Mad River Road (15 page)

In the kitchen, she lit a cigarette and carried it outside, watching an old Cadillac pull into a space at the end of the street, and seeing a woman with big red hair and leopard-print pants push herself out of the front seat and hurry across the road. Clearly a
Wuthering Heights
devotee, Emma thought with a laugh. She should probably phone Lily and explain why she wouldn’t be joining them tonight. But they hadn’t exchanged numbers, and Lily would undoubtedly figure out quickly enough that she wasn’t coming. She’d apologize and explain the next time she saw her.

Or she could explain now, she realized. Dylan was sound asleep, and she’d only be gone a few minutes. What could it hurt? Taking a final drag of her cigarette, Emma ground the butt beneath her foot and hastened down the street.

“I
t says here that Tifton is the birthplace of Interstate-75,” Jamie said over a burst of raucous laughter from a nearby table. She was reading from the brochure she’d picked up just inside the front door of the crowded, decidedly down-home Bar-B-Que pit where she and Brad had stopped for dinner. The laughter came courtesy of a group of rowdy young men ensconced in the booth behind Brad.

“You mean, in addition to being THE READING CAPITAL OF THE WORLD?” Brad asked, his voice capitalizing each word while simultaneously managing to reflect his total lack of interest in all things Tifton.

Behind Brad, one of the booth’s occupants stood up on his seat in order to get the attention of the obviously harried, middle-aged waitress. “Hey, Patti,” the boy called out. “Can we get some more beers over here?”

“Sit down, Troy,” the waitress told him without so much as a glance in his direction.

The young man, barely out of his teens, was very tall and equally skinny, with broad, bony shoulders and long, blue-black hair that fell into small, close-set, dark eyes.
White boxer shorts ballooned from the top of his low-slung jeans, jeans worn so low on his narrow hips that Jamie feared he was in danger of losing them altogether. As he slithered lazily back into his seat, he caught Jamie looking at him and winked.

Immediately Jamie’s eyes returned to her brochure. She wasn’t sure but she thought she heard the word
bitch
drop, like a loose penny, into the surrounding air, then roll toward her feet. “Apparently fifteen thousand people live in Tifton,” she said, louder than she’d intended.

Brad showed his indifference to the population of Tifton by soaking a potato chip in ketchup, then balancing it on the tip of his tongue.

Jamie glanced around the small diner, careful to avoid the boys in the booth behind Brad, taking note instead of the mismatched, multistained wooden strips of the floor, the dark green vinyl of the seats, and the shiny, beige Formica of the tabletops. Innocent faces with huge, limpid eyes stared down from strategically hung black velvet canvases. A large chalkboard on the far wall listed the specials of the day, which today were black bean soup and a pound and a half of baby back ribs. Sweet-smelling smoke from behind the closed kitchen door wafted through the small space. There was no air-conditioning, and the still-stifling evening heat was kept at bay by two large, overhead fans, spinning at full force.

Out of the corner of her eye, Jamie sensed movement, and she turned back to see the skinny, dark-haired young man in the next booth wiggling his long fingers flirtatiously in her direction. He pushed his mouth into a mock kiss, made a smacking sound with his lips. Jamie looked away, wondering if she should say anything to Brad, deciding
against it. Brad was feeling irritable enough. The last thing she wanted to do was upset him more than he already was.

Jamie knew that Brad was frustrated because all the local auto body shops in town were closed until morning, which meant they had to spend the night in Tifton. At first, he hadn’t appeared unduly agitated, but a quick tour of the downtown area, which comprised twelve short city blocks, had convinced him that Tifton was THE READING CAPITAL OF THE WORLD because, he’d pronounced impatiently, THERE WAS ABSOLUTELY NOTHING ELSE TO DO. Jamie was more forgiving. She loved the grand old homes, constructed between the late 1800s and the 1930s, that were nestled among the giant shade trees lining the streets. She hoped they’d get the chance to visit at least one of the beautiful, historic churches or meticulously restored buildings before they left town in the morning. Wasn’t that the plan? Weren’t they supposed to be following the road wherever it might take them? Well, a shaky tire had delivered them to Tifton. Why not make the best of it? “It says here,” Jamie said, ignoring the continuing flow of gestures from the next booth and reading from the brochure in a relentlessly perky voice that even she found grating, “that Tifton is the birthplace, not only of Interstate-75, but also of the entire interstate system, since it was the first interstate construction project in the country to receive federal approval and funding. And it all came about because …” Jamie watched the young man’s two companions swivel around in their booth, the better to get a look at the object of their friend’s attention. One had stringy blond hair, pulled into a ponytail. The other boy’s head was shaved clean, and when he smiled at her out of
the corner of his mouth, his lips pulled up and away from his teeth, exposing his gums, like a snarling dog.

