4

“What takes you east?” Mitch’s voice in my ear yanks me out of my reverie.

“Sick father. Duty call.”

“How far east?”

“New Bedford, Massachusetts.”

“Far enough. Whaling capital, right?”

“That’s what the sign says.” I try not to shout, even though I can barely hear my own voice over the slip of the wind. I know that I can whisper over this mic and Mitch will hear me, but I still feel the temptation to shout. “What about you? What takes you on the road on a Wednesday?” Because I can’t see his face, I don’t register that this might be a rude question until it takes him a minute or two to answer. I’ve been embracing this stranger for the better part of an hour, the scent of his leather jacket so deep into my nose that I could pick it out of a crowd, the age-softened leather like chamois beneath my fingers. I don’t even know his last name and I’ve trusted him to take me across a state line. “How come you’re free?” Maybe my question isn’t about why he’s free on a weekday to ride his Harley, but why he’s free to help me pursue Artie.

“Felt like taking a day off.”

“What do you do?”

“Tap dancer.”

I don’t know whether to laugh or not, sort of like laughing at an off-color joke, but it was his joke, so I do. “Really? Tap dancer.”

“I wear a peg.”

“Okay. I believe you.” I’m willing to let him keep himself to himself. I get it.

“Actually, I’m a musician.” This makes sense, I can see him behind a guitar.

“In a band?”

“Symphony orchestra. Cleveland SO.”

This is one of those moments that makes me nervous. Is he still joking around, or could this rather large, unshaven, but not in a good way, Harley rider really be telling me the truth? I decide to let myself be strung along. “What do you play?”

“Violin. First chair.”

This is so specific that it sounds plausible. “You must have to practice a lot.”

“That’s what I’m taking the day off from. I’m skipping out on rehearsal. Being rebellious.”

“You look the part for that.”

“Thanks. I’ve cultivated the look.”

“A Harley-riding violinist. That’s a first for me.” Ahead of us, for the tenth time, is a semi that might be Artie’s. I tap Mitch on the shoulder and point. He speeds up, overtaking the truck easily. It’s not Artie. A skinny guy in a Raiders cap salutes from the driver’s seat.

“Here’s the thing—I’ve got to be back for tonight’s performance.”

If I had any hope that he’d be my knight until we caught up to Artie, this shatters it. We’ll go to Erie and he’ll turn around and go back, transform himself from shaggy Hell’s Angel into this longhair classical musician and forget about the woman he let ride on his bike, whispering over his microphone, urging him to catch up with the rat who stole her dog.

“So why take me to Erie?”

“Like I said, nothing better to do. Wanted to feel a little wind on my face.”

“Well, I appreciate it. Maybe Erie will be far enough.”

“Do you think he’ll stop so soon? It’s less than a hundred miles.”

One hundred miles doesn’t sound like a lot. Not after two days of making five or six or even seven hundred miles. Back in the day, when I was more of a rambler, I could do that much all by myself. But I’m out of practice. I’m not hopeful that Artie will stop at all, not without me beside him, reminding him that Mack needs to get out and stretch, or I need to pee. Besides, where he might stop is an open question. There’s no TA near Erie, no Interstate 90 rest stop anywhere near Erie. I want Mitch to just keep going all the way to Boston, but that’s not going to happen. I wonder if I have enough credit on my card to rent a car.

“Maybe you should just drop me at a car-rental place. There’s no telling where Artie might stop, or even if he will stop.”

“There’s a gas station popular with truckers just off the highway. We can check there first; then I’ll find you an Enterprise or an Avis.”

“Thank you, Mitch. I really do appreciate what you’ve done for me.” I fight the urge to rest my forehead against that soft leather jacket. I’m pretty sure I’ve maxed out my credit card. I have no idea what I’m going to do.

It is such a familiar place, this pennilessness, this hopelessness. I have been so often on the edge of out of control that it has a bizarre comfort to it.

*   *   *

Abruptly, the truck swings off the highway and into a rest stop. Artie jumps out of the cab, slamming the heavy door behind him. Alone again in the cab, Mack stands and shakes, stretching himself fore and aft, yawning. Relief starts his tail wagging. Justine will be here. In a minute, she’ll come and let him out, then give him what he is beginning to need desperately—water. Then dinner. Then she’ll climb up and let him sit on her lap, running his brushy tail through her fingers. She’ll apologize for being gone, whispering little words in his ears so that it tickles. He’ll give her a forgiving lick of his tongue. He’s not like some dogs, perpetually trying to lap a human’s face, but once in a while he’ll give her a quick reminder that she belongs to him.

As abruptly as he’d left the truck, Artie reappears, holding a bag of food, which he tosses onto the empty seat beside him. A rich amalgam of meat and cheese, grease, and salt filters out of the bag, making Mack, patiently waiting on the bunk, salivate. He whines, but the sound of the engine turning over veils the noise. He considers pressing his nose into the back of Artie’s neck, but the idea of touching this man is repellent to him and he sits down. Justine will be along, and she’d be plenty unhappy with him if he was to be caught begging like some common cur.

But Justine doesn’t come. Artie wheels the rig out of the parking lot and, stuffing a cheeseburger into his mouth, where it dangles like a kill in a cat’s jaws, strong-arms the truck back onto the highway.

The cell honks again. This time, Artie doesn’t even bother to shut it off. Eventually, the honking ceases and the cab is filled only with the sound of the radio voice and the undertone of the engine.

Mack curls up on the sleeping bag without further consideration of food. Sometimes it’s just best to sleep, to let hunger and thirst be forgotten. Suppressing his discomfort, Mack lets the sanctuary of sleep press him deeper into the folds of Justine’s sleeping bag, where he takes a deep breath of her scent. Maybe Justine will be there when he wakes up.