V. H. King's Ink

Between Cracks in the Concrete is now full price– but don’t worry! It’s still less than two dollars per short story. (Plus you get pictures! In color!) The following story, included in the collection, features a bit of fun miscommunication somewhere in Kentucky, before the Tennessee state line. When you run out of mayonnaise, what do you put on your sandwiches?

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Rita took out her headphones and twisted around to reach into the back seat.  I caught a glimpse of her phone screen just before it shut off.  It looked like she had finished another episode of her podcast. The series itself centered on queer theology and witchcraft, and the latest discussion—according to the title—was about empowerment versus entitlement. 

“How long until our next stop?”

My eyes drifted back to the road. We’d had little traffic for the last three hours.  It was always a good idea to actually look up every once in a while, just in case there was a sudden sea of brake lights ahead.  I nudged the Subaru around a series of pot holes but made sure to stay in my lane.  There wasn’t a lot of traffic, but you never knew about cops.

“As many miles to empty—however long that is,” I said, glancing down at the gas gauge.  “We’ve still got over half a tank.”

She finished her contortionist trick and faced forward again, the seatbelt clicking the child-lock into place.  A strangled sound slipped from her lips, not quite a curse.  She unbuckled the seat belt and let it fully retract before buckling it again, this time giving herself wiggle room.  Edge of Seventeen was almost over, so I grabbed my phone to switch from Stevie Nicks to Ozzy Osbourne. 

Grey skies and folk music would lull me too far the way of sleep.  When it comes to Ozzy, I opt for his later solo albums rather than Black Sabbath.  I’m not sure why, but maybe it’s just that the CDs I downloaded the tracks from seem to have more static than actual song.  Maybe if I found a few of their vinyls, it would sound better and I would be more willing to listen. 

Rita unwrapped half of a ham and Swiss sandwich and handed it to me.  I switched hands on the wheel and took the sandwich.  My stomach clenched when our fingers brushed, the same way they had twenty years earlier.  Two decades of white dashes and dirty dishes, and she still gave me the jitters.  I bit the inside of my cheek, forcing myself to breathe before I took a bite.  It wouldn’t do to choke while driving.

“Do you want to switch when it gets closer to sunset?” she asked, unwrapping another half sandwich for herself.

I glanced at the clock on the dash.  If the sun was still shining, dusk would be at least five hours off.  Chances were we would run out of gas before dark, but I could be wrong.  Driving at twilight, my eyesight got blurry and my body suddenly demanded sleep. 

Full dark or day time though, I was perfectly fine.  Maybe the sun would come out, just to say goodbye.  That would be a welcome change from the endless stretches of grey.  Even the mountains, brown and brooding or bright green, seemed to have dulled into shadows.  If the sun decided to part the clouds, I probably wouldn’t even notice that it was setting until the day had gone.

“I’m feeling alright,” I said.  “Maybe ask me again in an hour or two.”

She said something in reply.  Other than the fact that it ended in a question mark, I had no idea what it was.  Having just taken a bite of my own sandwich, I couldn’t ask what she’d just said without it coming out as a similar jumble of sounds followed by another question mark.  Twenty years, but we still hadn’t figured out telepathy.  Maybe in another decade.   

“Hmm?”

I glanced over, saw her cheeks chubby with whole wheat and sandwich meat.  She snorted, laughing at the fact that we were trying to have a conversation with our mouths full.  A dry chuffing sound as I laughed along, trying not to adorn the steering wheel with crumbs and spit. 

My toes tingled, curling almost involuntarily.  I eased my foot off the gas a few moments later, realizing that the speedometer had tipped well past ninety. 

“What was that you said?” I asked between bites.

She ate slower than I did, so I figured between her finishing her food and answering the question, I would have enough time for another bite or two.  She washed her food down with a drink from the bottle of tea she’d gotten out of the cooler. 

