time ago. I think that’s a bad sign, but I’ve waited this long and it seems dumb to give up now that I’ve finally reached the counter. The man standing behind it says they have only one car left.
“That’s okay,” I say, because there’s only one of me.
“It’s a standard transmission.”
“What does that mean?”
“A stick shift.”
“I can’t drive a stick-shift car. I can barely drive a regular car. My boyfriend was in the South Tower and I’m driving there to look for him.” This means I will have to find another car-rental place and start over. I sit down right there on the floor, because my legs feel wobbly, and the Hertz man leans over the counter and looks down at me. “Miss?”
“I’ll switch with you,” the man who had been in front of me in line says. After he received his car keys he stayed to make a call on his cell and I guess he’s overheard our conversation. “I can drive a stick. You can have mine.”
Impulsively, I throw my arms around him. He does not recoil or go rigid the way I would if a stranger ever did that to me. He briefly returns my embrace, pats my back a couple of times, and says, “Be careful out there. I hope you find him. Godspeed.”
* * *
I leave Chicago a little after one o’clock and head east on I-90 to begin the twelve-hour drive to Hoboken. For the most part, I’ll stay on I-90 or I-80. I don’t mind driving on the interstate. I’m getting passed a lot, but I stay in the right lane and keep going. I don’t even mind when I come to the first toll, because I know how they work and made sure I had plenty of dollars and coins on hand before I left. The only time I get nervous is when another car is trying to merge onto the road. Two people have honked at me because there was a car to my left and I couldn’t get over in time, but nobody crashed or anything. Depending on how many stops I make, I will be in Hoboken sometime tomorrow afternoon. My mom made me a hotel reservation in Pennsylvania, where I’ll spend the night. If I weren’t leaving so late in the day, I would try to drive straight through, because I am doing something and I feel energized by that, but my parents had a fit when I mentioned it, and they made me promise to stop at the hotel and call them when I get there.
* * *
I’m not as confident driving in the dark. It’s also raining a little, and that puts a weird glare on things. I’m only going forty-five now. I’ve needed to pee for about ten miles, and as much as I’d like to avoid the whole pulling-off-the-interstate thing, I have no choice. There’s an exit up ahead, so I put on my blinker.
At the end of the ramp, a man is sitting by the side of the road. He’s wearing a jacket with the hood up, but he’s not holding a sign asking for food or money. When the car in front of me stops, the man shuffles to the driver’s-side door so he can accept whatever the driver is offering. It’s then that I realize that there are legs wrapped around the man’s waist, and that he’s shielding a child with his coat.
The light turns green and I follow the car ahead of me through the intersection and down the street to the gas station. I still have half a tank, but since I’m here I decide to fill up. As I wait for the pump to shut off, I think about the man and child. Why are they out in the rain? What happened to their car? Where will they spend the night? They must be cold. I fidget like crazy, because I should have peed before worrying about the gas.
I finally put the cap back on the gas tank and run inside to the bathroom. I’m not paying as much attention as I should, because I can’t stop thinking of the man and child, and when I stand up to zip my pants, my phone flips out of my pocket and falls into the toilet. I’m not sure if it’s ruined, but I imagine how it will feel to reach in and pluck it out of the dirty gas station toilet bowl.
I can’t do it, so I leave it there.
* * *
I’m still thinking about the man and the child two miles down the road. There have been horrible stories in the news about all the bad things the terrorists caused, but there have also been stories about people coming together to help other people. People inviting strangers into their homes in New York to shelter them, feed them. Give them clothes and shoes. I want to be a part of this. I want to show I can help people, too.
If I give this man and child a ride, it will probably be one of the few good things that’s happened to them today, so at the next exit, I pull off and turn around to go get them.
The man doesn’t really want to get into my car. He tells me that the last person who gave them a ride made them get out when the little boy threw up. “I don’t think he’s got anything left in him, but I can’t be sure,” he says.
I say I don’t mind even though I will certainly have trouble with the smell if it happens again. They’re on their way to stay with the man’s aunt in Allentown so he can look for work and she can watch the child. Their car broke down a few miles back and he has no money to fix it.
“I’m on my way to Hoboken. My best friend and I are going to look for my boyfriend who was in the South Tower on Tuesday. He’s missing. I have a hotel reservation just across the Ohio-Pennsylvania border. That’s as far as I’m going tonight.”
“Your boyfriend was in one of the towers?”
“Yes, but he got out okay because his name is on a list. I just have to find him because he hasn’t called.”
“I … I’m sure you’ll find him. I can call my aunt and have her pick us up at the hotel. We just need to get out of the rain tonight.”
His name is Ray and the little boy is Henry. He looks feverish and pale as we strap him into the backseat.
“I had to leave his booster seat on the side of the road. Henry couldn’t walk anymore and I couldn’t carry everything. I sure hated to leave it behind.”
“I’m sure it will be fine,” I say, although I have no idea what the rules are about this kind of thing and had no idea Henry even needed a special seat.
Ray doesn’t look like a serial killer or anything. I caught a glimpse of his face when the door was open and the interior light came on. He looks close to my age or maybe a few years younger. I’m not good at guessing that kind of thing. He has a scar on his chin. It’s so hard to know what a person is like by looking at them. People are either kind or they’re not. Some people look shiny on the outside but are rotten to the core. Some people pretend to be kind, but they’re only faking it. Janice and Jonathan taught me a lot of things, but I don’t think there’s any way to truly know whether someone is kind until you put your trust in them and show them kindness of your own.
“You’re gonna be okay, buddy,” Ray says to Henry. “You’ll be warm now.”
“I’m thirsty, Daddy.” He closes his eyes. Maybe he’ll sleep. I wish I had something for him to drink, but I don’t.
Ray doesn’t comment on my jerky acceleration or the fact that I consistently drive five miles under the speed limit. We travel in companionable silence. Even if I enjoyed small talk, I’d have trouble keeping up a conversation. I have to concentrate on the road and the fact that I’m now responsible for the safety of two more people.
From the backseat, Henry begins to whimper. Maybe there’s something left in his stomach after all. Ray turns around. “Do you think you’re going to throw up?”
“I’m thirsty, Daddy,” Henry says again. “I want some juice.”
“Shh,” Ray says.
“I can stop.”
“I don’t have any way to pay for it. I gave the last of my cash to the other driver that stopped for us. I wouldn’t have if I’d known they were going to make us get out.”
“Don’t worry. I have plenty of money.”
I get off at the next exit and pull into a gas station. It occurs to me as I walk down the aisles placing crackers and apple juice and water in my basket that it was wise of me not to give Ray my cash or credit card and let him be the one to go inside. What if he didn’t want to give it back when he came out? What if he told me he would and when we got to the hotel he pretended he’d forgotten? But maybe I shouldn’t have left them in the car, because what if he takes off with it? I push those thoughts away and pay for the groceries and when I come back out, there they are, right where I left them.