After some persistence, Lydia is able to get the RV up and running again. And this thing is carrying us twenty-one hundred miles? Okeydokey.
By the time we get to her house, we’re all tired, so we eat a light snack and go to bed.
The next morning we take our time over coffee, double-check that we’ve packed everything, and manage to get on the road just after lunch.
Lydia is driving. Millie is sitting in the passenger’s seat, studying the map of Maine that’s sprawled out on her lap.
With a glance at Millie’s printed map, I notice she has roads going north highlighted in blue, south roads highlighted in green, and west roads in orange. She’s so organized, and I’m, well, not.
“Could someone get me a pillow for my back?” Lydia asks.
Running the six feet to the “bedroom,” I grab a pillow. “Here you go.” She leans forward, and I stuff it between her and the seat back.
“Thanks, DeDe. Um, could you get me a bottled water from the fridge?” she asks. “Should have gotten one before I started driving. Sorry.”
“Oh, grab me one too, Dee, will you?” Millie calls out.
Something tells me I’m going to have the hardest job here. Okay, so I walk all of four steps to go from their chairs to the refrigerator, but still.
“We’re planning to travel four or five hours a day to allow for any problems and to give us time to relax, so this should be a pretty easy trip,” Millie says.
“Where will we end up today?” I ask, handing them both their bottled waters.
“Thanks.” Millie looks at her map. “We’ll be going a little ways through New Hampshire, then heading south into Massachusetts. From there we’ll hit New York State and finally stop around Albany, New York.”
“How far is that?” I ask.
“I’d say roughly two hundred fifty miles.”
“Oh, look at those sweet little high school boys,” Lydia says as a school bus comes alongside us. She smiles and waves.
“They’re hoodlums; don’t encourage them,” Millie grouses.
“Oh, for goodness’ sake, they’re a friendly high school football team. Probably just won a game or something,” Lydia says, still waving.
The bus finally passes and pulls in front of us. Lydia’s scream splits through the air, the RV wobbles, and I fall off my seat.
“Well, that is the most disgusting thing—pull alongside that bus right this minute, Lydia, and tell their coach,” Millie barks, her snapping fingers punctuating the statement.
By the time I pull myself off the floor and hobble up to the front, the objects of their distress are fading farther down the highway.
Still, I can’t help but giggle when I see the bare rumps of two high schoolers shining in all their glory from the back window of the bus.
“I can’t believe you’re laughing,” Millie says. “They’re mooning us!”
“Shame on them,” I say with an appropriate amount of reprimand in my voice. I try to stop laughing, but for the life of me, I can’t.
Millie snorts. “And you’re letting them get away, Lydia?”
“Waldo can’t keep up, Millie,” she says.
“Besides, if we stop them, it will take up too much time, and we’ll get behind in our trip,” I say, laughing harder.
“Yeah, and if we’re the last ones to arrive at Aspen Creek, we’ll be the butt of everyone’s jokes.” Now Lydia is laughing too, so hard I’m afraid she’s going to pop a rib.
Millie huffs—or is she trying to cover up a chuckle?—then cracks open another book. “I thought it would be fun if we brushed up on some trivia along the way about Rocky Mountain National Park, since we visited there so long ago.”
“Now there’s a thrill a minute. You’re forgetting that geography is not my forte? It’s linked right up there with the getting-lost-inthe- parking-garage thing.”
“That’s why I’m helping you. Once you learn geography, you might actually notice, oh, I don’t know, exit signs, road signs, tree scars, you know, the typical things that help you get where you need to go.” Millie flashes a smile.
I pop open my water bottle and pause to look at Millie. “Bottoms up,” I say with a grin before taking a drink.
She ignores me completely. Still, Lydia giggles, so I’m satisfied.
“Besides, it will be fun to see how much we remember from being in Colorado as teens,” Millie says.
“Oh dear,” Lydia says. “I’m doing good to remember things I did five minutes ago.”
Not one to be deterred, Millie sits up in her chair and clears her throat. “We’ll start with wildlife in Rocky Mountain National Park. What type of wildlife does one find in Rocky Mountain National Park?” she asks with all the eloquence of a game-show host.
Strains of the Jeopardy theme song swirl in my head, and for the life of me, I can’t help feeling that I need to slam my hand against a buzzer. “What is elk?” I say in my most intellectual voice.
“Very funny,” Millie says without smiling.
“Party pooper.”
“What else besides elk?”
Lydia jumps in. “Bighorn sheep.”
“Coyotes, beavers,” I say, feeling the spirit of competition. “Mountain lions, moose, great horned owls—”
“Okay, this is too easy. Let’s try something else,” Millie says, thumbing through the pages of her book. She just can’t stand it when I’m right.
“What’s the name of the colorful orange and red flowers one finds in the mountains? Sometimes they’re yellow too.”
Lydia’s arm shoots straight up. “Oh, oh, I know!” I half-expect her to say, “Mr. Kotter, Mr. Kotter!”
“Lydia?” Millie nods.
“Indian paintbrush.”
“Right!” Before Millie goes on, she looks up at the sign. “Oh, you have to exit here.”
I’m thankful for the reprieve. My brain can handle only so many questions. Okay, two’s pretty much my limit. But? I know my chocolates, so that should count for something. Speaking of which, I haven’t had any in a while. Reaching into my cloth bag of essentials, I pull out a mocha truffle. This creamy milk chocolate is heavenly. Though I admit I always pluck the coffee bean from the top. Too bitter for my taste.
Suddenly a low rumble sounds beneath my feet—coming from the RV’s underbelly.
