Hitchers

(1907–2001)

PROLOGUE

Only thirty minutes separated my grandfather’s death from Lorena’s. I didn’t find out Grandpa was dead until the next day, but I knew he was dying, so it wasn’t exactly a surprise. I figured the selfish old bastard would live a few more months, at least. His lungs had seemed fine when we’d argued that morning.

About the time dear old Grandpa was dying I was pulling a dripping oar into a canoe on the Chattahoochee River, thinking it would be nice to drift with the current for a while. The morning had been one long relentless paddle upstream (metaphorically speaking) and I felt I deserved a break.

You don’t think she’ll get fired, do you? Lorena had asked drowsily as we drifted. I didn’t mean to get her in trouble, even though she was incredibly rude to me. She was still ruminating about the argument she’d had with our waitress at the Blue Boy Diner. I was ruminating about the argument I’d had with my grandfather that morning, which had far greater implications for our future.

What I didn’t know at the time was that we had no future. We had about twenty-five minutes.

I’d feel terrible if she got fired, Lorena added.

I doubt they’ll fire her, I said, not sure if that was true. The truth was, I thought Lorena had overreacted a little. If it had been my pancakes I would have let it go. But I’d never tell Lorena that now. What would be the point, except to make Lorena feel bad?

It had been one of those loud, public confrontations that made me cringe inside, even when it was taking place at someone else’s table, and as I said, I’d already had one extremely traumatic argument that day. Lorena had asked nicely for the waitress to take the pancakes back, and I distinctly remember her telling the waitress to hold the butter. Of course she had—she’s lactose intolerant. She always does.

When the pancakes arrived and Lorena pointed out the butter, the waitress suggested Lorena move it into the cup that held the little cream containers. She’d been frazzled, slightly huffy, her dark bangs pasted to her forehead by sweat. She was about our age—late twenties—and had long tattoos of assault rifles morphing into flowers trailing up each of her forearms. The tattoos suggested she was an easygoing neo-hippy sort of woman, but her eyes suggested much of that peace, love, and good times listening to Phish had been blunted by double-shifts at the Blue Boy.

Faces had lifted from grilled chicken sandwich platters to watch Lorena and the waitress go at it.

I said I’ll take it back.

I heard what you said. It’s the tone and the eye roll I didn’t appreciate.

The waitress had backpedaled from her huffiness as soon as Lorena reacted, but it was too late. Lorena looked like such a sweetheart that people sometimes made the mistake of thinking they could push her around, but Lorena was a sweetheart who would bite if poked.

Look at the bright side—we got our meal for free, I said.

Not that I could eat after that. My lunch is still in my throat, Lorena said.

I’d dropped a ten dollar tip on our table when Lorena wasn’t looking. Somehow I sensed that the waitress had been having a bad day, just like us.

The scenery unrolled along the Chattahoochee River, shifting from dense forest to cozy cabins to grassy hills. I can still see it. Dense clouds formed a low ceiling just above the treetops. Everything was crisp and clear.

Eyes closed, Lorena stretched languidly, her wrists bent, her Latin-with-a-touch-of-Asian face turned toward the sky. "This is so beautiful. We should do this more often, when we’re not feeling so depressed." She reached out and massaged my neck. I remember feeling that familiar jolt of pleasure and surprise that this incredible woman had married me. It was a sensation I’d felt almost hourly during the first few months of our marriage. In all of our wedding photos I look stunned.

Can I say something that’s sneaky and makes me seem like a bad person? Lorena asked, kneading the knots in my neck.

You? You’re incapable of sneaky. You’d bleed out your ears if you tried to be sneaky.

Oh, that’s a lovely image, Lorena laughed. "It would be sneaky, though."

We paused to admire a dilapidated shack leaning out over the river, clearly abandoned. On another day we might have paddled over to take a peek inside. We both had a weird fascination with abandoned places.

I turned in the canoe, sat with my hands between my knees. So what’s your sneaky idea? I had no way of knowing how profoundly her words would affect my life. Not her life, of course. Just mine.