Brad pushed his plate into the middle of the table and leaned forward on his elbows, oblivious to the activity taking place behind his head. “Because?”

“Because it seems the good people of Tifton wanted to cut down on the heavy flow of ‘snowbird’ traffic from the north, especially in winter,” Jamie continued reading, determined to ignore her three dubious admirers. Eventually they’d lose interest in her, she decided, plowing on. “So they decided to build a bypass around the town, and apparently they spent years studying and planning before they finally agreed to go ahead and award contracts and stuff, and bingo!—wouldn’t you know it?—a month later, President Eisenhower signed a bill that officially launched the
whole
interstate system.”

Brad shook his head in mock amazement, rolling his eyes toward the ceiling as the waitress emerged from the kitchen with a tray full of beer.

“So, because Tifton had already done all this work, they decided to start here,” Jamie read. “But get this—at the time, the federal interstate planning regulations allowed for only one exit every eight miles, and construction was already under way in Tifton for
eight
exits, which is why Tifton has more exits than most other I-75 communities.” She smiled at Brad, hoping to elicit one of his dazzling smiles in return, a smile that assured her that while he might not give a damn about anything she was saying, he thought she was cute as hell for saying it, but he was staring out the long side window, having mentally opted for one of Tifton’s many exits somewhere in the last sixty seconds. The boys from the next booth
had lost interest in her as well and were now happily giving the waitress a hard time. “Tifton is also the home of Prestolite Wire,” Jamie continued perversely, hoping by sheer force of will to bring Brad back on track, “manufacturers of automobile ignition wiring systems for Ford, Chrysler, Nissan, and Honda, among others. Brad?”

“Hmm?”

“Tifton is—”

“What are you doing, Jamie?” he snapped.

“What do you mean?”

“Am I seriously supposed to give a shit about some armpit of a town we’re stranded in overnight?”

Jamie leaned back, felt her T-shirt stick to the dark green vinyl of her seat, not sure how, or even if, she was expected to respond. She was aware that Brad’s tone had carried to the booth behind him. She saw bodies shift, heads tilt, shoulders angle subtly toward them. The boy with the shaved head slung one heavily tattooed forearm across the top of the booth, scratched at the side of his ear. In profile, his brow was low and his nose hooked. “It’s not so bad,” Jamie said defensively, wondering if she was feeling defensive on Tifton’s behalf or her own.

“It’s not so bad,”
Brad mimicked. “What are you, a cheerleader for the local chamber of commerce?”

Tears sprang to Jamie’s eyes. She lowered her head so no one would see.

“Sorry,” Brad apologized immediately. “Jamie?”

Jamie continued staring down at her plate, her concentration centered on keeping her lower lip from trembling.

“Jamie?” Brad’s hand reached across the table, his fingers—still sticky from his pound and a half of ribs—curling around her own. “Did you hear me? I said I was sorry.”

Slowly Jamie raised her eyes to his. “I just don’t understand why you’re so upset,” she whispered, trying to keep their conversation private. “It’s not like we’re on a tight schedule or anything.”

“I know.”

“I thought part of the fun would be discovering little out-of-the-way places like this.”

“Tifton’s hardly out of anybody’s way,” Brad said, a sly grin spreading from his lips to his eyes. “What with its
eight
exits and all.”

Jamie smiled in spite of herself.

Brad leaned across the shiny, Formica tabletop and wiped a wayward tear from Jamie’s cheek. She smelled tangy barbeque sauce on his fingers and fought the urge to take a lick. “I’m really sorry, Jamie. I guess I’m just in a hurry to see my son, that’s all.”

“I know you are.”

Brad signaled the waitress for the bill. “So, what do you want to do now, my beautiful girl? You think there’s a movie theater in Tifton?”

