WINDOW seat, still devastated by the news. “ It was more than I could take,” she added. “ I just started to cry.” Lo imagined a tiny house in a summer storm. A ragged screen door was all that separated the house from the noise outside. Insects rattled the porch light in random collisions. The familiar stranger stood in the doorway between the dark livingroom and the brightly lit kitchen. Lo felt, suddenly, as though she knew that moment more intimately than any in her own life. sion, she entered a curve too fast and, frightened, braked too suddenly. The car skidded on the wet road and spun dizzily into the forest. They stopped with a jolt against an immense tree. “You okay?” Gini asked. Lo nodded and switched the car off. She leaned her head against the steering wheel, thinking of nothing at all. Gini got out and walked around the car. “ I think it’s okay,” she called. “ I think we’ ll be able to back right out.” Lo didn’t respond. She didn’t even “ I know that.” Gini shoved again, getting Lo halfway across the seat. She came around to the passenger’s door and dragged Lo the rest of the way. “ I’m just going to chauffeur. That’s it,” she laughed, snapping the seatbelt around Lo. “You’re the little princess. I’m your chauffeur.” Gini sat very straight, her chin strained above the steering wheel. Lo watched her quietly. “You were tired out,” Gini said. “ Driving gets tiring but you’ ll feel better. You I f you jumped o ff the Golden Gate, Lo wondered, did with ? I fs o , re do you leave the keys? Or do you bus transfer s till in your pocket, et another hour and a ha lf? Lo imagined an old grey building, and felt a great nostalgia. Out of the dark, old- fashioned windows she saw people leaning quietly—men in t-shirts, women in summer dresses, men in business suits with their sleeves pushed up. From each window, a pair of hands. And from each pair of hands, a thin, almost invisible line fell straight down to the dark grey waters of Puget Sound. The Sound reached out to the edge of the world. A light northwest rain fell gently on the water which lapped at the bases of the building where orange Illustration by Vicki Shuck “ He’d never been anywhere. St. Paul,” Gini muttered with disgust. “ He came back because he wanted a divorce so he could marry someone else. And live in St. Paul! “ I decided if I ever got the chance, I’d go some place far away. Last spring it was raining real hard and I thought of that night my husband came back. The kids were all grown and gone and I decided— why not? Now,” she added laughing, “ here I am on my way to Seattle and if he’s not dead, you can bet he’s in St. Paul.” Lo thought of her own life, fluttering abandoned so far behind. When she crossed that bridge she had felt so resolute. So absolute. Now she could hear Carl’s voice, calling goodbye. But that wasn’t right. He hadn’t said anything as he stood at the foot of the driveway, not this last time. She could remember so little. She tried to picture his face. Did he stay on the driveway until she was out of sight? Hadn’t she even noticed? And instead of one kernel of true memory, she heard all of his goodbyes over the years, flattened out to the simple rhythm of the word. As she listened, it fell into sync with the rhythm of the engine, growing louder and more ambiguous beneath the growl of the car. Lo opened her mouth to say something, to have one solid thing to hold on to, but no word came. In her confu- eard a l l o f his goodbyes ovet out-to the sb it fe ll into sync with the rhythm o f Li growing louder and more am b ig^ p^ grow l o f the ca r move. She simply noticed that she was breathing very slowly. The air spilled out of her, leaving her at the bottom, empty and relaxed. New air spilled back in as naturally as the waves pile onto the beach. “Come on,” Gini nodded. “ Start her up and back slowly.” But where was she to go? Lo told Carl she was leaving. And that led here, to the aloof forest, the injured car. She began to feel a certain familiarity with the situation; the hard steering wheel against her forehead, her hands loose in her lap, the bits of dirt and scraps of paper on the floor. This was life. Okay, Lo thought. It’s okay. “ You’ re not hurt, are you,” Gini insisted, opening Lo’s door. “We weren’t going very fast.” Gini patted her on the shoulder and Lo vaguely resented the intrusion. "Okay,” Gini said brightly. “ Let’s start her up and see how she sounds.” But Lo thought only of the deep silence of the forest. The sound of her own breath floated above her like oil on a pond; beyond that she was faintly aware of the drone of Gini’s voice. “ It’s not doing you any good to sit here,” Gini complained. “ It’s not doing me any good either.” Gini leaned down and gave Lo a shove. “ It’s my car,” Lo murmured and was herself surprised at the claim. m o f the word. A s irs, flattened listened, e e n g i n e s beneath thw don’t mind if I have one?” Gini took a cigarette and offered the pack to Lo, but Lo didn’t make the effort. “ I talk too much.” Gini noddfed happily. “ I been traveling now for awhile,” she explained. “When I’m waiting for rides, I talk to myself. Then someone picks me up. I ride with them for awhile. Then I’m back on the side of the road, talking to myself again. Pretty soon, I never quit talking to myself. Like a crazy lady,” she announced. “So I’m staying in Seattle. I'm going to stay there and listen. “ My real name’s Virginia.” Gini looked away from the road and smiled at Lo. “After a place my mother never visited. All my life I knew I was destined to go there. And here I am on my way to Seatt le .” Gini turned to Lo and grinned happily. If you jumped off the Golden Gate, Lo wondered, did your old car wait at the top for some friend to drive it home? If so, where do you leave the keys? Or do you jump with the green bus transfer still in - your pocket, valid for yet another hour and a half? It never ended, she thought. Nothing ends. “Wait,” Gini said eagerly. “ I’ ll show you where I’m going.” She fumbled in the pack and finally pulled out a matchbook. She handed it carefully to Lo. It was from a hotel in Seattle, and in white script on a red background it said Fish From Your Window. “See?” Gini chuckled. “ Fish from your window. It’s a hotel. Right on the water. I can be a waitress,” she sighed wistfully. “ I’ ll live right on the water.” Lo held the matchbook gingerly. Most of the matches were gone. The book was still damp from the storm and the paper split and curled at the corners. When Lo ran her thumb over the top, she left ragged streaks of exposed grey. lichen, like rust, rose unevenly along the wall. Paper cups and bits of debris rose and fell with the waves. Lo brushed the crumbs of paper onto the floor and handed the book back to Gini. She thought it was a good place, good to fish, to hold that trembling line, and she smiled at Gini. Eventually they came to 1-5. Gini pulled over near the on-ramp. “ I don’t want to drive,” Lo said lazily. “You do what you have to.” Gini parked the car and switched the engine off. It was suddenly cold when Gini opened the door. “Where are you going?” “ Sea ttle? ” Gini shook her head. “ You’ ll be okay ,” she added. She slammed the door and walked toward the freeway. At one point she turned and waved, just wiggling her fingers. Lo watched until a car pulled over and Gini disappeared inside. She felt, suddenly, burdened and very tired. She locked the doors and lay down to rest, listening to the incessant hum of the traffic passing. Writer Jane Carlsen lives in San Francisco. This is her first story in CSQ. Artist Vicki Shuck lives in Corvallis, Oregon. Her work has appeared in several West Coast publications. Clinton St. Quarterly—Summer, 1988 31
RkJQdWJsaXNoZXIy NTc4NTAz