Lorena waited a beat, as if deliberating on whether she should say it.

Do you think your grandfather set it up legally so you can’t continue the comic strip after he dies? Maybe he just told your grandma that’s the way he wanted it.

I don’t know. I could see him doing either. We passed out of thick woods into open fields; I noticed a line of black clouds dividing the sky. I pointed at them. We may get rained on.

Lorena looked up, shrugged. Oh, well. We’ll survive.

Grandma would never go against his wishes, I said. I was pretty sure my grandmother hated my grandfather, but they had faced the outside world as a grim, unassailable wall for sixty years, and I didn’t see that changing just because he was dead.

It was so hard to grasp that he was dying. This morning as he sat hooked to an IV bag, telling me in no uncertain terms that I would not be succeeding him as the artist of his comic strip, Toy Shop, he seemed ready to roll himself to the summit of Bear Mountain in the wheelchair he’d occupied for the past fifty years.

How much is he leaving her again? Lorena asked. She knew it was almost nothing. Grandpa had never made huge money, and he lost most of what he’d made bankrolling Toy Shop Village, my father’s lunatic idea for a themed amusement center (and, unbeknownst to me at that moment, soon to become my home). Grandma would get the house and some merchandising and royalty money, but after the strip was discontinued the merchandising would dry up. When was the last time anyone manufactured a Nancy and Sluggo t-shirt, or a Dick Tracy toy radio watch? When a strip dies (unless it’s an iconic strip that’s become part of the fabric of our culture. Like, oh, I don’t know . . . Peanuts?), people tend to forget it.

An icy rain began to fall. I looked at the clouds, heavy and dark, bunched like fists. Maybe you’re right, maybe she would be willing to cut a deal after he’s gone, I mused. She’s a child of the Depression, not one to put sentimentality above the practicalities of paying the bills. I considered for a moment, then shook my head. Nah. I couldn’t do it even if she was willing.

I feel slimy even bringing it up, Lorena said, shrugging.

There’s no harm in looking at all the options. Lorena had nothing to feel slimy about. She’d been nothing but kind to my grandfather in the face of his thinly veiled contempt. Grandpa was certain all Latinos would be cleaning ladies and lawn mowers if not for that affirmative action crap.

My phone rang. It was my mom (calling, I would learn much later, to tell me Grandpa was dead), but I stashed the phone in my pocket as the rain turned into a pelting downpour, soaking my thin t-shirt.

Lorena shrieked with delight and held a sweatshirt over her head. In a moment the sweatshirt was soaked and she tossed it aside. We grabbed our paddles and got moving.

We’re probably half an hour from the pickup area if we go hard, I said, shouting to be heard over the splashing. The rain formed a lovely dappled pattern on the surface of the water. I still remember that so vividly.

That’s okay. I love it, Lorena shouted back.

As I paddled I thought about Lorena’s suggestion. From Grandma’s perspective, it sucked that Grandpa was putting his pride of ownership in the strip ahead of her financial well-being. Maybe as time passed I would change my mind, especially if reviving the strip meant Grandma could live more comfortably.

The sound of the rain took on a hard edge. Laughing, Lorena grabbed a little red and white cooler that had held our lunch and tried to shield her head from hailstones. They thunked off the steel canoe, ricocheting madly. I hunched my shoulders and paddled, laughing too. The little chunks almost, but didn’t quite, hurt, like a too-vigorous massage.

This is so weird, Lorena shouted over the din. It was sunny two seconds ago!

A long, growling rumble erupted all around us.

I stopped laughing. We were in a metal canoe, on a river. Shit. I paddled harder. We need to get off the water. I looked at both banks: they were steep, but we could use the waist-high weeds to pull ourselves up.

A tremendous bolt of lightning tore across the sky, thick as a tree trunk. I turned toward shore.

What are you doing? Lorena asked.

We have to get off the water! I paddled like mad, splashing water everywhere.

Not over there, Lorena said, there could be snakes!

