After we were all seated in our usual spots in Halton House’s white Chevy van––Conroy driving, Carol riding shotgun, Tabby and Anna on the middle bench, and us three boys sitting in the back––Conroy started the engine. Carol reminded everyone to buckle up, as she always did. If Conroy filled the role of father at Halton House, Carol filled that of mother. Sometimes she was over the top, harping on us to floss every night, giving us tips on how to brush our teeth, wash our hands for the duration of “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star,” wash our bedding at least twice a week, stuff like that.
Conroy wheeled out of the parking lot onto Threshold Drive. It was canopied by hardy oaks and lined by cozy-looking houses with cedar fences, garden gnomes, Bambis, and other lawn ornaments. It was the epitome of family, of stability. Things us three boys hadn’t had much of prior to arriving at Halton House.
Two minutes later, we turned onto Highway 10, classic rock playing on the radio. I picked up All the Pretty Horses, which I tried to read in the dim orange glow filtering in from the streetlights. Simon hadn’t removed his headphones. His head bobbed slightly to whatever dance music that he was listening to. Colby stared out the window at passing vehicles.
“Gross,” huffed Tabby. “All I can smell is your moldy army bag, Uncle Brad, and their B.O.” She unlatched and opened the small side window. Whistling air filled the interior.
“Bet you wouldn’t say that if we won the game,” said Colby quietly.
“And that would have made you smell like . . . roses?” said Tabby.
“Ah, post-game odor,” said Conroy. “You’re telling me you never dealt with funny smells during your swim meets?”
“Funny, not funky. Mostly chlorine,” she said.
“I’ll take B.O. over chlorine any day,” I said.
Colby sucked his teeth. “Man, I should be driving one of those Corvettes right now or maybe that Suburban right there, that black one.”
“We can start studying for your license next week,” said Carol cheerfully.
Colby gave a little laugh, and said, “Never needed one before.”
“And why are you here again?” I said.
“He’s a klepto,” said Anna, eyes glued to her iPhone. “Can’t go without stealing.”
“Getting caught up with some white-boy backstabbers is all,” said Colby. He turned to Anna. “And look who’s talking. High-society princess. No crown or prince, shoveling shit at the farm, mucking out chicken coups.”
“Kiss off,” she said. “You don’t know anything about me . . . you . . . thug! You and your fake gold chain.”
Colby lifted his hands like he was trying to ward off bad juju. “Oh, oh, big bad thug gonna huff and puff and blow your house down,” he said, half-laughing. “And my chain ain’t fake, like your fake-ass ring.”
Anna lifted her finger, which happened to be her middle. “This is an 18k gold puzzle ring given to me by my grandmother––FYI.”
Colby turned away, not bothering to look. “At least I ain’t listening to that crappy ’80s retro you always playing on your phone. And who got Duran Duran for a ringtone anyway?”
“Oh, let me guess, if it’s not singing about hoes, bling, and popo on the block, you’re not down with it. Is that it? You’re such a cliché. And it’s INXS––the ringtone.”
“Okay, guys. Cool it,” said Conroy. “We’ve had long day––up early, chores, long drive, big game.”
“You mean big defeat,” I said.
“Oh, even Mr. Happy’s got a losing attitude now,” said Colby.
“Better than a bad attitude,” said Tabby.
“I said cool it, guys,” said Conroy, his voice uncharacteristically high.
I went back to All the Pretty Horses, not because I really expected to read any of it, but because I didn’t want to be involved in the conversation any longer. It was the type that always seemed to have someone on the losing end. The dull thump from Simon’s headphones increased in volume, like he’d turned it up to drown out the conversation. I guessed we all had our own way to deal with things.
Right before I asked Carol to turn up the Rolling Stones’ tune on the radio––“Paint It Black”––she turned the volume down and asked us if we’d like to call Charlie, find out Hena’s status.
Everyone in the back gave a unanimous yes, except for Simon who was leaning back, eyes shut, as if he was drifting along to his music and couldn’t be bothered by anything.
