"Memphis? Now?"
Shaking his head, he jumped into the backseat again and started frantically wiping his hand over the fogged-up rear window, making squeaky sounds as he tried to clear a spot.
"Rosie, you're crazy!"
"I'm serious, Thad. You've inspired me. I wanna go see my great aunt Rose's grave."
When he stopped, turned, and looked back at her, she was waiting.
"I mean it," she said. "We can have sex on it. She'd like that."
He stared at her for a long moment.
"Rosie, there's something I—"
"I love you," she said first, blowing him a kiss in the mirror.
Shaking his head again, he turned back to the rear window, only to shout out, "Rosie, move right! Hurry! Go anywhere—there's a truck—"
Behind them sounded a terrifically loud horn, a long, tugboat-like blast of the horn.
"Go! Go! Go!"
"Okay, don't shout!" she said.
She gunned the engine and ran the car up the shoulder, through thick, spraying gravel, all while hail peppered the hood and windshield. Turned around in the seat, he hung onto the headrest for dear life, as if his arms were around the neck of a horse on a runaway merry-go-round. Lurching hard to the right, she charged down a dirt road turned to slick mud by the rain, wipers whipping like mad, only to skid to a stop. As abruptly as she had taken off, they now sat still, clump of keys in the ignition rapping hard against the dash.
"How's that?" she said, looking over with a sloppy Avanti grin.
He reached over and yanked the keys out of the switch, putting the car dead in the road. With the keys safely inside his fist, he turned to his window and sat red-faced, a large vein roiling down his neck.
"Okay, don't get pissy," she said, turning and looking out her own window.
Through beads and streaks on the glass, she could see a white house with black shutters and bushy uncut grass, bobbing and blowing.
"Hey, listen," she said, looking over at him. "It's stopped."
As a matter of fact, the hail had stopped, as quickly as it started. Strange, down this side road, unlike out on the highway, the rain that resumed was almost gentle-sounding, pattering on the roof and trickling down the windows, as if they were out in the country somewhere, in the springtime.
"Oh, it's so peaceful here," she said.
She let her head fall against his shoulder.
"Thad," she said a second later, her voice flat, "I'm scared."
She looked over at him.
"No, actually I'm terrified. My mother's cut off my credit cards. I have no money—and I don't want to go whimpering back to her. But you're like—" She looked around the dash for an answer. "—I don't know, Jimmy Buffet meets Norman Bates or something."
He sat looking out at the rain, the even black stubble on his face like the deforestation of a thousand little trees.
"Rosie," he finally said, looking over, "you have to go home."
His words detonated in her ears.
"No, Thad," she said, her oval face filling with fright.
"Yes."
"No!"
She clambered up on her seat like a child, knees up to her chest, jeans stretched tight.
"I wanna go with you!"
He turned in his seat to her.
"Go with me? Go where, Rosie?" he said, his face sick-looking with strain. "Where am I going?"
She raised her hand to hit him.
"You're off drugs now, you bonehead! You can be a brilliant artist like you always wanted, painter, whatever." She threw up her hands. "We can go anywhere. Florida for starters!" She reached across his seat, clutching his shoulders. "We can get in-state tuition. We can use my cousin Laura's address in Boca Raton." She turned and shot her finger toward the backseat. "Or we can go back there and run that stupid diner we just passed. I'll be your business partner. You know how I am with people. Thad," she said, grabbing his arm, "we have chemistry. You know we do. Please."
She held onto his sleeve with all the desperation and passion her face could show. Then, slowly, she leaned away from him, the sincerity falling fast off her face.
"What," she said, "that's funny to you?"
"No," he said, grinning. "Yes."
"You know your problem?" she said, rearing back from him. "You should have stayed in Richmond and made babies with that fat lesbo. You don't belong in St. Claire." She laughed. "I don't belong in St. Claire."
She glanced over to see him resting his head against the window.
"What, you're sleeping!"
"No," he said, opening his eyes.
She put both hands on the wheel as if to drive them off a bridge, if the car had been running.
"I guess it's back to your beautiful, blonde ex-girlfriend now, isn't it?" she said. "No, wait—" She started to giggle. "We're past that, aren't we?"
"Jesus, Rosie. Just sleep it off, won't ya?"
"No!" She shot him an infuriated look, which collapsed into an inebriated one. "By the way, just so that you know, you're better off if just one person loves you."
