parting ways just after dawn. George remembered the damp, frigid air of early morning, the black ice on the sidewalk as he walked Audrey to her silver Ford Escort with the duct-taped bumper. She’d started the car and put the unreliable heater up to maximum, then come out to give him a final hug good-bye. “Be careful,” he’d told her, then, without meaning to, he’d added, “I love you.” The first time he had spoken those words.
“I love you, George,” she’d said without hesitating. “We’ll see each other soon.”
She had looked—George remembered—full of hope. Excited, almost as though her life had just gotten better and there was much more of it to come. Or was that simply what George had felt and he was transposing his own feelings onto Audrey? He kept picking away at the memories till he felt he couldn’t trust them anymore.
The bus continued its monotonous journey south. The bright blue skies and frigid temperatures of New England had turned into low cloud-cover and bursts of icy rain. Night came. George turned on his reading light and opened Washington Square, but the look of it, the feel of it, nauseated him. It would always be the book he was reading when he heard that Audrey was dead. He slid it into the netting on the back of the seat and never touched it again.
Somehow, despite his inability to either read or sleep, morning arrived, the bus driver announcing that they were still on 95 and had crossed over into Georgia. The hazy fields that bordered the highway were free of snow, and dull green leaves adorned the trees. George pressed the palm of his hand to the bus window: it was cool to the touch, not cold, and the spiderwebs of frost that had feathered the window the night before had turned to pinpricks of condensation.
At a rest stop, he bought a large coffee in a Styrofoam cup and two honey-glazed doughnuts. He was actually hungry for the first time since he’d heard the news about Audrey. Leaning against the bus and eating the doughnuts, watching a pale sun spread its warmth across the acre of asphalt that was nearly devoid of cars, he wondered what he would do when he reached Tampa. He was not old enough to rent a car, but he’d extracted a wad of cash from the machine at school, enough to hire a taxi to drive him to the cheapest motel in Sweetgum. From there he’d figure out what to do next. He could call Audrey’s parents, ask to meet them. Find out if there was going to be a funeral. Find her friends and talk to them. What had happened to Audrey since she’d left school that would cause her to kill herself? Had she left a note? Was there a reason?
The bus driver flicked her Virginia Slim into a gutter, announced that their break was up. George followed her onto the bus.
T ampa was warm, somewhere in the high sixties under a low white sky. The air smelled like tar and tidal water. One rust-eaten cab was parked outside of the bus station. The driver, a short-looking Latino man, had his elbow out the open window, his head resting on his arm. He looked half-asleep.
“How much to go to Sweetgum?” George asked.
“Why you want to go there?”
“How much would it cost?”
“I don’t know. Eighty bucks.”
“I’ll pay you a flat fee of sixty if you take me to a motel in Sweetgum.”
The cab driver looked at his watch. “Okay,” he said, and George got into the backseat with his bag. A slow trickle of sweat had begun high up between his shoulder blades. The cab crossed a terrifying bridge that rose high above Tampa Bay. There was cloud break in the distance, and the sun dotted the gray water with a pool of light. Once out of Tampa, the ocean disappeared, and the highway was edged by motel signs higher than the grand palms, pockets of chain restaurants, gas stations, and topless clubs.
Audrey had rarely talked of her life prior to college, but she had spoken about the town she grew up in.
“I’d like to visit,” George had said once.
She laughed. “There’s
“I love you, George,” she’d said without hesitating. “We’ll see each other soon.”
She had looked—George remembered—full of hope. Excited, almost as though her life had just gotten better and there was much more of it to come. Or was that simply what George had felt and he was transposing his own feelings onto Audrey? He kept picking away at the memories till he felt he couldn’t trust them anymore.
The bus continued its monotonous journey south. The bright blue skies and frigid temperatures of New England had turned into low cloud-cover and bursts of icy rain. Night came. George turned on his reading light and opened Washington Square, but the look of it, the feel of it, nauseated him. It would always be the book he was reading when he heard that Audrey was dead. He slid it into the netting on the back of the seat and never touched it again.
Somehow, despite his inability to either read or sleep, morning arrived, the bus driver announcing that they were still on 95 and had crossed over into Georgia. The hazy fields that bordered the highway were free of snow, and dull green leaves adorned the trees. George pressed the palm of his hand to the bus window: it was cool to the touch, not cold, and the spiderwebs of frost that had feathered the window the night before had turned to pinpricks of condensation.
At a rest stop, he bought a large coffee in a Styrofoam cup and two honey-glazed doughnuts. He was actually hungry for the first time since he’d heard the news about Audrey. Leaning against the bus and eating the doughnuts, watching a pale sun spread its warmth across the acre of asphalt that was nearly devoid of cars, he wondered what he would do when he reached Tampa. He was not old enough to rent a car, but he’d extracted a wad of cash from the machine at school, enough to hire a taxi to drive him to the cheapest motel in Sweetgum. From there he’d figure out what to do next. He could call Audrey’s parents, ask to meet them. Find out if there was going to be a funeral. Find her friends and talk to them. What had happened to Audrey since she’d left school that would cause her to kill herself? Had she left a note? Was there a reason?
The bus driver flicked her Virginia Slim into a gutter, announced that their break was up. George followed her onto the bus.
T ampa was warm, somewhere in the high sixties under a low white sky. The air smelled like tar and tidal water. One rust-eaten cab was parked outside of the bus station. The driver, a short-looking Latino man, had his elbow out the open window, his head resting on his arm. He looked half-asleep.
“How much to go to Sweetgum?” George asked.
“Why you want to go there?”
“How much would it cost?”
“I don’t know. Eighty bucks.”
“I’ll pay you a flat fee of sixty if you take me to a motel in Sweetgum.”
The cab driver looked at his watch. “Okay,” he said, and George got into the backseat with his bag. A slow trickle of sweat had begun high up between his shoulder blades. The cab crossed a terrifying bridge that rose high above Tampa Bay. There was cloud break in the distance, and the sun dotted the gray water with a pool of light. Once out of Tampa, the ocean disappeared, and the highway was edged by motel signs higher than the grand palms, pockets of chain restaurants, gas stations, and topless clubs.
Audrey had rarely talked of her life prior to college, but she had spoken about the town she grew up in.
“I’d like to visit,” George had said once.
She laughed. “There’s
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