With Hena on the verge of giving birth, we’d all discussed canceling the game that morning. But Conroy said Mr. Bobbitt would most likely lodge a complaint with City Council. Although Conroy didn’t say it, that would give more ammo for Mr. Bobbitt to use against Halton House, exactly what he wanted. We all knew that almost half of City Council had voted against allowing Mr. Conroy to open Halton House, citing all sorts of wild examples of issues that could possibly arise: a gambling den, a marijuana grow-op, and the craziest one––we might start capturing and ritually sacrificing neighborhood pets, like some kind of cult.
Carol twisted back in her seat, facing her cellphone toward us, which started to ring on speakerphone.
Ahead on the highway, something was going on. Yellow and orange lights flashed brightly.
“Everyone buckled up?” said Carol, still holding her ringing phone.
“Yes,” everyone groaned tiredly. We jostled around in the back of the van to get a clearer view of what was taking place up ahead, like a bunch of excitement junkies. Conroy slowed down as we approached the lighted road barriers and other smaller white road signs that barred the highway.
“Looks like a crime scene,” said Colby. “Maybe an accident, lots of twisted steel—don’t see any ambulances though.”
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” said Anna, scoffing.
“It’s municipality workers,” said Conroy.
A white municipality truck was parked in front of the signs, its hazard lights on. In the center of the highway stood a road worker wearing a white hardhat and an orange reflective safety vest. As we approached, he lifted a yellow road sign with the word STOP in large black letters. There was no oncoming traffic. A line of a dozen or so vehicles had formed behind us, with more adding to it every moment.
“Must be serious,” said Tabby.
Charlie’s voicemail picked up, and Carol held her cellphone near her mouth and said she wasn’t sure when we’d be home because the highway north of the city was shut down. She asked him to call us back when he got the message.
“Definitely a nasty accident, main highway shut down like this,” said Colby, jostling for a better view.
“You and your morbid infatuations,” said Anna.
“Who’s talking to you?” he fired back.
“Let’s find out what’s happened,” intervened Conroy.
We stopped before the road worker and barrier. Conroy put the van in park and lowered the window, night air instantly cooling the inside of the van. The orange lights made a whirling sound. Somewhere in the distance heavy machinery hummed and hydraulics whined and steel knocked and scrapped against rock. I made out some machines ahead on the highway, moving around, their lights flashing.
Everyone in the van went quiet, repositioning to get a better look. Carol shut the radio off as the heavyset road worker neared Conroy’s window. His hardhat was scuffed and plastered in stickers, like he’d been wearing it for years. The sign dangled by his thigh, and he carried a smoke in his other hand. He took a drag and tossed the butt before coming to the window.
Tabby scoffed, and said, “What a scuzzball.” She’d made her dislike for smokers and litterers well-known. Especially the latter after Colby had carelessly thrown out a Subway wrapper from the van’s window as we were on our way to a local farmers’ market a few days back.
“Sir, gonna have to ask you to turn around. The highway’s closed. Landslide hit about two hours ago,” said the road worker.
“What’s the time frame for it to be cleared?” said Conroy.
The road worker looked toward the machines, tilting his head back and forth, as if he was trying to get an idea.
“Uh, open tomorrow morning at the earliest. We’ll be here all night cleaning up.”
Sighs went through the van, bodies thudded back into their seats.
“Was anyone hurt?” said Carol.
“No, ma’am, but it lifted a house clean off its foundation though, carried it for a half a mile. Family wasn’t home, on vacation in Mexico, thankfully.”
“Must have been a good size,” said Conroy.
“Yup, usually are this time of year. A bad spring for landslides. More on record than ever. Two others in the last forty-eight hours,” he said, and looked back toward the city. There was a long line of vehicles behind us now. I figured he’d probably repeat what he’d just said a thousand more times tonight, like a voice recording on one of those automated services.
“If you’re heading north tonight, gonna need to take Highway 7 . . . or stay in town till morning. Our supervisor will be calling the local radio station every hour to give an update.”
“Thanks, you have a nice night and be safe,” said Conroy.
“I think Mother Nature’s done for the night,” he said.
Carol bobbed down in between the seats. “Oh, would you like a bottle of water? We have some in the cooler.”
“No thanks, ma’am, got my thermos in the truck. Sorry for the inconvenience. Hopefully you can make it to your destination,” he said, and stepped back and waved the sign for us to turn around.
Conroy wound the window up. He wheeled the van around on the highway and headed south, the lights from the city a glowing dome on the horizon. We passed the long line of vehicles, which already had to be a mile in length. Yup, the road worker would have to repeat himself at least a thousand more times tonight.
