Part 31 (2/2)

Kate looks thoughtfully at Ina May. ”Well, lemme tell ya, it ain't that great out there.”

”Well, I'd like to see for myself.” Ina May lowers her voice. ”You wouldn't by any chance have a cigarette on you, would you?”

”Sure.” Kate hands her one, along with a matchbook.

After a furtive glance at the house, Ina May lights the cigarette. ”Ever been to New York?”

”No.”

”Well, that's where I'm gonna go. I wanna see the Rockettes and the Empire State Building and go to CBGB.”

Kate laughs. ”CBGB's.”

”Same difference. I've read all about it. It's famous. Everybody all dressed up. Great music.”

”I dunno. I remember hearing that it closed.”

Ina May's face looks stubborn. ”Well, there's lots of other places to see in New York City, although I don't know how I'm gonna get there. Mama never lets me go anywhere or do anything.”

”But you're an adult,” Kate says. ”You can go anywhere you want.”

”With what money?” Ina May sighs. ”No-my life is all mapped out. Get married, have kids, spend a lifetime, and then die in this town, before I ever really lived. An' all the men in this town are jerks. I mean all of 'em.”

”I hate to say it, but it's like that pretty much everywhere.”

Ina May looks surprised. ”Your husband seems real nice. Cute, too.”

Kate s.h.i.+fts in her seat. ”Yeah, that's true ...”

Just then Patricia pushes open the back door. ”Ina May? Could you help me in here? I want to move the couch in the dayroom so I can vacuum under it.”

Ina May discreetly stubs out her cigarette. ”Yes, Mama.” The back door swings shut.

Kate slips the rest of her pack of cigarettes into Ina May's ap.r.o.n pocket, and gives her a conspiratorial look. Ina May smiles gratefully. ”Have a good rest of your trip.”

”Thank you. And good luck.”

The back door opens again. ”C'mon, Ina May. Those dust bunnies ain't gettin' any smaller.” As Ina May pa.s.ses her mother, Patricia lovingly moves a strand of hair out of Ina May's face. A sweet, motherly gesture that's not lost on Kate.

F.M. steps outside, too, then he and Kate wave good-bye, get in the truck, and drive off.

Kate and F.M. have pulled into yet another motel parking lot.

”Oh, Christ, not another dump.” F.M. doesn't answer. ”I'm sick of this. Do you hear me? I'm bored. Here we are again, at another c.r.a.ppy motel. You'll go to your c.r.a.ppy room, I'll go to mine. I'll pace around the room, open up the c.r.a.ppy little soap in its c.r.a.ppy little wrapper, try to get comfortable on a c.r.a.ppy mattress, turn on the TV, switch the channels every three seconds, and wish to h.e.l.l I was someplace else.”

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