Roadside Passenger

The knock at my window made me jump and drop my cigarette. I didn’t know which to attend to first, the cigarette, which might burn a hole in the custom pink upholstery, or the pale figure at my window. As I retrieved the cigarette, I hit the automatic switch. Cool night air flooded the car.

I took a long drag, exhaling through mouth and nose, not very lady-like, but it felt good. The figure gave a curt cough and smiled. She had the bruised look of lost puppy mixed with a drowned rat, dark eyes that would look sad even when happy. Which she wasn’t. Tearstains streaked her face.

“Excuse, me. Hi, can you help me? I’m lost.”

My night had started out normal. A little too chilly to have the top down, but I had the window vent open, and a fresh breeze blew at my face. I pressed the preset buttons looking for a good song, tired of the same ones. No luck, I caught the middle of Dodie Steven’s Pink Shoelaces, again. I bobbed my head and checked my lipstick. It had taken me weeks to find a color that matched my car and looked good on me.

I had pushed the cigarette lighter and reached for my pack of Chesterfields, trying to shake one out, but it stuck. I took my eyes off the road for a second. When I looked up, her pale figure was running across. I swerved, hit the brakes, and skidded to a halt halfway on the shoulder.

I tilted the rearview to see if I’d imagined her. Sometimes these dark old roads made me a little punchy. I hadn’t seen anything but night for miles, now that flutter of light was knocking on my window.

I knew the evening was about to get strange.

I took another drag and tried to keep myself from yelling. “You almost made me run my car into a ditch. What were you thinking? And what in God’s name were you doing in the middle of the road, in the middle of the night, in the middle of nowhere?”

“It’s a long story.” She hiccupped and stared at me with her dark eyes—the same color as his.

“Get in.”

“Thank you. You’re a lifesaver.” She drifted to the passenger side and began to lift a dirty old suitcase into my car. I almost dropped my cigarette again.

“No!” This time I yelled, “Not in here.”

She cringed and set her bag on the ground. I popped the trunk. I didn’t want to get out, but I didn’t want her denting my baby or scratching the paint. I met her at the trunk and knocked off as much dirt as I could, scooting my own Samsonite, making room.

“Real nice car. I especially like the fins. Looks like a rocket.” She stroked the pink metal. What year is it?”

“1959. El Dorado. Cadillac.”

Besides my passenger having a pale moon sad face, her lithe body was draped in an out-of-fashion powder-blue dress, matching wedge shoes, and no stockings.

“I bet this car cost a lot.” She slid into the seat. “Looks mint.”

“It is.” I smiled politely and pulled onto the road. A disconcerting chill ran up my spine. She made me feel middle-aged, and it was not a feeling I particularly wanted. I turned up the radio. The Impalas sang, Sorry (I Ran all the Way Home), filling the strangeness between us.

She spoke in an airy childlike voice, “Guess you like oldies. Goes with the car. My name’s Emma. What’s yours?”

I turned the radio low. “Margie.” I reached for my pack, shook out another, and lit it with the one in my mouth. I flicked the spent butt out the window. She opened her mouth to say something, but thought better of it. She gaped like the goldfish he’d won at the state fair.

“Would you like to explain what you were doing out there by yourself in the dark?”

She sighed. Her skin was gossamer, almost see-through, though with a little make-up and a hairdo she could be very pretty. Too bad I didn’t have time for it. I always wished I had more time.

She turned her dark eyes to me. “My boyfriend and me…”

“It’s always about a man isn’t it?” Frank’s face flashed before my eyes. I swerved for a moment and cursed myself for letting him into my thoughts. I shouldn’t have asked. I should have just taken her down to the roadside diner and not gotten involved.

“Well,” she continued, “sometimes he gets real crazy mad. He’s real good looking, and he’ll make real pretty babies, and I know he loves me and all. It’s just that I didn’t want to do it anymore.”

“Do what?”

“The things that we was doing, which weren’t exactly legal, but it wasn’t hurting no one.” She rung her hands.

I nodded. I could be patient. We had a lot of road ahead.

“So we’d stopped at the roadside grave. You know the ones where people leave little white crosses to mark the place where somebody they loved died.”

I knew the ones, but kept silent, taking another drag, eyes on the road.

“You wouldn’t believe all the funny stuff people leave: statues, coins, jewelry, clothing, toys for babies that’ve died. There’s even real nice crosses, worth some money, means someone really loved them, don’t you think?”

I nodded.

“Anyhow, we had a big fight, and he left me.”

I couldn’t hold my tongue. “In the middle of nowhere? In the middle of the night? That doesn’t sound like love.”

“It wasn’t the middle of the night. It was that real pretty time when the sun drops below the horizon, but the sky still has a bit of that funny color blue, the whole world just fading.”

I tried to recall the color.