“Well, surely they can’t spend
all
their time reading,” Jamie answered, and Brad laughed. Jamie was thrilled at being called his beautiful girl, even more thrilled to elicit such a joyous response after the tension of the last hour. “There must be a mall nearby. You think it’s okay to drive on that tire?”

Brad shrugged. “We’ll give it some more air. It should be okay until morning. You game?”

“You’re not too tired? I mean, you’re the one who’s been doing all the driving.”

Brad shook his head as the waitress dropped the bill on the table on her way to the kitchen. He reached into his
pocket, tucked a twenty underneath his plate, and stood up. “Just let me use the facilities, and we’ll be on our merry way.”

He kissed her forehead, then headed for the washrooms at the back of the restaurant. Jamie watched him until he disappeared behind a swinging set of wooden doors, then, aware of three sets of eyes still focused in her direction, she pretended to be searching for something inside her purse.

“Whatcha looking for?” asked a voice from the next booth.

Jamie’s body tensed, her fingers freezing on a tube of lipstick. “Found it,” she said, forcing a smile onto her face as she lifted her gaze, determined not to be intimidated.

“Need some help putting it on?” The young man with the exposed boxer shorts billowing around his midriff was suddenly out of his seat and sliding into the seat beside her, his narrow hips pushing her into the corner. His buddies quickly filled the seats across from her.

Jamie looked toward the bathroom, but Brad was nowhere to be seen, and the only waitress in sight was busy depositing a full tray of ribs on another table. She thought of screaming, quickly decided against it. She was in a well-lit restaurant, after all, surrounded by dozens of people. Brad would be back any second. What was the point in causing a scene if she didn’t have to? “I can manage, thank you.”

“She can manage,” said the skinhead as Jamie returned the lipstick to her purse.

“I’ll bet she can. I’m Curtis, by the way.” The pony-tailed young man extended his hand across the table.

“Wayne,” said the skinhead.

“Troy,” said the boy beside her.

“Jamie,” Jamie told them, deciding to play along, although she kept her hands in her lap.

“Is that your blue Thunderbird in the parking lot?” Curtis asked.

Jamie nodded.

“Thought so. Didn’t look familiar.”

“What’s wrong with the tire?” Wayne asked.

“We’re not sure. Hopefully we’ll find out in the morning.”

“Whatcha doing tonight?” Troy asked.

“We were thinking of a movie.” Jamie looked toward the back of the restaurant. What was taking Brad so long?

“We saw a great movie the other night, didn’t we, guys?” Troy said.

“Great movie,” the others agreed.

“Really? Which one was that?”

“The new Tom Cruise. Over at the multiplex on North Central.”

“Is that far from here?”

“Five minutes.” Curtis smiled, baring his gums.

“How’d you like the ribs?” Wayne began playing with the edge of the twenty-dollar bill protruding from underneath Brad’s plate.

“They were delicious.”

“Best in Georgia,” Curtis said proudly. “Troy’s dad owns the place.”

So she could relax, Jamie thought. Clearly they wouldn’t start any trouble in Troy’s father’s restaurant. Assuming, of course, this really was his father’s restaurant, she realized, her body tensing up again. “Well, please
tell him how much we enjoyed everything. Now, if you’ll excuse me …”

“How about some dessert?” Troy asked, refusing to budge. “They serve a mean peach cobbler.”

“Sounds really good,” Jamie said, “but I couldn’t eat another thing. Now, if you don’t mind …”

Troy grudgingly slid from her side. She thought she felt a hand on the back of her thigh as she scrambled to her feet. In the same instant, she saw Brad emerge from the washrooms at the back.

“Is there a problem here?” Brad asked, his eyes quickly sizing up the three young men.

“We were just trying to help your girlfriend out,” Curtis said with a lazy shrug of his shoulders.

“Apparently there’s a multiplex nearby,” Jamie interjected, sensing the renewed possibility of danger and wanting to get out of its way as fast as possible.

“Is that right?” Brad said.

“Over on North Central,” Wayne added. “They’re playing the new Tom Cruise.”

“Sounds good.”

“Is good. Real good,” Curtis agreed.

“Well, maybe we’ll do that,” Brad said. “Thanks for your help.”

“Y’all come back and see us again real soon,” Troy drawled with exaggerated southern flourish as Brad took Jamie by the elbow and led her from the restaurant, into the parking lot.