The Way to Schenectady (15 page)

“Alexander is my son-in-law. He’s taking me to visit my other daughter in Massachusetts. I haven’t seen her in … so long.” Grandma swallowed. “And what a journey it’s been. Children disappearing, misadventures in our hotel, breakdowns by the side of the road … I don’t know how much strength I have left. Oh, Jane, dear?” She swallowed again, and turned slowly, an expression of patience and long-suffering on her face.

“Yes, Grandma,” I said.

“Could you help your poor crippled grandmother into the van, honey?”

I opened the sliding door and held out my arm.

“Here, ma’am.” The policewoman stepped in front of me and helped Grandma into the van. “Allow me.”

“Why, thank you, young lady,” said Grandma. “Thank you very much.”

“My privilege,” said the policewoman.

“Ah. That’s better. You have a mother yourself, don’t you, my dear,” said Grandma.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And you’re very kind to her, aren’t you?”

The policewoman blinked. “I will be,” she said. “I will be from now on. Listen, can I show you good folks the way back to the highway?”

“Thank you,” said Dad.

The policewoman took a city map out of her uniform pocket and marked the route in thick black pen. Dad started to thank her through the open window, and stopped when she handed him the ticket.

“Oh,” said Dad.

“Parking in a marked
NO PARKING
zone. Fifty-four dollars.”

“Hey,” said Grandma.

The policewoman shrugged. “Doing my job,” she said.

“Very conscientious,” said Dad.

“Have a nice day now,” said the policewoman.

“I hope your mother’s proud of you!” muttered Grandma.

I was in the backseat with the map on my knee, folded to exactly the right place. Grandma was beside me; she said she enjoyed seeing the countryside from back there. I wondered if, maybe, she missed her companion of this morning; certainly the lingering scent of moth and Marty clung tenderly to our upholstery. Anyway, Bill was in the front seat beside Dad, asking if we were there yet every few minutes and, in between times, reliving his sojourn in the Land of the Dead Oberdorfs, as he called Schenectady. Bernie was in the middle seat, asleep.

At the state line Dad followed the left-hand lane, which meant that the passenger-side window was next to the automated money collector. He gave some change to Bill and told him to deposit it.

“Wilco!” Bill had to lean out the window and reach up to drop the money in the slot. The machine whirred and clicked, and then a mechanical voice said, “Thank you. Please deposit an additional seventy-five cents.”

Bill’s eyes lit up like the buttons on the machine. “A talking tollbooth!” he whispered, and then, in a louder voice, “Certainly, Mr. Collector. Please stand by.”

Dad was fumbling in his pocket for some more change. “Here you go,” he said.

“This is Captain Billy Stardust, requesting permission to enter your territory!” Bill dropped the assortment of change into the slot. The machine whirred and clicked as before. Then the same mechanical voice said, “Thank you. Please deposit an additional seventy-five cents.”

Dad had no more change. Grandma pulled out her purse and found three quarters. “Here, William,” she said, handing the money forward.

He reached out the window. “We come in peace,” he said slowly. “We wish no harm to you or any of your citizens.” He dropped the money in, coin by coin.

“Please deposit another seventy-five cents.”

“The United States is the richest country in the world,” I said to Grandma.

“And now we know how it got that way,” she replied.

“I wonder what would happen if we just went ahead?” I said.

There was no arm across the front of the van, like at a train crossing. Nothing to stop us from driving right past the booth, except the power of the polite mechanical voice. Dad put the car in gear. “Sorry,” said Bill to the machine as we pulled ahead, “but we’re out of money.”

“Welcome to Massachusetts,” said the machine. “Please enjoy your stay.”

A storm cloud was sailing beside us like a consort battleship when I checked my watch one last time – five ten. We’d be there in a few minutes. I was probably too late for a bath, but Mom and I would get to the restaurant and the show on time.

The land rolled gently, fields on one side of the highway, and grass and white fence rails on the other. Up ahead, a dark and motionless figure caught my eye. Crooked, solitary, dressed in rags, he stood in the field of corn. One hand was raised. Was he asking us to stop? We didn’t stop.

A crow flew out of the cornfield and landed clumsily on top of the figure’s head. I could see what it was now – a scarecrow. We drove by in silence.

Bernie woke up, yawning. “Are we there yet?” he asked.

“Soon,” said Dad.

The highway wound its way up a hillside. Thunder rolled on the right. The sky was filled with gloomy menace. And then, from the middle of the dark cloud ahead, a ray of sunlight stabbed downward. We reached the top of the hill. For a second, the van was filled with golden light. A miracle.

“Wow,” I said.

Grandma smiled at me. “For a moment there the whole van was the same color as your hair, Jane.”

Was she making fun of me? Evidently not.

“It looks great,” she said. “Your hair, I mean. It’s a lot like you. Full of moxie.”

Whatever moxie was. “It’s supposed to be chestnut,” I said. “But I’m thinking that, maybe, it’s not exactly right for me. My friend Bridget kept the purple dye -maybe we’ll try that when I get home. That one’s called Funky Twilight.”

Now Grandma laughed. Not mean laughter. She actually sounded amused. “I want to see it,” she said. “I want to see you and your … funky twilight hair!” Her face fell apart as she laughed, wrinkles flying all over the place. “Whew,” she said, getting her breath back.

“Gesundheit,” said Bernie, proudly.

A raindrop hit the windshield and trickled down. Then two more. Then a lot.

“Are we there yet?” asked Bill.

“As a matter of fact,” said Dad, turning down a familiar driveway, “we are.”