Page 39 of Hauling Ashe

When I return to the car, Mae holds her phone.

“Messaging all your friends to tell them what a fake your idol was?” I sneer.

Mae turns to me, horrified. “I would never do that to you.” Her shrill voice says it all. She wouldn’t. She’s not like that and in only two days, I know better. I know her, and I instantly regret what I’ve suggested.

“And if you must know, Mr. Assford, I was texting my son who found time to chat with me while I waited for you.”

Fuck. She’s… This isn’t on Mae. This is all me.

As she sets the GPS on her phone, I start the car, and we pull out onto Route 66. Within minutes it rains, and the weather feels fitting. The weight of the air outside the Prius is heavy and humid, but the temperature inside is cold and still. Mae and I don’t speak. I owe her an apology, but I don’t know what to say. She deserves to know more, but not yet. Not until I can settle my nerves and right my mood.

We detour to what’s called Ribbon Road, a thirteen-mile segment of the original road remaining in Oklahoma. I want to curse this trip and the history it continues to bring forth. I’m starting to think all these byways are scams and I just want to hit the highway and speed along, skipping every fucking mile of this memory lane. Damn the reminiscences of other people taking vacations and seeking destinations, as Mae calls it. What a fallacy.

Search within for inspiration. Be your own motivator.

Rochelle’s conference voice rings through my head and I hate myself for how I’m acting toward Mae. More honestly, I hate Rochelle.

Keeping my thoughts to myself, we rumble down the gravel-covered road as it ripples under the hard rainfall.

Mae eventually opens her mouth, holding it agape like a child, allowing the vibration of the vehicle to force a rumbling, bopping sound from her throat.

Ah-ah-ah-ah-ah.

Unable to help myself, I laugh without humor. Is she kidding me?

Mae turns to me, mouth still wide, while the repetitive sound reverberates out of her. As if having a will of its own, my mouth mimics hers, popping open, and allowing the jiggling of the car over bumpy road produce the strangest music with Mae.

Suddenly, I feel better than I have in a long, long time.

18

Playlist: “Drive” – The Cars

[Mae]

Rochelle Ashe was his wife.

As a powerhouse in the industry of self-motivators, especially for women, her books inspired many. It’s Your Life was about her struggle to be responsible for her own well-being. She proclaimed that she wanted to help others find their worth, as women, as mothers and wives, and business owners. I believed her. I drank all the Kool-Aid she passed out and I cheered on her success. I wanted the best for her and was even envious of the life she lived. Her world looked picture perfect.

Glancing over at Tucker, I realize I’ve had the same thoughts about him. He looks pulled together and packaged all pretty, but underneath that fine-lined skin and those silvery eyes is just a man, and I remind myself of that. He’s been hurt as I have, as many people in marriages have been, and he suffered a double whammy with her infidelity and then her death.

Did he love her? He’d told me last night about his son and how he gave up his dream to return home and marry Rochelle at his grandfather’s request. That’s a big ask and I wonder if Tucker’s grandfather appreciated the sacrifice his grandson had made.

Whether he loved Rochelle or not, he had another child with her, assuming Julia is biologically his, and he stuck out his marriage. Maybe sticking with it became easier if he loved her. He’s obviously upset by her affair and her untimely death, and rightfully so in both respects. I recognize the pain of finding out your spouse cheated, since it happened to me, but then to lose his wife as he lost Rochelle—it’s devastating.

Tucker’s sour mood continues as the rain dampens the spirit of our trip, and I let him be. I don’t know what to say. There’s no comfort to offer in this situation.

+ + +

One thing I do not want to miss in our travels is something called the Blue Whale of Catoosa.

We veer off the highway to find the structure built of pipe and concrete on private property. Parking near the attraction, I’m once again giddy to see something from the original route.

“Did you know this was an anniversary gift from the husband to his wife?” I toss out the question as we exit Louie, even though I know Tucker didn’t know about this gift.

The air is muggy and hot, and the pond where the whale structure perches gives off a pungent scent. “For their thirty-fourth wedding anniversary, he gave her this.” I wave out a hand at the open-mouthed sperm whale replica.

“Fool,” Tucker mutters but I’m not letting his mood ruin this moment.