Finding Somewhere Read Free

scars going up and down vertically the way the serious ones try it—and wished that she would hold on and go a little slower, breathe a little deeper, find a center place and try to be there.

Chapter 2
    D ELORES ORDERED PANCAKES WITH SAUSAGE . I ORDERED A cheese omelet with home fries and cinnamon toast. We split a pot of tea.
    “That be all for now?” the waitress asked after she delivered the meals. “You got everything you need?”
    She was a big woman with breasts the size of dachshunds. You had to make a deliberate effort to raise your eyes above the cliff they made. Her name tag said
Sue
.
    “We’re set,” I said. “Thank you.”
    “Don’t see many girls out this time of morning,” Sue said. “Nice to have a break from all the truckers.”
    “We’re delivering a horse,” I said, which was a phrase we had scripted to have on hand for anyone asking.
    “Well, good for you. Call me over if you need anything.”
    She took off. Delores dripped honey over her pancakes. She hated maple syrup, I knew.
    “Speed looked good,” she said as she speared some pancake. “He’s used to riding in a trailer.”
    “How many days, you think?” I asked, even though we had discussed it a thousand times since Speed had received his death sentence.
    “Four days, maybe. Depends how we go. If we take turns driving, no problem.”
    “You think they’ll call the police?”
    Delores stabbed pancake and then sausage.
    “Who knows? I’ll be honest, I’m more worried about my cousin whistling me down for the trailer than I am about Speed. The Fergies aren’t the sort to want the police to know their private business.”
    “I’ve got to call Mom this morning. She’ll have a hissy.”
    “But in the end, what can she do?”
    “I’m not eighteen,” I said.
    “I am,” Delores said.
    “Which makes you arrestable.”
    “Is ‘arrestable’ a word? Pass me the butter, would you?”
    I did. I ate some of my omelet. It was pretty good, though the cook had tried to fancy it up by sprinkling paprika on it. The home fries were better. We ate and watched the truckers slide into booths here and there around the diner. Most of them were fat. Sue scuttled around serving everyone. She brought coffee before anyone asked for it. She carried the white cups in bunches.
    “How far do you think we can get today?” I asked after we had eaten half our meal.
    “Ohio, maybe.”
    “You ever been out West?” I asked.
    Delores shook her head.
    “Nope,” she said.
    “You think it looks like it does in the movies?”
    “Nothing looks like anything does in the movies.”
    “Except Johnny Depp.”
    “If Johnny Depp in real life looked like Johnny Depp in the movies, people would faint around him.”
    “Girls,” I said.
    “Heck, gay guys would, too.”
    “My mom used to always say, ‘Life isn’t a movie.’ Thatwas supposed to be a cure for something. Like you shouldn’t believe in appearances.”
    “You really think your mom is going to throw a hissy?” Delores asked.
    “Of course. You know how she is.”
    “My mom will say she expected something like this. She’ll say it’s harebrained. What is harebrained, anyway?”
    “No idea.”
    “No one who loves horses will think it’s harebrained.”
    A pair of youngish truckers slid into the booth behind Delores. They had big belt buckles and wide sideburns. They smelled of cigarettes and diesel. Delores started speaking French to me. She couldn’t really speak it, but it was something we did. Sometimes on ski lifts or in a mall we spoke pretend French, throwing in a word and mumbling things together so that it almost sounded like something. That’s what she did now. I answered back, running my voice up and down French scales, trying to sound Parisian. After a while the guy closest to us turned in his seat and asked if we were from Montreal.
    “No,” Delores said.
    She said it
non
, like a Frenchy.
    “Where, then?” the guy said.
    “Paree,” Delores said.
    “Paris?”