I snuck in a third bite.  Even if I didn’t finish it, usually I could get away with a hand or head gesture as a response, buying a little time before I elaborated with words.

“Did you put ranch on these?” she asked.

I nodded, swallowing a few moments later.  The dressing had a little bit of a tang to it.  I realized I hadn’t checked the expiration date.  

“We were out of mayo.”

“I used some the other day when I made the tuna,” she said.  “We still had at least half a jar left.”

I shrugged.  I was convinced that Rita knew where magic portals hid inside the fridge, leading to secret compartments for missing condiments.  Did mayonnaise even count as a condiment?  Probably, since they sold it in single-packets. 

“I wasn’t sure if it was still good.”

“Did the tuna taste weird?”

“It’s tuna,” I said.  “Of course it tasted weird.”

“No, I meant the mayo in the tuna.”

“I was talking about the ranch.”

“I didn’t put ranch in the tuna.”

“It’s been two weeks since we had it.”  I squinted.  “Or maybe it was three.  I don’t remember.”

“It tastes good though,” she said.  “I like it.”

“The tuna or the sandwich?”

“The sandwich.”

“Thanks,” I said, half-smiling.  “But I wouldn’t recommend putting ranch in tuna.”

“It might taste better that way.”  She dug a few napkins from out of the glovebox and handed me one.  “Want some tea?”

I dusted off the corners of my mouth, and glanced down to make sure I hadn’t left pulverized bread-bits in my lap.  My jeans weren’t totally spotless, but I wouldn’t need a vacuum cleaner. 

“Sure, why not.”

She passed me the bottle, and I only took three sips before handing it back.  Sometimes I don’t have much of an appetite.  I try to remember to eat enough to keep myself going.  I do my best, but sometimes I have to try harder than others.  Rita doesn’t badger me about it, but sometimes she reminds me to have a little extra.  She promises that having seconds—or even thirds—won’t kill me.

I handed back the bottle of tea and slouched, fingertips resting lightly on the wheel.  My dad likes to joke that I prefer a recliner rather than an actual seat, but he’s one to talk.  I’ve woken up from more than one road trip nap to find him driving with his eyes closed. 

One thing we do agree on is that driving is relaxing. Road trips run in the family.  It’s a good way to get your mind off things and think about everything at the same time. 

The rest of my family probably doesn’t think of it that way. I’m the only one who ended up with conflicting compulsions—the urge to travel and the total lack of energy to move my body.  Wanderlust complicated by chronic fatigue and intermittent agoraphobia makes for a great test of patience. 

“It’s okay if you need me to drive.”

Rita’s voice pulled me from my thoughts, and my eyes drifted to the mile-markers on the side of the road.  Eighty-eight to forty-six. Half an hour had passed, but I still felt fine. 

“You don’t have to push yourself, is all I’m saying.”

Her words were soft, gentle.  A small smile lifted the corner of my mouth.

“I know,” I said quietly.  “I get restless though if I’m just sitting, even if I’m tired.  I know it doesn’t make much sense, but—”

I shrugged, keeping my eyes on the road.  Sometimes the only way I could be honest was if I didn’t look her in the eye.  When you see how much someone cares about you, it makes it too easy to lie.  You don’t want to hurt them.  You want everything to be alright.  And sometimes, you pretend and fool yourself into believing that everything is fine.  Even when it’s not.

“Aren’t you sitting right now?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.

“It’s different.”  I shrugged again, not sure how to explain. “It’s—just enough.”

I could feel her looking at me.  I bit the inside of my cheek again, this time to keep from grinning too widely.  There’s something about the way she stares, amused and maybe a little exasperated, but knowing somehow.  Loving. 

By mile-marker twenty-five, I managed to glance over at her.  She was looking at her phone, but reached out to take my hand.  It felt like pure electricity when she gave my fingers a squeeze.

“Just enough,” she said, queuing up another episode of her podcast, “is all we need.”

She put in her headphones, and I searched for the sunset.