George LaTrell drove us back to our car and put the gas in it for us, and Granny smiled at him and called him “Mr. George LaTrell, our hero,” and the whole time I could not stop thinking about Vic’s Value.

Because behind the counter at Vic’s, there was a calendar hanging on the wall. The calendar said OCTOBER 1977 in swirly gold letters, and there was a picture of a tree covered in red leaves underneath the words. It was a very pretty tree.

But the important thing is that next to the calendar, there was a phone.

It was a green phone. It was mounted on the wall, and it was covered with greasy black fingerprints.

I should have asked Vic if I could use that phone. I felt like someone in a fairy tale who had wasted her one wish. I wished for fourteen bags of peanuts, but I should have wished to make a phone call.

And then I could have called Beverly Tapinski and asked her to come and get me.

Beverly Tapinski could figure out a way to come and get anybody.

Beverly, if you are reading this, you know it’s true.

There are the rescuers in this world and there are the rescued.

I have always fallen into the second category.

We were back on the road, and even though it was October, it was hot in the car. And it was made hotter still by the fact that I absolutely refused to speak to Granny.

“You can shun me, Louisiana,” she said. “You can turn your face away from me, but it does not change my abiding love for you.”

I stared out the window.

“Do not worry,” said Granny. “I am working toward our date with destiny, but I must tell you that I feel somewhat hobbled by my unwellness.”

She cleared her throat. She waited. But I did not ask what kind of unwell Granny was.

Instead, I continued to stare out the window. I ate my peanuts one by one. And I was glad that I had taken fourteen bags of them, because there were not very many peanuts in each bag.

I did not offer to share the peanuts with Granny, because I was not, in any way, feeling generous of spirit.

“Louisiana Elefante,” said Granny, “the day will come when you regret not speaking to me.”

I doubted it.

Somewhere past Wendora, Granny started to whimper.

And then the whimper became a moan.

Granny moaned so loudly that I forgot about not talking to her.

I said, “Granny, what is wrong?”

She said, “Oh, my tooth, my tooth. Oh, it is the curse of my father.”

Which did not make any sense at all.

Because the curse of Granny’s father is not a tooth curse. It is a curse of sundering.

But we will not speak of that now.

We slowed down. And then we went slower still. Granny moaned a great deal.

And then after a while, she pulled the car over to the side of the road and climbed into the back seat and lay down.

“Granny,” I said, “what are you doing?”

“I am working to regain my strength,” she said. “Do not worry, Louisiana.”

I am sure that I do not have to tell you that I did worry.

Also, it didn’t work. Granny did not regain her strength. She moaned louder. When I looked back at her, her cheeks were wet with sweat. Or maybe it was tears.

Although I have never in my life known Granny to cry.

“Tears are for the weak of heart, Louisiana, and it is our job to be strong in this world.” That was what Granny always said.

“What do you need, Granny?” I asked.

Instead of answering me, she howled.

“Granny!” I shouted. “You have to tell me what you need!”

Granny then said one word.

And that word was dentist.

It was not at all what I expected her to say.

My goodness! I had been torn from my home and from my friends. There was a curse upon my head. And I was on the side of the road in Georgia with a granny who was asking for a dentist.

What could I do?

Well, I will tell you what I did.

I sat there for a minute and thought about my options, and there weren’t many of them.

And that is how it came to pass that I — Louisiana Elefante — slid behind the wheel of the car and cranked the engine and put the blinker on and pulled out onto the highway and went in search of a dentist.