Not in the rain, I said, not sure if snakes took shelter from rain or not, but with no time to argue. Lorena was terrified of snakes—the word phobia didn’t begin to cover it.

I wasn’t making any progress. I glanced back: Lorena was paddling against me, away from shore.

What are you doing? We have to get off the water! I paddled harder, but got nowhere. I stopped, looked down the river for another place to get off, one that wasn’t as weedy, but there was nothing.

Another boom of thunder, like dynamite going off. I cringed, expecting to feel the jolt of a million volts rip through me. We were going to die if we didn’t get off the river, and we were moving away from the shore as Lorena continued to paddle. She said something about going further downstream. We might have time to do that, but it was stupid to take the chance.

Seeing no other option I stood up, gathered my balance, and jumped into the river, one hand outstretched to grab the canoe. I sunk chest deep before feeling the sandy bottom under my sneakers, the water warm compared to the hail and chill wind above.

I dragged the canoe toward shore, ignoring Lorena’s squeals and panicked paddling.

I pulled the nose of the canoe onto shore. Come on, I shouted, scrambling to the top of the bank to show her there was nothing to fear in the weeds. I waved her on frantically. She shrieked incoherently, shaking her head, still in the canoe.

"I’ll carry you," I offered. I clutched a tall jimson weed and stepped down the bank, seeking firm footing in the runny mess.

A blinding golden zigzag of lightning struck the far shore, accompanied by a deafening electric sizzle that sprang across the surface of the water.

Lorena jerked like a marionette as the water danced with a sideways current that looked like nothing so much as a thousand slithering snakes.

I don’t remember screaming. I imagine I did as I leapt down the bank and caught Lorena as she crumpled, expecting to feel the current race through me. Her head flopped sideways across my shoulder.

Her clothes were smoldering. The soles of her boots were gone. So were the soles of her feet. I was saying something over and over, but I couldn’t make out my own words as I laid her on the grass above the bank and pressed her chest. Air hissed between her lips like it was leaking from a flat tire. I shouted her name, told her she needed to wake up now, needed to breathe, needed to fight, as the hail pelted us and thunder cracked, farther away now, heedless of what it had done. In between my exhortations I shouted for help, shouted so hard it felt like someone was raking my throat and lungs.

When do you give up pushing on your true love’s chest, breathing into your true love’s lips, when you know that when you stop, her life is over? You push forever, or at least for what feels like forever as you watch her lifeless eyes, afraid to look at her ruined feet.

CHAPTER 1

TWO YEARS LATER.

My date looked bored. Her name was Lyndsay. Lyndsay had dark eyes that were a little too close together, long brown hair, and lovely, very prominent collar bones. She was a corporate person; my guess was she wore her hair up at work and didn’t take any shit. I’d met her on Match.com.

Lyndsay had immediately taken control of the conversation. Not in an obnoxious way, but in an alarmingly assertive way. She struck me as the sort of woman who went for the alpha male—the confident, square-jawed ex-jock who said bold things on first dates. I was not the alpha male, and Lyndsay was clearly becoming aware of this.

We’re, like, the only people here, Lyndsay said, scanning the desolate restaurant. There were actually two other tables occupied, but it was a big place, forty or fifty tables, a sea of empty white tablecloths.

Everyone’s rattled by the flu outbreak, I said. It had hit Atlanta very suddenly, and hard, and it wasn’t breaking out anywhere else. People were dying from it—even healthy people, and the medical community was worried as hell. People are lying low, waiting to see if it’s got an animal in the name—swine flu or bird flu. Maybe this time it’ll be duck flu.

She didn’t even toss me a perfunctory chuckle. I almost cancelled on you, but decided I needed to get out of my apartment. She propped her chin lightly on her knuckles. So, what do you do again?

I’m an illustrator. Illustrator sounded less juvenile than cartoonist. It had been in my profile, but evidently she hadn’t read the whole thing, or had forgotten.

What do you illustrate?

A surge of anticipatory pleasure rushed through me. Here was my chance to crumble Lyndsay’s snap judgment that I was a loser who wasn’t worth knowing.

