and he'd be handsome if he took the time to comb
his hair, straighten his shirt, dig the oil from underneath his nails. "What is
your name and your business, traveler?" he asks, words running together until
they're almost like a song.
I'm Rose Marshall out of Michigan. I'm the Girl in the Diner, I'm the
Lady in Green, I'm the Phantom Prom Date, I'm the Shadow of Sparrow Hill Road.
All those names—all those stories—flash through my mind as my mouth opens, and I
answer, "My name's Rose. I've walked the Ocean Lady down from Calais to visit
the Queen, if she'll see me. I have a question for her to ask the roads for me."
He reaches up to scratch at the scabbed-over pimples at one temple, frowning.
He probably doesn't even know he's doing it. "Be you of the living, or be you of
the dead?" More ritual, and stupid ritual at that—he knows I'm dead.
Routewitches always know.
Or maybe not. This is the Ocean Lady, after all, and she makes her own rules.
"I died on Sparrow Hill Road, in the fall of 1945. How about you?"
Oh, he's young, this routewitch, and more, he's new to the twilight; he isn't
used to dead girls talking back to him. He'll learn. Almost all the dead are a
little mouthy. I think it comes from knowing that most of the things you'll run
into simply don't have the equipment it would take to actually hurt you. He
frowns for a moment, trying to remember the words of the ritual, and then
continues, "The dead should be at peace, and resting. Why are you not at peace,
little ghost?"
I fold my arms across my chest and glare. "Maybe because I'm standing outside
in the wind, being harassed by an apprentice who doesn't know his ass from an
eight-foot hole in the ground with a body at the bottom. I have walked the
goddamn Ocean Lady to visit the Queen, and you're rapidly burning off my pretty
shallow reserves of patience. Are you going to let me in or not?"
"I..." He stops, looking at me helplessly. "I don't know."
Midnight preserve me from routewitches who don't know their own traditions.
"How about I wait here while you run back to your trail guide and find out?
His eyes light up. "You'd do that?"
Of course I won't do that. There's no level, daylight on down, where I'd
stand out here, alone, waiting for some idiot to figure out how to handle me. I
don't say anything. I just watch him.
"Wait here," he says, making a staying motion with his hands, and turns to
run down across the truck stop parking lot, toward the diner. The neon seems to
brighten as he approaches, like a loving wife welcoming her husband home from
the war.
The gravel crunches under my feet as I follow him. My skirt swirls around my
legs, and I realize I'm back in my prom dress. Changing my clothes should take
less than a second—having a wardrobe defined only by the limits of my
imagination has been one of the few benefits of death—but no matter how hard I
concentrate, the green silk remains. Suddenly, the reason for the apprentice's
confusion makes a lot more sense. The Ocean Lady is somewhere between ghost and
goddess, and on her ground, there is no difference between the living and the
dead.
I shake my head, and follow the apprentice routewitch inside.
***
Every diner, roadhouse, and saloon is a tiny miracle, a peace of comfort and
safety carved out of the wild frontier of the road. I died in the age of diners,
when chrome and red leather and the sweet song of the jukebox were the trappings
of the road's religion. From the outside, that's what this waystation on the
Ocean Lady looked like to me. The perfect diner, a place where the malteds would
be sweet and gritty on the back of the tongue, the fries would be crisp, and the
coffee would be strong enough to wake the dead. As the apprentice reaches the
door, some ten feet ahead of me, I catch a glimpse of what he sees; his hand
ripples the facade, and for a moment, it's a roadhouse, tall and solid and hewn
from barely-worked trees. Then he's inside,
his hair, straighten his shirt, dig the oil from underneath his nails. "What is
your name and your business, traveler?" he asks, words running together until
they're almost like a song.
I'm Rose Marshall out of Michigan. I'm the Girl in the Diner, I'm the
Lady in Green, I'm the Phantom Prom Date, I'm the Shadow of Sparrow Hill Road.
All those names—all those stories—flash through my mind as my mouth opens, and I
answer, "My name's Rose. I've walked the Ocean Lady down from Calais to visit
the Queen, if she'll see me. I have a question for her to ask the roads for me."
He reaches up to scratch at the scabbed-over pimples at one temple, frowning.
He probably doesn't even know he's doing it. "Be you of the living, or be you of
the dead?" More ritual, and stupid ritual at that—he knows I'm dead.
Routewitches always know.
Or maybe not. This is the Ocean Lady, after all, and she makes her own rules.
"I died on Sparrow Hill Road, in the fall of 1945. How about you?"
Oh, he's young, this routewitch, and more, he's new to the twilight; he isn't
used to dead girls talking back to him. He'll learn. Almost all the dead are a
little mouthy. I think it comes from knowing that most of the things you'll run
into simply don't have the equipment it would take to actually hurt you. He
frowns for a moment, trying to remember the words of the ritual, and then
continues, "The dead should be at peace, and resting. Why are you not at peace,
little ghost?"
I fold my arms across my chest and glare. "Maybe because I'm standing outside
in the wind, being harassed by an apprentice who doesn't know his ass from an
eight-foot hole in the ground with a body at the bottom. I have walked the
goddamn Ocean Lady to visit the Queen, and you're rapidly burning off my pretty
shallow reserves of patience. Are you going to let me in or not?"
"I..." He stops, looking at me helplessly. "I don't know."
Midnight preserve me from routewitches who don't know their own traditions.
"How about I wait here while you run back to your trail guide and find out?
His eyes light up. "You'd do that?"
Of course I won't do that. There's no level, daylight on down, where I'd
stand out here, alone, waiting for some idiot to figure out how to handle me. I
don't say anything. I just watch him.
"Wait here," he says, making a staying motion with his hands, and turns to
run down across the truck stop parking lot, toward the diner. The neon seems to
brighten as he approaches, like a loving wife welcoming her husband home from
the war.
The gravel crunches under my feet as I follow him. My skirt swirls around my
legs, and I realize I'm back in my prom dress. Changing my clothes should take
less than a second—having a wardrobe defined only by the limits of my
imagination has been one of the few benefits of death—but no matter how hard I
concentrate, the green silk remains. Suddenly, the reason for the apprentice's
confusion makes a lot more sense. The Ocean Lady is somewhere between ghost and
goddess, and on her ground, there is no difference between the living and the
dead.
I shake my head, and follow the apprentice routewitch inside.
***
Every diner, roadhouse, and saloon is a tiny miracle, a peace of comfort and
safety carved out of the wild frontier of the road. I died in the age of diners,
when chrome and red leather and the sweet song of the jukebox were the trappings
of the road's religion. From the outside, that's what this waystation on the
Ocean Lady looked like to me. The perfect diner, a place where the malteds would
be sweet and gritty on the back of the tongue, the fries would be crisp, and the
coffee would be strong enough to wake the dead. As the apprentice reaches the
door, some ten feet ahead of me, I catch a glimpse of what he sees; his hand
ripples the facade, and for a moment, it's a roadhouse, tall and solid and hewn
from barely-worked trees. Then he's inside,
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