THE LAST TIME BARBARAANNETTE had drunk this much had been in New Orleans more than ten years ago. That, too, had been a very bad time to overindulge. She’d been in a restaurant, she recalled, a seafood place on Lake Pontchartrain. Bunyons? Bronson’s? She couldn’t remember the name, but she did remember that she’d had four or five gin martinis, which was four or five more than she should’ve had, waiting for her soon-to-be-ex-boyfriend, Dave whatsisfaace—her memory was fuzzy with the drink, both then and now—to show up. She’d come to the restaurant to tell him to kiss off and go paddle his pirogue up some other woman’s bayou—something like that, she had her speech ready—mad as hell at him for several reasons including one named Catfish and another named Joleen, and she’d been a little bit scared of him, too, him being big and also a cop, which was why she’d scheduled the kiss-off for a busy night in a popular restaurant with good lighting in the parking lot.
This was how she’d felt then—giddy, bulletproof, and invisible. Like watching it happen on TV, putting off the future one martini at a time, having a good time despite what was to come. And what was to come? In Louisiana, when she’d finally gotten around to telling the guy it was over, there had been a scene in the restaurant which had become a scene in the well-lit parking lot, and then Dave punching her windshield so hard he broke it. Drunk as she’d been, she’d almost driven straight into the lake on the way back to her apartment.
Maybe the martinis had made it easier to deal with Dave, like the beers were making it easier now for her to sit chatting with this Phlox woman, touching on Bobby now and then but mostly just gabbing like old friends. But now, as then, the time came to talk turkey, drunk or not, and Barbaraannette said, her voice unnaturally loud after four beers, interrupting a story Phlox was telling about how hot the summers got in Tucson, “Let’s cut the cake here. Where’s Bobby?”
Phlox met her eyes, tapping a blue nail on the top of her beer can. She said, “Honey, I drove that man two thousand miles to bring him here to you. In good faith I brought him, and I want you to remember that.”
“I understand,” said Barbaraannette. She was getting an inkling.
“See, I think maybe what might happen is you might get some other party knocking on your door, and I want you to understand the situation. What happened was Bobby and me we were down the road gassing up the truck and I was inside trying to get hold of you on the phone—”
“I’ve been letting it ring,” said Barbaraannette.
“No shit, honey. So anyways, I look out the window and—” Phlox was interrupted by ringing. Both women looked at the phone. “You gonna get that?” Phlox asked.
Barbaraannette shook her head.
“Could be Bobby,” said Phlox. Before Barbaraannette could reply, she crossed the kitchen and picked up. “Bobby?” Her brow crinkled, lips pouted. She extended the phone to Barbaraannette. “It’s for you.”
Barbaraannette stood up, slightly miffed, said, “Well, I live here, don’t I?” She put the phone to her ear. “Hello?”
“Barbaraannette?” It was Mary Beth. “Who was that?”
“A friend of mine.” Barbaraannette spoke carefully, not wanting her sister to detect the alcohol in her voice.
“Who?”
“Her name is Phlox.”
“Fox? What kind of name is that?”
“Phlox.”
“Flocks? Well, never mind. Mother has disappeared again.”
Barbaraannette felt her innards begin to roll. She grabbed the edge of the table and sat down.
Mary Beth said, “They think she’s stolen another car.”
“Oh.” This had happened before. “What’s she driving this time?”
“She’s got Dr. Cohen’s sports car. He’s the one who called me. He was quite perturbed. We’ve got to get out and look for her.”
“Oh.” Barbaraannette was not prepared for this. She’d had too many beers to be driving all over the county searching out Hilde’s old haunts. There were a hundred places she could be, and that was just counting the places she might go to intentionally. Barbaraannette said, again, “Oh.”
“Are you all right?”
“I’m fine. Did you call Toagie?”
“I’m calling her right now. You get out and start on the old neighborhood and the park. I’ll send Toagie out to Klaussen Lake, see if she’s gone to the farm.” The farm, two hundred acres of rock-ridden land capped by a dilapidated stone farmhouse, had been purchased by Hilde’s second husband. Barbaraannette had not been there for several years, but it was quite possible that Hilde had made it her destination. Revisiting her past had become a theme with Hilde.
“Good. Where will you be?” Barbaraannette asked.
“I’ll cover downtown. The car she took is black. It’s a—just a moment—it’s a Porsche Carrera, whatever that is.”
“It looks like a squashed-down Volkswagen.”
“Oh. Well, Dr. Cohen thought it quite important. He kept repeating the kind of car it was. Porsche Carrera. But I don’t think there are too many black sports cars in Cold Rock. If you find her, call me on Jim’s cell phone. You have the number?”
“BUY PORK.”
“Good. Call me every half hour to check in. Let’s find her before she drives it up a tree.”
Barbaraannette hung up the phone. She wished she could throw up, undrink all those beers.
Phlox said, “Buy pork?”
“That’s Jim Hultman’s number. Mary Beth’s husband. He owns a feedlot.”
“Who’s…oh, never mind. I can see you got troubles, honey.”
Barbaraannette said, “My mother’s a car thief, and I’m a drunk.”
Phlox shrugged. “You could do worse, honey.”