I stuff the truffle into my mouth, all thoughts of savoring now gone. I admit it: I eat for comfort. I like comfort. It’s a good thing, unlike the noise that this bucket-of-tin-on-wheels is now making . . .
If I didn’t know better, I’d say somebody laced the RV’s oil with bean dip. It’s jerking like a wild bronco, and the smell that’s shooting out its back side—well, it ain’t healthy, that’s all.
The metal contraption sputters and spasms until Lydia exits the ramp and pulls into a combined convenience store and filling station. Maybe it’s emotionally distraught. Carrying around two menopausal women—hey, I’m still normal—could do that.
Millie looks at Lydia. “Everything okay?”
Lydia doesn’t look troubled in the least. “Everything is fine. Waldo just needs a fill-up. Gas goes through him a lot faster these days.”
“You’re saying Waldo can’t hold his gas?” I pipe up.
Lydia chuckles, and Millie laughs right out loud. Mark it on the calendar! It’s a rare event when Millie cuts loose—you know, like the appearance of the seventeen-year cicadas.
Lydia sets to work at the pump.
“I’ve never even driven a van,” I say, peeking over the driver’s seat and staring at the panel on the dashboard.
“These things aren’t all that hard to drive, really,” Millie says. “Why don’t you sit up here a minute and get a feel for it?”
“Really?”
“Sure.”
I climb into the driver’s seat. “Wow, this is so high up. Gives you that king-of-the-road feeling. You know, all-powerful and everything.”
Millie chuckles. “Much more than a convertible, that’s for sure.”
With my hands clamped on the large steering wheel, I turn it slightly back and forth. “I could get into this. It’s kind of fun.”
“You’ll have to tell Lydia you want to try it.”
Lydia pops her head in the door. “Hey, I’m going to go inside for a minute to get a bag of chips. You guys want anything?”
“No thanks,” we say.
“You want to drive next?” Lydia asks me.
Gulp. “I’m not sure I’m ready for that just yet.”
“You can try it out by moving straight ahead, away from the pumps, so other people can get their fuel.” Lydia motions to an empty spot.
“Really? You want me to try it?”
“Sure.” Lydia closes the door.
Starting the engine, I carefully edge forward. My queenly perch lifts me above the masses, and I sense this whole power thing could get the better of me. Okay, so I only moved forward a couple of feet, but still.
“You’re blocking those cars,” Millie graciously points out.
I turn to face Madame Librarian. “Well, if the drivers come back before Lydia, I’ll move. No use worrying about it now.”
Lydia steps up to the store’s door as if she hasn’t a care in the world. Just goes to prove you never can know what’s going on in the heart of another person. A man holds the door open for her.
“Now that’s just nice,” I say, pointing to the man, who is dressed in a crumpled white T-shirt, black jacket, tattered jeans, and dark, scuffed boots. Gray stubble shadows his chin. “Not much to look at, but nice.”
Millie turns to see what I’m talking about. “Yeah, you don’t see many men doing that nowadays. If you’re not a babe around twentysomething, the men don’t even notice.”
“Babe? Did you just say ‘babe’? In all the years I’ve known you, I’ve never heard you use that word.” You think you know a person.
“Hey, I’m hip,” she says, thereby proving she’s not.
We look back toward the guy holding the door open for Lydia. “That guy reminds me of Bruce when he lost all that weight before they found out he had diabetes,” Millie says. “He probably weighs all of, what, eighty pounds?”
“Um, I’d say he’d tip the scales at a hundred five, at least.” We both chuckle.
“Here he’s doing something nice, and we’re making fun of him,” Millie says, spoiling everything.
“Just like we used to make fun of the boys at camp when we were fifteen,” I reminisce. I pull out a magazine and read an article on the latest breakup in Hollywood. When I look up, Lydia is exiting the store.
“You know, a bowl of grapes sounds pretty good to me right about now,” Millie says, getting up from her chair and heading for the refrigerator. “You want some?”
“No thanks.”
Lydia walks toward a trash can at the side of the store, still in view. I notice a teenage boy walking behind her, a little too close to suit me. Lydia must sense it too. Just as she attempts to turn around, his hands reach out to grab her. Lydia struggles to break free and takes off running toward the open field at the side of the store.
“Millie, he’s after Lydia!” I scream.
“What?” Millie asks, semichoking on a grape.
A driver is waiting in a nearby car with its engine running. In case he’s in cahoots with that kid, I kick the RV into reverse so I can block him. Millie loses her balance and drops her bowl, sending grapes rolling all over.
The RV’s side is too close to the car, so getting out on the driver’s side is not an option. Springing into action, I scramble to the other door. “Come on, we’ve got to help Lydia!”
I shove the door open and run toward that teenager in full middle-age fury. He trips when he sees me coming and falls forward, hitting his forehead on the ground. “Lydia, run!” I scream. My legs and arms spread like those of a flying ninja, and I lunge at the criminal for all I’m worth. A Bruce Lee scream pierces the air. In one swoop I fall hard on the perpetrator, most likely taking years off his life.
Footsteps race toward us, and I turn just in time to see Millie take a high jump. I open my mouth to scream, but in one giant free fall, Millie’s derriere comes crashing down upon us, snuffing out my cries and pushing my spleen to the other side of my body.
The kid groans. I don’t have the strength. Lydia is nearby, her mouth hanging open in shock—whether from being grabbed or from the sight of Millie and me sprawled on top of this kid, I’m not sure.
Now, call me pessimistic, but something tells me this trip is just wrong.