Holland Suggestions (6 page)

There were the usual last-minute problems, things that should be expected whenever a divorced man with a teenage daughter and a devotion to his job suddenly uproots for three weeks. Al Harper had half a dozen minor crises and Peggy Harris suddenly reneged on her offer to have Judy as a houseguest because her three cousins were coming in unexpectedly from Illinois. I worked around everything. We found Judy a place to stay just before I was to leave. Linda Coughlin was delighted to have her. The parents seemed okay, Judy was comfortable, and that set my mind at ease.

Finally there was the matter of the camping gear. Ostensibly, I was going fishing, and I didn’t want anyone to know I was in New York. So I took some camping gear with me. I bought things I had always intended to buy and use but never before had had the time: tough hiking clothes that I could use later in the Shenandoahs; a pair of boots; a large backpack. I took only casual clothes. Four heavy flannel shirts, a knitted skullcap, tough work pants, and a thermal overcoat. I packed thermal longjohns too, and never once stopped to wonder if maybe I was overdoing it. I would stand out in New York like the Midnight Cowboy.

In my backpack I took some warm blankets, an ax, and, at the last moment, a full bottle of bourbon. I debated the last, then decided to take it, I laughingly told myself, in case of snakebite.

I was so anxious to be on the road that I knew I wouldn’t sleep at all. In fact, I slept more soundly than I had in months. A feeling of strength came over me as I pulled the blanket up over my shoulders. Yes, I was awake at precisely three-thirty, but it was not an awakening of distress or terror. I got up calmly as though I had set an alarm clock, filled with anticipation and enthusiasm;
I could not wait to get on the road!
In the three hours before Judy got up I loaded my car, checked the gear, read last night’s paper, and rechecked the gear. I put one envelope containing the mountain pictures in a suitcase and dropped the suitcase into the back seat of the car. I was ready to go; more than that: I was aching to go.

Then, the parting. We locked the house and I drove Judy to school. We ate breakfast in some noisy little cafe about two blocks from the school building, and there we went through the final checks. I double-checked the Coughlins’ home telephone number, and we passed small talk back and forth for half an hour over our empty plates. “I’m going to miss you,” she said. I assured her that I would miss her too, and I would. Sometime in the next day or two I would call her and let her know exactly where I was and how I was doing. She wanted to walk, but I drove her the last two blocks and watched, with a growing reluctance to let her go, as she disappeared into the building.

Now I found that some of my initial enthusiasm had burned out. For a long time I sat outside the school. I called it thought organization, but there was nothing to organize. There was nothing left to do but go.

I know the way to New York by heart. There was no need for a road map and in fact I did not have one. From my home it is a straight shot down to Richmond on Interstate 64; then north to Washington on I-95. Actually, 95 goes all the way to New York and beyond, so there is nothing to remember.
Nothing left to do but go.
But I resisted going the straight, easy way that I knew so well; I passed the I-64 overpass and continued on out of town. The road came to a dead end at a narrow state highway that cut through a long section of woods and, I thought, joined Route 29 somewhere up the line. Rationale:
Just now I don’t feel like facing the hustle of the interstate; I’d rather drift through the country and think about it some more.
Logic:
Goddamnit. I’ve had weeks to think about it; why not get on with it?
Decision:
The hell with it; it’s my vacation and I’ll go any damned way I choose.
So I turned north on the state highway and found that it did indeed join U.S. 29, which cut diagonally across the state in almost a straight line to Washington. It was probably as fast as the interstate, if not faster.

