Page 18 of Hauling Ashe

“He loved niche-y hot dog places and we’d stop in one when I was with him as a kid. Don’t tell your grandmother, he’d warn but she always knew what we did.” Slowly, his face morphs from pleasant childhood memories to his typical stern expression.

“You were close with your grandfather?” I question.

“I was. He was the cornerstone of our family.” There’s so much more in that statement but he doesn’t expand so I let it slide. I could mention my own Granddad and how he was the glue of our family, especially after our father abandoned us, but I don’t.

“You mentioned a daughter, but do you have any other children?” I say instead.

His brows pinch again before he begins. “Jude, my son, is twenty-seven, and we typically don’t see eye to eye.” He pauses as he swirls his hot dog on a stick in the ketchup once again and his sudden quiet tells me there’s a story behind their battles. “My daughter Julia is twenty-four. She’s the one getting married, thus the need for a ride to California.”

At the mention of his daughter, Tucker’s entire face lights up. The gleam in those silvery-blue eyes is evidence Julia is everything to him.

“Yeah, about that. Why didn’t you just fly?” I chuckle as I ask. Jane hadn’t told me anything other than Tucker was averse to flying. Maybe he has a fear of heights but the edginess coming off Tucker doesn’t give the vibe he fears anything.

“I just don’t.”

If I thought mentioning granddads was an abrupt end to a conversation, the mention of flying slammed the door shut on speaking. Tucker clams up and the remainder of our meal is silent. Instead of savoring my greasy meat on a stick, I choke down the rest of my hot dog, willing away the prickle in my eyes. We had been one wiener on a skewer away from my passenger opening up to me, acting cordial even, but now, we are three bites back with no dessert in sight.

9

Playlist: “St. Louis Blues” - Louis Armstrong

[Tucker]

I am such a dick.

I’d cut off conversation again, when I was actually learning something about Mae. Although she’d proposed we share our life stories, suggesting we be friends, I’d dismissed the possibility. But after hours in the car with my off-key singer and curious sightseer, I am sensing there is more to Mae than I’d given her credit for and there is more I want to know about her.

When she mentioned her sons, she sounded sad; however, I hadn’t wanted to discuss Jude myself. The relationship with my oldest child is complicated and complex. He pulled away from me because of the lies he felt he’d been told, and he’d had a right to an extent. He hadn’t known the truth as a child. There wasn’t a need to expose him to it. Jude was an Ashford in more ways than one and he was also mine in all the ways that mattered.

I want to scream and rant and kick something because this trip is not only taking a painful amount of time, but it is as if I am traveling in reverse. We haven’t even left the state of Illinois and I’d already had two vivid memories of my grandfather—harmonicas and hot dogs. Collectively, a strange combination. Separately, they are powerful reminders of a relationship I once held dear and then dreaded.

Marshall Ashford’s father had been a powerhouse in the department store industry. His once catalogue-based company was equivalent to internet shopping before the internet was even a thought. Grandfather turned his father’s mail-order business into physical stores, separating departments by themes, specifically fashion and home furnishings. Ashford’s provided babywear to formal attire, and kitchenware to bedroom sets. Coming to an Ashford’s was an event, especially in an era when people dressed more formally for shopping excursions. We were a dynasty until the internet was born and a specific monopoly began selling quality items for less with direct delivery to a shopper’s front porch. Online purchasing was the death of my great grandfather’s dream.

“I’m guessing the world’s largest ketchup bottle is out, as you’re a self-respecting Chicagoan,” Mae says interrupting my thoughts. My laptop is open once more, but this day feels like a bust. I haven’t gotten a thing done other than my morning phone call to Mach and a few emails answered. Every time I’m back in a groove, Mae stops on this road trip from hell and my concentration is for shit.

“That would be a firm pass,” I mumble.

With the window still cracked, the fresh scent of her wafts through this fucking Prius along with some ripe country air. We should be to St. Louis in ninety minutes and the location brings on another wave of memories. I’ve traveled throughout most of the United States. Rochelle’s success took us to the four corners of this country and on some very exciting family vacations. However, I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been in St. Louis. The first time, I was in a certain bar near the river.

Slowly, I smile to myself recalling the blues sound and the night some unknown band allowed an even more unknown kid—harmonica in hand—to grace the stage with them.

You got talent, kid.

I’d heard it so many times before and I had enough cocky confidence to believe what I’d been told. Despite what my father thought. Despite what my grandfather said. I was going to make it and make it big.

My smile falters recalling the failure. Squinting out the window, I watch the scenery shift as we near the border of Illinois. Eventually, Mae detours once more and I read the sign for Old Chain of Rocks Bridge.

“Where are we going?” I ask, like a petulant child. At this rate, I’ll be lucky to make California by a Wednesday in the next month.

“We’re going to walk to Missouri.” She must be kidding me, but the giddy sound of her voice tells me she’s not exactly joking. She’s rolled with the punches I’ve dealt today, and I give her credit for not dumping my ass a few times along the way. “Last stop before St. Louis,” she states when she stops the car in a parking lot.

“Seriously, what are we doing here?”

“Seriously. We are walking to Missouri.” Mae exits the car and stretches her arms over her head, then twists at the waist. She can’t possibly be sore. We haven’t sat in this car long enough in my opinion. However, I don’t miss a peek of her lower back, all smooth skin with a distinct dip of her spine disappearing into her shorts. She has nice legs, I’ll give her that. I’ve had to fight the pull that drew my attention to them on the numerous stops we’ve made. I also notice her backside—well-rounded globes filling out her jean shorts—as she bends forward to touch her toes, and that’s my cue to get out of Louie. Popping open my door, I step out and narrow my eyes in the direction of a bridge that curves over the Mississippi River. People on bike and foot make the trek up the bridge.

“You can’t be serious,” I state a little louder.

“You can stay in the car,” she says, as she did back at the museum. That was only this morning and yet it feels like days ago.