August 1978
The headlights of Eleanor’s rusted blue station wagon cut through the heavy country darkness. Inside the car, with the windows rolled up, a Bee Gees song blared from the radio. “Stayin’ alive,” the guys sang. Ironic, thought Eleanor, since that was exactly why she was fleeing the city at such an early hour.
Clutching the steering wheel to keep her hands from shaking, she kept glancing up at the rearview mirror. She had to make sure that her sister didn’t fall too far behind. Lena was driving the Ford Pinto. Eleanor had no faith whatsoever that the Ford wouldn’t die in the middle of the highway, never to move again. There weren’t many cops around to worry about and yet Eleanor felt like there was a spotlight trained on her. It was only a matter of time before the sound of a siren would end the world as she knew it. She tried to summon up a plausible story to tell the officer—why she and her sister were speeding through farm country at three in the morning. She could hardly tell the truth.
Slowing the station wagon and then pulling off onto a deserted dirt path, Eleanor cut the lights and then the engine. She loathed the heat, the sweltering summer nights, alive, as they always were, with creepy crawling things. A quarter moon cast its dim light over the cornfields on either side of the road. Might as well be a Hitchcock movie, she muttered, slapping mosquitoes off her arms. She ducked down next to the rear bumper, motioning for Lena to pull the Pinto into a low, flat area directly next to the road.
“Why the hell didn’t you drive faster?” called Lena, bursting out of the front seat. She raked her dark blond hair away from her eyes as she rushed up the incline.
“Keep your voice down.”
“Why? If you were trying to find the dark side of the moon, you succeeded.”
As far as Eleanor was concerned, it was her sister’s monstrous stupidity that had landed them in this mess. A decent, honest, caring person would’ve had sympathy for the dead body on the floor of her garage back in Saint Paul, but at the moment, all Eleanor felt was a cold, heavy knot in the center of her stomach. “We have to get the license plates off.” She handed Lena a screwdriver and then crouched down behind the Pinto.
“You blame me, don’t you.”
This was hardly time for a debate. With a small flashlight clenched between her teeth, Eleanor set to work on the first screw.
“Judas H. freakin’ Priest. You think I wanted this? That I’m somehow … responsible?” When Eleanor didn’t reply, Lena said more forcefully, “Well?”
Rising from her crouch, Eleanor couldn’t believe that her sister had picked this moment to start an argument. “I’m not discussing it. Get to work.”
“I cried all the way here.”
“Boohoo.”
“You think I’m lying?”
As far as Eleanor could see, her sister didn’t look the least bit teary eyed, though Eleanor made no pretense of understanding her. “Look. You live on the edge and dare the cosmos to push you over. Well, now it has and you’ve dragged the entire family along with you.”
“It’s not my fault.”
“Is anything ever your fault?”
“Oh, piss off.”
“And watch your language.”
Lena threw her arms in the air and stomped around to the front of the car. She was back a few minutes later, plate in hand. “It’s off. What do I do with it?”
Eleanor was still working; sweat trickling down inside her blouse. The final screw was rusted and didn’t want to move. She’d almost given up when it finally came loose. It was times like this when she hated Steve. They’d only been married a few years when he’d been sent to Vietnam. He’d died there, his body never recovered. It wasn’t his fault, and yet, awful as it sounded, Eleanor did blame him for leaving her all alone. He wasn’t around to be a father to their child. He wasn’t around to earn a living, cut the grass, fix the toilet, lift whatever was too heavy, all the millions of things that now fell to her.
After removing the gas can from the back of the station wagon, Eleanor handed Lena the car keys and the license plates. “Drive the wagon back out on the road and wait for me.”
“I should do it.” She grabbed for the can.
“Just this once, Lena. Do what I ask.”
Eleanor waited until the wagon had backed up and was idling along the side of the road, then began to toss gasoline all over the interior of the Pinto. Taking one last look at the quiet cornfields, the immense, uncaring blanket of stars above her, she struck a match and tossed it to the floor under the steering wheel. It caught instantly, flames crawling across to the passenger’s side, then up and over to the backseat. She watched for a few seconds, mesmerized by the sight, then shook herself out of her reverie and ran for the wagon.
“Drive,” she said, fixing her eyes on the windshield and the darkness beyond, terrified that, like Lot’s wife, she’d turn to a pillar of salt if she dared look back.