Her car. How Trudy loved her car! A nine-year-old Dodge Dart purchased from a high school friend who owned a body shop out on the highway north of town. Two-door, dark green with black vinyl seats and a horn that worked about half the time. She had saved her money for five years to buy it. It was not that she loved it as an object, especially. But she loved the feeling it gave her. False to be sure, but it gave her the feeling that she was the master of her own destiny.
Often, she would go for a drive after dinner, turn the radio on, and, if it was warm enough, crank the windows all the way down. She would open the giant ashtray, big as a dresser drawer, and push the lighter in. To Trudy’s amazement, the car had come equipped with a dash-top cigarette dispenser. It was a small black leather box with silver trim and a button on the front left. She could just hit it and a cigarette would pop up like a little soldier, filter end up. Amazing.
After the grocery store and their encounter with James and the cowboy, Trudy dropped Mercy off at home. She pulled into the driveway, put the car in park, and, with the engine running, reached across Mercy and opened the passenger door. “Out you go. Grandma’ll make you dinner.”
“Aren’t you coming, Trudy?”
“Nope. You go in, sweetie. I’m going for a drive.”
“What about the groceries?”
“I’ll bring them in later. You go. Out! Shoo! See you later.”
Trudy watched Mercy run to the side door and bang on it with both fists. The door opened, Claire leaned out and waved, and Mercy disappeared inside.
Trudy backed out of the laneway, eager to be away. She headed east, out of town, turned onto River Road, and followed what was left of the old highway along the river. The road dipped and curved. At certain points it came alarmingly close to the water, tilting the car on a sharp angle. As if the road wanted to tip you into the river. As if the river wanted to swallow you whole. No guardrails. Just the water, black and rippling on the right, almost level with the road.
And farms, apple orchards, houses, shacks on the left.
Coming around a sharp curve, past the Riverside Campground — which was more trailer park than campground — Trudy hit the brakes, almost colliding with a giant bulldozer inching its way across the road. She put the car in park and waited for the machine to cross. She looked over at the field on the left and was stumped by what she saw. What used to be a grassy pasture was covered with earth. Piles and piles, tons and tons of dark brown earth. Mountains. Trudy tried to guess what might be going on. It could, she supposed, have something to do with shipping. A new pier? Whatever it was going to be, it was ugly now. She put her foot down and pulled around the back of the bulldozer. Clouds had crowded over the sun and the sky was as grey as metal once again.
Trudy drove away, past the graveyard, up the hill to the parking lot at the Point. She pulled up to the chain-link fence facing the lock, shut off the engine, and lit a cigarette. Turned on the radio. “Big Yellow Taxi.” God, she hated Joni Mitchell. There was something so phony about her, so shamelessly girly. Too much feeling. It set Trudy’s teeth on edge. She turned the radio off and rolled the window down. The air was mild and damp. The breeze rippled through the grass on the hill leading down to the narrow channel of the lock. The deep groan of a ship’s horn sounded to the west. She could see the ship in the distance, rust-red and black. She got out of the car and leaned against the fence, forearms resting on top. The sun broke out of the clouds as the giant bow of the ship nosed into the channel. From where she stood, it looked as if there were only inches between the side of the ship and the cement wall of the lock.
The boat was as long as a football field. And tall. The men on deck looked like ants. Out of habit, she waved. They waved back. She had been doing this her whole life. She and Tammy had stood at this very fence as little girls, ice cream cones in hand, sticky ice cream dripping onto their fists, waving high above their heads, hoping the sailors would wave back. And they always did.
The ship inched along through the cement channel, passing Trudy by. The black lettering on the rusted hull said UNDAUNTED. Each letter as tall as a man. She watched the stern move slowly away, the water churning white behind it.