“Be a lot of peeved-off motorists,” said Conroy. “Okay, so, we got three options, guys. We take Highway 7, looking at three hours. Stay at a hotel in the city, nothing fancy. Or, take Windigo Road up around the backside of Mount Romni, make it home in an hour.”
Carol’s cellphone rang and she answered.
“I’m saying hotel,” said Colby. “No way am I sitting for three hours. And last time we drove Windigo Road, my fillings rattled out of my head.”
“You’re right. It is a rough ride, especially this time of year,” said Conroy. “Doubt they’ve been up there filling in spring potholes yet.”
“He’s right about the three hours,” said Anna. “It’s too long, especially with this company.”
“I third that,” said Tabby.
“I fourth that,” I said. “Three hours is too long.”
“Charlie’s on speakerphone,” said Carol, turning back, holding up her cellphone. “He’s got news.”
“Hello,” said Charlie. “Can everyone hear me?”
“Yes,” said everyone.
“Looks like Hena and her colt aren’t waiting any longer. Her water broke a half hour ago. She’s in labor.”
“We have a little problem, Charlie,” said Conroy. “Highway’s been shut down about ten miles north of the city. There’s been a landslide. Doesn’t look as though it’ll be clear until morning at the earliest. We haven’t decided whether or not we’re staying in the city or taking Windigo Road. How are you managing?”
“Hunky dory. Not my first rodeo. My son’s coming over to help anyhow. Be here any minute now.”
That was typical Charlie, always upbeat, always okay, a good ol’ boy that could be in the midst of the apocalypse, and would somehow find a way to be hunky dory.
“This sucks. We’ve been waiting forever, now we’re gonna miss it,” said Tabby.
“Okay, Charlie, can you keep your phone on and we’ll call back as soon as we figure this out?” said Conroy.
“Roger that,” said Charlie, and then hung up.
“Well, looks like we got two options then,” said Conroy. “Let’s see a show of hands.”
“Always voting for everything,” said Colby. “Just make the call––you know everyone wants to go home tonight. So just take the bone rattler.” Colby wasn’t big on the whole voting thing, thought it childish, and griped every single time.
“All right,” said Carol, “all in favor of staying in a hotel.”
Colby and Anna raised their hands. How ironic. The two personalities that clashed the most at Halton House were now voting together. Colby backhanded Simon’s shoulder. Simon slid his headphones down to his neck. “You want to stay in the city or take Windigo Road home?” said Colby.
“Windigo Road,” said Simon without a second hesitation.
“All in favor of Windigo Road?” said Carol.
Simon, Tabby, and I raised our hands. Team Windigo.
Colby sucked his teeth and shaking his head, looked out the window.
“And Windigo Road it is,” said Carol. “A healthy micro-democracy.”
“Those three always vote together,” said Colby. “Always the same.”
“Guess you’re on the wrong team,” I said.
“Guess you three suck,” said Colby.
Simon slid his headphones back on.
“I’m sick and tired of your big mouth,” I said. “Like a broken record playing the same annoying song, over and over and––”
“That’s enough,” said Conroy. “We’ll get home tonight, all get to see Hena’s colt. Maybe even come up with a name.”
“Gonna be another vote for that too?” said Colby sarcastically.
“You’re such a baby,” said Tabby.
It became silent then. Anna passed her iPhone to Tabby to show her something on the screen. Carol and Conroy talked quietly to each other. Everyone settled into their usual driving routines, in their own little worlds inside the little van, close to one another yet still so far apart. I took it all in for a minute, wondering if I was the only one who paid any attention to it, saw it the way I did. Maybe I was the only one who cared enough to ask those kinds of questions. Everyone else seemed content only when closed off from one another. Not to be mistaken, there were fleeting moments of unity, when we all worked together to complete a task, not on the basketball court so much but when we fed the chickens or the heifers or calves or bulls, or fixed sections of fence or even mucked out the barns. During those times, everyone seemed to enjoy one another’s company.
“How about we stop and pick up some snacks at the Shell,” said Carol.
A unanimous yes went through the back of the van. Even from Simon who was wearing his headphones. It was nice to see that we all came to common ground, on at least one thing.