I don’t remember much about that morning’s drive. There were many towns, I know, and once I hit a bad spot where they had the road ripped up and cars were just crawling through. Somewhere I lost 29 and slipped over onto Route 17. It must have been early afternoon when I stopped for a hamburger at a roadside ice cream freeze. The morning had slipped by so easily I could hardly believe the time had gone. And when I started out again I saw that I had left 17 and was now on Route 50, heading west. My first reaction was strong disgust, but that was replaced at once by curiosity. The road
felt
right, even though the sun was in my eyes and the highway marker said Route 50 West. I resisted the urge to stop, check my direction, and correct it before I lost the entire day meandering. But that was too much trouble. It was too easy to go on and too much trouble to stop; as in a hypnotic trance, I knew exactly where I was and what was happening to me. I knew I could bring myself out of it any time I wanted to. But proving it just wasn’t worth the effort

When I crossed the West Virginia state line I forced myself back to reality. Damn it, I
was
going the wrong way. I stopped for gas in a town called Capon Bridge. While the attendant was filling the tank I went inside and got a road map. But I stuffed the map into my back pocket and forgot it was there. I did notice the time; a large wall clock said five to one, and here I was some goddamn place in West Virginia, probably as far from New York as ever. Possibly, by pushing it, I could still make it late tonight, but I didn’t want to drive like that, especially when it wasn’t necessary. The worst of it was this strong new sensation I felt, almost an ambivalent attitude toward the whole New York project. My eagerness of the morning had vanished; doubt had taken its place. I paid the man and forced my attention backward, edging into the eastbound lane and accelerating quickly. Almost in tempo with my rising speedometer needle came my strongest attack of depression since mid-March. It grew, consumed me, and became a physical monster, clutching at my gut and ringing in my ears as though some little man inside me had set off the burglar alarm of my nervous system. Faster, harder, and louder it came: I had to stop; I was surely having a heart attack.

I stopped at roadside and waited, breathing hard. Nothing happened. Immediately my distress eased and disappeared. Indigestion? Maybe, but I thought it was something else. Gingerly, remembering the numbers 50, 96, and 12, I eased around to turn back into the westbound lane. Only one car was coming up behind me, a large black Oldsmobile. I waited for it to pass, then turned back toward Capon Bridge.

My decision took less than ten seconds. New York was out, at least for the moment, and something else was in. I watched the speedometer needle climb with mounting excitement.

At dusk I crossed into Ohio.

T
HE FLASHING LIGHT OF
a small motel caught my eye sometime after seven. Though the lure of the road was difficult to resist, I was simply too tired to go on. I turned in and registered, getting the last available room, if I could believe the old woman who rented it to me. The room was unnecessarily large, with a double bed, a single, and a rollaway. The fifteen dollars I paid for it was, I thought, a bit steep; since I never argue over bills I paid it, took the key, and made myself at home. I didn’t unload the car; took only my overnight bag and the Holland folder, locked all the doors, and headed nonstop for the shower. The water had a kind of yellow tint, like rust, but that cleared up in about five minutes, just as the temperature began to vary from freezing to boiling. But I felt better after the shower; I dressed, went outside, and walked down Main Street looking for a restaurant.

It was one of those towns where everything closes at seven o’clock. I passed two dismal cafes, both happily closed, and reached the end of the main drag in about ten minutes. Here the highway turned, zigzagged through a small residential district and continued across country. Just around the bend was a walk-in-drive-in combination, where I ate a greasy hamburger and resolved, for sure, to eat something good tomorrow.

On the way back to the motel I saw an ice machine and thought of the bourbon in my backpack. I passed it by, feeling no need for alcohol of any kind. I would sleep well enough. For the first time in months I felt completely at peace with myself. I paused at the motel entrance and observed the car parked directly across the street. You don’t see many big black Oldsmobiles any more, and somewhere, today, I was sure I had seen this one. That might not be anything more than an unlikely coincidence, two travelers crossing paths twice in one day; but, curious, I crossed the street for a closer look. The first thing I saw was that it bore Florida license plates with the numbers 38-3414. I walked around the car and peeped in through the window. The inside was nicely done, with thick carpeting and new seat covers and a tape deck. There was a telephone too, rather an unusual piece of equipment for a car. The ashtray was full. And that was all I noticed about the big black car before I began to feel conspicuous. I hurried back to my motel room.

In the darkness I undressed; then I slipped between the sheets of the double bed. It was hard and good and I was asleep almost at once. I awoke at three-thirty, after seven hours’ sleep, my mind clear and ready for the long drive ahead. When I came outside I saw that the black Oldsmobile was still parked innocently across the street. I shrugged it off, still not completely satisfied that it was a coincidence, and eased my own car out into the westbound lane of Route 50. In a moment the town’s business section slipped into the gloom behind me.