“He was just teaching me a lesson. He’d done it before. I knew he’d come back. Said he’d love me forever. Doesn’t really like anyone telling him he’s wrong. Gets all agitated and starts talking about respect and manhood. He been on his own since fifteen. I know he’d notta left me if he knew about the baby. But I didn’t get to telling him, yet.”

“Ah shit.” I gritted my teeth. “Look, if I had some money, I’d give you some. I’m sorry, I can’t help you there.”

“I don’t need money. I got plenty of loot. I just need to find Hank. I know once he hears the blessed news he’ll take me back.”

“Emma, is it?”

“Yeah.”

“Emma, let me tell you something, and I want you to listen damn close. Things will not get better. Having a baby will not fix things and will not make Frank a better guy.”

“Hank.”

“What?”

“His name’s Hank, not Frank.”

“Did I say Frank?”

“Yeah, but you’re wrong.”’

“No. If you have family or money, you’ve got to get away from that man. You’ve got to. Trust me.”

“No I don’t.” She crossed her arms. As the glass reflected a ghosted image, silent tears ran down her cheeks.

I did not want to share my story with her. I never liked sharing my story. I lit another cigarette and cracked my window.

The Drifters sang There Goes my Baby. It was too much. I turned off the radio and drove in silence. It was miles before I realized she’d fallen asleep. I reached behind the seat and dragged a blanket to the front, fixing it over her. It was too small to cover her entirely, but it might give some comfort.

An hour later she yawned, stretched, then bolted upright. “I forgot where I was.” She glanced at me sheepishly. “Where’d this blanket come from?”

“The back.”

“Thank you, it’s very soft.”

“Yes.”

“If I tell you something will you promise not to turn me into the cops?”

“I can honestly say. I will not turn you into the cops.”

“We’re grave robbers.”

“Oh.” A warm car on a dark night becomes a makeshift confessional.

“That’s what he’s been doing since he was fifteen. He doesn’t know nothing else. We hafta keep a move-on though, find new pawn shops. You can’t believe the stuff people are buried with. But I was saying I wanted to quit it. Get real jobs. But that messed with his image. Didn’t want some boss-man telling him what to do.”

“I understand you love him, but you and your baby need safety. He’s not safe.”

“I’m grateful for you giving me a ride and all, but I’ll be getting my Hank back.”

I tried to take another drag, but realized I had smoked down to the butt. I scrabbled for the pack.

“Let me tell you a story. I had this friend. She had a husband, much like your boyfriend. Only he had a very good job and made lots of money. Gave her anything she wanted, nice house, nice clothes, nice car. But when he drank, he’d hit her. And he drank a lot. They had a baby, a beautiful baby girl. She thought he would stop drinking. He didn’t. He got worse. Friends that told her to leave him, her mama told her to leave him. She had choices, but still stayed. Until one night he was so drunk and beat her so badly she’d had enough.”

“Hey, what’s those lights up there?”

“Are we this far already? That’s Perkly’s Diner. Open twenty-four hours.” I hurried. “So while he went to the corner mart for another bottle, she stuffed a suitcase, wrapped her baby in a blanket and packed them all in her expensive car and drove away.”

“That sounds good.”

I took another drag, shaking. “Except she’d been drinking too and as she drove, the concussion she didn’t know she had mixed with the alcohol, and she passed out.”

“Oh no.”

“Oh Yes.”

“I don’t want to hear any more.”

“She crashed the car into a telephone pole, and she and the baby were killed instantly.”

“No, no, no. I don’t like that story. Why did you tell me that story?”

“Because it’s true, and although I couldn’t save her, maybe, if you listen to me, I can save you.”

The look of fear on her face gave me hope. We wept silent tears as I took the turn-off. Yellow diner light spilled across the lot, but I pulled into a dark space at the end. I wasn’t ready to lose her to the light yet.

She unconsciously dragged the small blanket to her eyes and wiped them dry. I popped the trunk and made my way around. As Emma reached for her bag, I put my hand on hers. She jerked it away.

“You’re so cold.”

“Please think about what I’ve said. Don’t go back to Hank.” I slammed the trunk.

I wanted to hug her, to keep her safe in my car forever, but knew I couldn’t. I sat back in the driver’s seat, lit another cigarette and watched her walk to the diner. Duane Eddy sang Forty Miles of Bad Road, again. I was just about to pull out when she came running back.

“I forgot to give you your blanket back.”

“Keep it for your baby. I don’t need it anymore.”

I pulled out onto the long road. The night had started out completely normal. It had been a little too chilly to have the top down, but I had the window vent open and a fresh breeze blew at my face. I pressed the preset buttons looking for a good song, tired of the same ones. No luck, I caught the middle of Dodie Steven’s Pink Shoelaces, again. I bobbed my head and checked my lipstick. It had taken me weeks to find a color that matched my car and looked good on me. I pushed in the cigarette lighter and reached for my pack of Chesterfields.