Resurrection Mary
In freezing rain, a pickup slides to a stop where I stand ready. The wind comes horizontally, painting white ice on fields, roads, fenceposts. Dark spirits, sensing vulnerability on such a night, rush in chaotic flocks over the land, chattering and obscuring. Before the pickup window opens, I appear in full view, framed by the door and hazy in the wet glass, my smile cheery as a daisy in winter. Two young men sit in the front seat, blowing warmth into their hands. I chose these two when I saw the headlights up the highway. But I am surprised to see there is a another one, in the back, an old man. He thrusts his fists into his jacket and holds his eyes forward, like a child accused of cheating. I am unprepared for three.
The driver says Where’s your car? His name is Caleb.
I have no car, I reply. Usually it’s fine to walk here.
Jeffrey, the passenger, says, You must have walked a long way. Nothing around.
I look up the road, squinting, contemplating. The longer I hold this moment, the deeper I set the hook. But should I? I’ve attempted three only once, and failed. I look back and see Jeffrey study me--not my body but my face. The fear is heavy in his eyes and on his breath. It manifests as sadness, resignation, but beneath that he is terrified. Like black water rushing beneath pack ice. I have to try.
I say, Storm just came out of nowhere.
Well, says Caleb, do you need a ride?
I look at him and hold it. He is inscrutable, with the fierce face of an owl feeding chicks, delicately. I look at Jeffrey, whose eyes water in the cold, whose mouth is soft.
Would you mind? I ask.
Course not, Caleb says. Get in.
I turn to the rear door, but the old man doesn’t budge. Neither does he move his head but I hear him say, Leave three hours late, now you want to pick up stray women. This rate I’ll be dead before Wisconsin.
Jeffrey says, I can scooch over. And so he does, straddling the drive shaft lump. The truck is just as cold inside. The hole for a radio is stuffed with rags. The cab must reek with the odors of mildew, petroleum, and men. But I am spared of this sense.
I arrange myself on the seat, taking half a man’s width, and hold my hat in my lap. Jeffrey excuses himself, reaches across me, pulls the truck door shut.
All set? Caleb asks.
The old man strikes the back of the seat and says, For Christ’s sake, drive! We want to make Montaner by morning--it ain’t gonna happen pickin up whores roadside.
Caleb works the shifter until the truck catches a gear. The tires spin and the tail drifts out as we take to the road. He looks at me around Jeffrey’s solemn profile. Here comes the unavoidable question.
Where you heading?
I wince. How many times have these three words spilled out on a highway in America? A tryptic of words that bear all the images of possibility, promise, tragedy. For ten generations, the phrase endures without improvement, a tired formula that signifies for so many a pivot in their course, whose simple question marks the interminable movement and collision of people across this continent, helping and hurting, saving and killing, inspiring a thousand dreadful stories of a folklore drawn down by its coarseness, its banality, its weak chicory facsimile of the European masters. It’s a sorry phrase, but it’s our phrase, and I seek it every night.
Just to the cemetery, I say. And so we are off.
[End of excerpt]
This story is part of the collection Under the Moon in Illinois, which will be released soon in print, ebook, and audiobook. To learn more (and read the rest of this story), sign up for my newsletter. Just use the form at the bottom of this page. Thanks!
