there any gas? “I don’t know.”
“Do you even know how to drive a truck?”
“Yes, of course I do.”
“Then why isn’t it going?”
“Molly. Give me a second, okay?”
Try it again, I told myself. I turned the key. The engine gurgled. I stayed on the gas. It complained and it groaned, but it finally came to life. Molly gave it a round of applause.
“I never rode in a truck before, Mommy.”
“Me either.”
“Then how do you know how to drive one?”
Oops, she’d caught me. “It’s not that different from a car.”
She pondered that.
“Don’t worry, Mollybear. We’re fine.”
She looked unconvinced but stopped chattering for a while.
The truck forged slowly through the snow, grumbling loudly. Time to shift, I told myself. Shift. Remember how? I found the clutch, pushed down, pulled the stick—and cringed at the piercing screams of grinding metal. The truck lurched to a halt. Oops, I thought. The gears.
“Mommy, what was that?” Molly cried.
“It’s fine.” We weren’t even off of Nick’s driveway, and I’d already stalled. There was a lever in the car—connected to the plow? I pulled it, and the plow lowered into plowing position. Amazing. Something actually was working. Molly kept talking, giving me advice on how to drive.
Start over, I told myself. Get the timing. Push down on the clutch. Now shift. Now accelerate. Now—slowly—release the clutch. Better. A bit of a jolt, but no screeches or stalls.
For endless minutes, the truck snorted and chugged. At first, Molly reacted to each bump. She asked questions about how the plow worked, about Nick. She criticized my driving, cited Angela’s expert advice, and updated me on the status of her teeth, showing that another one was loose. As we chortled around curves, through hills, along walls of silent pines, she eventually leaned back in her seat and dozed. For miles, I drove randomly, with no idea where we were or how to get to a main road. My eyes darted around, checking the rearview mirror as if someone might be following, knowing that no one was. Finally, the winding side road reached an intersection. Not a major artery, but big enough to merit a stop sign. I turned onto it, heading east toward the rising glow in the sky. Chester County was west of the city. So I was headed in the right direction. Soon the sun was higher; shadows evolved into shapes. And the road led to Route 30. A familiar number. I took it. Snow coated the pavement, and the truck felt clumsy, drove heavily, sluggish with the weight of the plow, but when we hit 202 I knew my way. Even with the snow, we could make town in under an hour. We were on our way home. Whatever awful memories awaited me there, they were mine, and I’d deal with them in my way, on my own. I would face Charlie’s empty house and the truth about what had happened there. And if I had my way, I’d never hear of Nick Stiles or Beverly Gardener again.
FIFTY-SIX
THE ROAD WAS SLICK WITH SLUSH AND ICE. I SPED THROUGH A frigid landscape of hilly suburbs and industrial parks onto the Schuylkill Expressway. Molly slept while Nick’s truck roared like a beast, too loud for me to hear my own mind. I floored the pedal, surging ahead, slowing down for no one.
Time hung suspended; distance was its only measure. Snowflakes swirled against the windshield, dissolving into droplets, getting wiped away. Wheels spun furiously under us while Molly and I sat motionless, waiting for the monotonous, interchangeable scenes out the window to pass, replaced by images of our destination. Of home. From now on, I’d rely on nobody, let no one too close. It would be just me and Molly. Molly and me. We were our whole family, didn’t need anyone else.
At last, the Vine Street Expressway. At Sixth, I turned off and plowed south, literally. Not much traffic, due to the snow. A few pedestrians, up to their knees. Arch, JFK, Market, Chestnut, Walnut. I pressed on steadily, unstoppably, toward our street, inch by inch, block by block.
Finally, we approached our street. Everything was quiet, coated with white. Construction vehicles, cars, and vans lay buried, lifeless under mounds of snow. Behind Mr. Woods’s snow-blocked window, Santa throbbed like a painful wound; in Victor’s upstairs window, the blinds were shut tight but oddly askew. Charlie’s house looked mournful, drooping yellow tape separating it from the street, snow hanging heavily on its roof. The street seemed off balance and bruised, but even