“And I’ve got to go driving around now so my mother doesn’t climb a tree.”
“Now you’re not making sense, girl. You don’t want to be out driving drunk, and that’s for damn sure.”
“I’ve got to.”
“You got to be someplace you just sit back and let me do the driving.”
“You’re drunk, too.”
“Me?” Phlox laughed. “Honey, I’m just getting warmed up.” She stood and hoisted her bag onto her shoulder. “You coming? You better be, ‘cause I haven’t got a clue where we’re headed.”
Barbaraannette opened her mouth to object, then gave in to Phlox’s self-confident momentum.
Phlox said, on the way out the door, “So where is this tree, sweetie pie, and why the hell does your mother want to climb it?”
Hilde headed into the loop at sixty miles per hour. She could feel the tires, hear them squealing, the sound changing pitch as the rear tires broke loose. Her hands gripped the wheel; she eased back on the accelerator, keeping the slide under control, then punching it hard as she came up over the bridge, bringing the speed back up to sixty as she entered the next leaf of the clover, heading down now. The cloverleaf south of town was the only such interchange within fifty miles. It had been built in the 1960s during a period of high accident rates and low employment, despite the fact that the traffic volume in no way justified the multimillion-dollar project. Hilde remembered when it had been built, but she could not remember where it went.
On the other hand, what did it matter? She was having fun. She hadn’t had a lot of fun lately. This cloverleaf was better than the craziest carnival ride, and free! How many times had she gone around? Twenty ramps, or leaves, or whatever they were, at least.
Under the bridge, then up and around the next leaf. What’s this? A white car with red lights on the roof, chugging along, getting in her way. She leaned on her horn, swerved around it, inches to spare, catching a glimpse of a young man’s startled white face. She smiled at him and kept going.
Any moment now her destination would come to mind.
Mary Beth answered on the first ring.
“Any luck?” Barbaraannette asked, pressing the pay phone receiver against one ear, holding a hand over the other to block the sound of a pneumatic wrench hammering from the service station bay.
“No. I swear, Barbaraannette, teaching Hilde to drive was the dumbest thing you ever did.”
“I thought you said offering the reward for Bobby was the dumbest thing I did.”
“I was wrong.”
A few years back, before it became apparent that Hilde’s grip on time and space had begun to soften, Barbaraannette had dropped by Hilde’s house one afternoon to find a sporty-looking new car in the driveway. She’d wondered who was visiting her mother, but Hilde had been sitting alone on the front porch, absorbed in a thick booklet. This had surprised Barbaraannette, as her mother rarely read anything other than Vogue.
“What are you reading?” she’d asked.
In answer, Hilde had held up the booklet: Toyota Celica User’s Guide.
“Why are you reading that?”
“Well, I bought one is why.”
“You bought a car? That’s your car?”
“That’s right.”
“But you don’t drive!”
Hilde jabbed a forefinger at the booklet. “I’m learning, aren’t I? And it’s about time!”
After some discussion and a couple of family meetings Barbaraannette had volunteered, over Mary Beth’s objections, to act as Hilde’s instructor. There had been a few unsettling moments, but Hilde had learned quickly, and for the next four years she and her red Toyota had terrorized Cold Rock and amassed a notable collection of traffic citations. Barbaraannette had loved to see her mother running wild, though she’d had to conceal her pleasure from Mary Beth.
Barbaraannette said, “It wasn’t dumb, but I know what you mean.”
“We’ll probably find her in Rochester again. Or Fargo.” Those were two of the places Hilde had gotten to in her Toyota, both times lost and unable to remember her own address. The second time, after Barbaraannette had flown up to Fargo to drive her mother home, Hilde had been diagnosed with a chronic brain disorder that might or might not be Alzheimer’s disease. That had been Hilde’s last legal road trip. A few years later, after a series of nearly disastrous kitchen fires, the girls had been forced to sell the homestead and move Hilde to Crestview where the kitchens had smooth-top electric ranges, smoke detectors, and someone to check on her.
“As long as we find her,” Barbaraannette said. She hung up the phone. She walked back across the service station island to Phlox’s pickup and climbed inside.
A few seconds later, Phlox emerged from the office. “This is the place Bobby took off running,” she said as she slid in behind the wheel. “He hasn’t been back.” She started the truck. “The guy says that the guys Bobby was talking to were Rodney Gent and Hugh Hulke. You know them?”
“They were friends of Bobby’s. They were having some problems.”
“Those the dude ranch guys?”
“Bobby told you about that?” Barbaraannette pressed a hand to her forehead.
Phlox asked, “You feeling okay?”
Barbaraannette shook her head. Whatever small pleasures the alcohol had brought had now devolved into disorientation and fatigue. Blades of reflected sunlight cut at her; dust motes flashed like microscopic novae. A knot had begun to form behind her right eye. “I could use a bite to eat. And some aspirin.”
“You want to stop back at your house?”
“No.” Barbaraannette swallowed. Nausea, too. “Let’s keep on looking. Let’s try the Bingo Hall. She used to go there a lot…wait…” Barbaraannette cocked her head and leaned out the window. “Hear that?”
“What? The siren?”
“I think it’s coming from the highway.” She pointed south.
“Say no more.” Phlox spun out of the service station.