I draw a newspaper comic strip.

In the brief time I’d been back in the dating world, I’d discovered that a lot of women were impressed by even the most marginal fame.

Lyndsay squinted. It was the first facial expression that crossed her face that seemed unplanned, and I couldn’t help but enjoy the moment. Really? Which one?

"Toy Shop."

Her mouth opened in surprise, then she smiled brightly, her eyes suddenly alive with interest. No kidding?

I smiled. The smile felt a little tight. It was a cheap way to prove you were someone worth knowing. No kidding.

Lyndsay sat up in her chair, flipped her hair back over one shoulder. She paused, looked up at the white ceiling tiles. Wait a minute. The hair slid off her shoulder and brushed the white tablecloth. "Hasn’t Toy Shop been around forever? Since, like, the fifties?"

I’d grown used to explaining this discrepancy, and had honed it down to two efficient sentences. My grandfather created the strip in 1957. He died in 2008, and I resurrected the strip in 2010. I didn’t mention that Grandpa hadn’t wanted me to carry on the strip, that I had convinced Grandma to let me resurrect it when Grandpa was only four months in the grave and she was struggling financially. I gave the strip a new look, though. I created Wolfie. And tripled the strip’s revenue, much to Grandma’s pleasure.

"That’s right, Wolfie is in Toy Shop! I have a Wolfie coffee mug." She looked at me expectantly, eyebrows raised, I guess to convey the kismet inherent in her owning a Wolfie mug.

That’s terrific, I said.

Lyndsay stirred her margarita, forming a little whirlpool. "So why didn’t you mention that you draw Toy Shop in your profile?"

I took a swig of Jack and Coke. "I guess I don’t want to take a lot of credit for Toy Shop, because I didn’t create it."

You create it new every day, Lyndsay said, her tone overly earnest.

I guess.

She patted my hand, gave me her best empathetic look. Sure you do.

It was an incredibly complex issue to me, one that a Sure you do didn’t begin to resolve. Well, thanks, I said, hoping that would close out this particular topic.

The strip was more successful than it had ever been, but somehow the better it did, the more I felt like a fraud. My success came by standing on the shoulders of someone I hadn’t even liked, who had expressly forbidden me from doing what I did. On his death bed. None of the ideas for a strip I’d tried on my own before taking over Toy Shop had generated the least bit of interest from the syndicates. I hadn’t even been able to land an agent until I acquired the rights to Toy Shop.

I pushed back in my chair. Excuse me. I’ll be right back.

I called my friend Annie from the bathroom.

Help.

That bad? Annie asked. Is she ugly? Her voice was raspy and drained.

You don’t sound good.

I have the flu. I feel awful.

Have you been to the doctor?

Duh. Have you been watching the news? Doctors’ offices are packed. So’s the emergency room. Half the city’s got it.

Yeah, I forgot. I’d been too nervous about my date to pay much attention to the news. All they were covering, even on the big national networks, was the flu outbreak. I was probably an idiot for being out.

I’ll let you get some rest. Why don’t I stop by after? I could surprise her with some soup from Stone Soup Kitchen.

It’s okay. What else am I going to do? Is she ugly?

A tall guy in cowboy boots came into the bathroom. He nodded a pointless greeting and bellied up to a urinal. No, I said, talking lower, she’s really good looking—better looking than her photo. She’s just...I don’t know. I felt self-conscious with the cowboy guy in the room. I also felt strangely emasculated—guys don’t stand around in bathrooms talking on the phone. Women probably don’t either.

The sound of urine on porcelain filled the small bathroom. She’s kind of slick. I just don’t get a good vibe. Cowboy guy stared at the wall.

Mm. It’s always best to trust your gut. Want me to do a phone call rescue? She coughed harshly. Sorry.

I considered as cowboy guy brushed past me without washing his hands. Usually I was the one rescuing Annie from bad dates by calling so she could pretend an emergency had come up, because there were far more men than women who were nightmare dates, and somehow the worst of them always found Annie. That was true of Annie’s life in general, really.