I turned the bend at the end of town, passed the grease pot where I had taken my last meal, and stopped. My nagging hunch about the black Oldsmobile would not pass, so I parked under a tree at the side of the road and got out. The walk back to the bend was short, but even before I reached it I saw the headlights of an oncoming car. I jumped behind a tree just as the car turned the bend; it was well past me before I tried a look. It was not an Oldsmobile, at least not
the
Oldsmobile, because the first thing I saw was a large silver star painted on the door around the word
POLICE.
Local cops always scare me anyway, but this police car coming at this time was especially sobering. I had no doubt that I could be jailed and held for at least a day on nothing stronger than the fact that I was ducking around a dark street in a small Ohio town at four o’clock in the morning. That and my being a stranger might actually get me a jail term in some police courts. So I stood in the shadows until the car was out of sight, and since the bend was just a few steps away, I quickly walked to it and looked far down the street. It was at least six blocks back, but there were sporadic streetlights, and I could just make out the Oldsmobile still parked across from the motel, where I had last seen it

A light rain had begun to fall by the time I left the town, and when I got to the next town the rainfall was heavy. I found an all-night restaurant, stopped, and got some black coffee for my thermos. The rain was even heavier when I got on the road again; it pounded my windshield with a monotonous patter. I drove slowly, keeping both hands on the wheel and my eyes on the slick pavement. A Route 50 West marker flashed by; then a sign that said Athens and something that looked like 25 miles, but might have been 35 or 55. It didn’t matter; Athens was nothing to me. It was just something I noticed the way a traveler notices signs on the road and ignores them at home. My fascination with the road, if it had ever existed, was worn thin. I wanted badly to get on with it, to get where I was going, and, most of all at the moment, to get out of this goddamn rain. There was a long straight stretch, and as I made the bend I saw a light bobbing at the side of the road. It was a flashlight. The person who carried it began to swing it in a wide arc, as though trying to flag me down. Nice try, but I had no intention of stopping. As I drove past I heard a cry for help. There was no question about it; the voice was female. For an instant my foot hovered between the gas and brake; then I touched the brake and brought the car to a stop.

I was fully a hundred yards past her, and in the rear-view mirror I could see her light bobbing as she ran to catch up. I backed the car toward her; in a moment we met and she was peering in through my steamy window. She pulled open the door.

“You going to Athens?”

She was young. Even in the dim light I could see that clearly. Her face was smooth and the features delicate. A small curl of black hair dropped from under the hood she wore and a stream of water dripped off her hair and ran down her cheek.

Thunder rolled and I shouted over it: “I don’t know; is that on this road?”

“Yes, it’s straight ahead.”

“Then I’ll pass through it.”

“Can you take me there?”

“Get in.”

She almost fell into the seat beside me. The hood dropped away, revealing a thick growth of black hair, which now fell down over her shoulders. She was breathing hard, and for a minute neither of us said anything. I got the car going, and when her breath came easier she said, “Sorry about all the water. God, I was afraid you weren’t going to stop.”

“I usually don’t pick up hitchhikers at four o’clock in the morning. Come to think of it, I don’t know if I’ve ever seen one. You seemed to be in trouble.”

“No trouble; not now. I just had to get away from here.”

“What’s the rush?”

She glanced at me out of the corner of her eye. “I guess you’ve got to know that.”

“Only if you’ve just robbed a gas station. Look, as long as it’s legal, what you do is your own business.”

“Okay. Can I get these wet things off first?”

“Sure. Put your coat under the heater; that’ll help dry it out.”

I didn’t push her. For a time she arranged her coat, hood, scarf, and sweater under the heater, then sat back and stared blankly at the dark road. She seemed to have lost any inclination she might have had to tell me about herself, so I figured what the hell, she would soon be gone anyway. She spread out the sweater more evenly, shivered, then hugged herself for warmth, even though the heater was up full and the blouse she wore seemed fairly dry. When I had given up hope of getting conversation of any kind from her, she half turned on the seat and said, “Thanks for stopping.”