This wasn’t really a nightmare date, though. No, I’ll stick it out. Just needed some emotional support.

Big hug, Annie said. Call me as soon as you’re done. Hey, what if she offers to sleep with you?

She’s not going to.

She might.

She won’t.

But what if she does? You said she was good looking.

An image of Lyndsay unbuttoning her silk blouse flashed through my mind. I banished it.

Are you going to kiss her goodnight? Annie persisted.

No!

Then what are you going to do? Are you going to shake her hand? Her tone was teasing now.

An old guy pushed open the door, nodded curtly and squeezed past me.

I’ll talk to you later.

Call me as soon as you leave the restaurant.

I closed my phone, grateful for Annie. It was amazing how close Lorena’s death had drawn us. Before, she’d mostly been Lorena’s friend.

I needed to pee, but the old guy was standing pushed up to the urinal, clearly finding it difficult to get a flow going with me three feet away. It would be cruel, and awkward, to wait.

Lyndsay had brushed her hair and put on fresh lipstick. She opened her mouth, likely to say something clever she’d been rehearsing while I was in the bathroom, but I jumped in.

So tell me about the publishing business.

Lyndsay leaned back in her chair, draped her arms over the armrests. What I was going to say is more interesting. Her smile was brimming with promises that both scared me and made my head spin. It had been more than two years since I’d been with a woman.

Since I’d been with my wife.

I felt a dizzy sinking in my stomach, like I’d just dropped twenty floors in an elevator. This all felt wrong—wrong place, wrong time, wrong woman. I wanted to be home, in front of the TV watching Lost reruns and drinking decaffeinated Earl Grey tea.

I wasn’t sure how to respond to Lyndsay’s leading comment. The only appropriate response would be What were you going to say? Part of me was curious about what she was going to say, but most of me wanted to go home. Most of me felt like I was cheating on Lorena.

There was a cup of coffee in front of me, so I took a sip in lieu of a reply, and burned my mouth. It was a big sip, so I got caught in that moment where you have something hot in your mouth and you don’t know whether to spit it out, which would mean passing it back over the tender parts at the front of your mouth, or roll it around in the back of your mouth and tolerate the pain until it cools. I tolerated the pain until it cooled. It seemed to take a long time.

I guess I’ve left you speechless, Lyndsay said, raising an eyebrow.

I set my coffee down. I’m really sorry. I think I made a mistake. I thought I was ready to date, but I’m not. My tongue felt thick and cottony, maybe from the burn.

Lyndsay regarded me, then fished the strap of her purse from the back of her chair. If you’re not interested in me, just say so. She pulled two twenties from her purse and dropped them on the table. The least you could do is be honest if you’re going to waste my Friday night.

It’s not an excuse, it’s the truth, I insisted, although it was only partially true. I wasn’t ready to date, but I also was not interested in her.

Mm hm. She pulled on her coat.

I picked up her twenties, offered them back to her. I can get this.

She looked at my hand like I was offering her a dead rat. I’m not sure you’re ready.

I dropped the bills back on the table. Look, my wife died, okay? Even as I said it, I regretted it. I was using Lorena’s death to win an argument. I left that out of my profile as well. I’m sorry if I wasted your valuable time, but this is hard for me.

Lyndsay froze, her hand buried in her purse. I’m sorry. Your profile said you were divorced.

I know. I didn’t want her to be sorry; I resented her even knowing.

Lyndsay nodded understanding. Why don’t you go ahead? I’ll wait for the bill.

Relieved, I thanked her, pushed two twenties of my own into her hand and rushed for the exit.

The wind dug into me as I opened the door—a wind more appropriate for Detroit than Atlanta. I ducked my head, clamped a fist over my collar and trotted through a haze of snow flurries to my car.

I didn’t understand how Lyndsay could be the same woman who wrote the profile I’d responded to. Quirky, easygoing bookworm who loves organic gardening and wandering Little Five Points. I felt guilty about running out; it was clear from Lyndsay’s reaction that she had a good heart.