Silence.
"And if you want my advice—" She looked over again. "—don't ever tell them what they want to hear."
His continued silence was as horrible as it was mean. She'd never forgive him for it. How could she have ever thought they were compatible? The fact that they couldn't talk now, the first time it really mattered, proved they were not right for each other. She needed a bubbly boy like herself, not old laconic Joe here. Go sandblast my ass, world.
"I won't fuck another guy as long as I live because of you."
"I know you won't," he said right back.
"So what if I've never been in a long-term—" She did a double take. "You do?"
"Yes," he said.
She saw a smile on his face that was kind enough for her.
"Oh, wow." She leaned across his seat and cupped his rough whiskered cheeks in her hands. "You do?"
She wanted to have sex with him on the spot and would have if she had been coordinated enough to set the wine cooler down to get her pants off.
"Oh, the writing's so on the wall for us, Thad." She flicked her eyebrows up and down like Groucho Marx. "Or should I say, in stone. Rosie Marie Vincent. Born, April 22, 1980. Died—never! Beloved Wife to Thaddeus Waye—Jesus, what's your middle name?"
He sat shaking his head.
She continued: "Daughter to disapproving father and manipulative mother. Sister to anal retentive bitch!" She smiled her cheesy, pockmarked face across the seat at him. "And mother to three adorable boys—Adrian, Adam, and Zachary."
"Zachary?"
"You can spell their names any way you want—wait," she said, throwing her hand up. "Change of plans." She looked over at him. "Gotta pee." She hiccupped, then laughed. "No, wait." She raised her hand again, now looking hit with indigestion. "Gotta throw up."
But she did neither, just sat there, her face glazed over. Then she reached down and picked up one of the hotel mints she had thrown on the floor earlier, unwrapped the green foil wrapper, and popped the tiny brick of chocolate into her mouth.
"I thought you said they were bitter," he said.
"I'm getting to like 'bitter'—Thad," she said, lunging across the seat at him, "I wanna go see my Aunt Rose's grave. Please."
He sat leaning away from her.
"I'm serious," she said. "You've inspired me. You can be my gallant guide, too." She nodded at her car keys in his hands. "You can drive." She looked up the stormy sky. "Plus, this is a definitely sign. I mean, hail? Please, how often does that happen?"
She flopped out her arm in midair, across an invisible surface, her elbow hyperextending.
"Give me keys."
Reluctantly, he handed over the keys, and she started to aim one for the switch, only to stop and slap the whole clump down on the dash. As unpredictable as he had been with her body last night, she turned and yanked up her tee-shirt, reached over, grabbed his hands, put them on her breasts, and leaned into him, wiggling her tongue into his mouth.
"First, I'm gonna give you the best blowjob of your life, boy," she said. Then she hiccupped, put her hand to her mouth, and murmured, "Better not."
She plopped back in her seat.
"Later," she said. "Whew, woozy."
As they sat there for another moment, rain trickled down the windows around them, creating a strange, seeping, crystal-like image.
"So," he said, finally looking over, "did God sandblast you a new face?"
"Nope, left me a dog."
She was surprised when he leaned across her seat to see for himself, first peering at her face, then touching her pointy chin, as if pushing a button.
"Recommendation," she droned, in a computer-like voice. "Jennifer Aniston chin implant. Cost: two grand." She tapped the leather-and-wood steering wheel of her 40k dollar car. "Totally affordable."
Then she turned to him and said in her talky, drunk voice, "You know, Glamour has a design-your-own-face website? Seriously. Just download a picture of yourself off your cell or whatever, switch your face around using their software stuff, and—voila! A new you in high-def!"
But he wasn't listening. As if playing with a talking doll, he poked her cheek next.
"Recommendation," she said, in the same funny voice, "Susan Anton cheekbones, with an epidermis to die for! Cost: four grand." She tapped her steering wheel again. "Still totally affordable."
All the while, she could see his wafer-like blue eyes peering at her from inches away, at her lips and nose, roaming all over her face. His eyes were the ones to die for—deep, high, with gorgeous pure-blue irises as large as pennies.
She held still as he rubbed her eyebrow, first in its natural direction, then against the lay, ruffling it up, only to then smooth it out. The whole time, her seawater-green eyes were eating him up.
"Eyebrows by Adobe Photoshop." She looked over at him. "Seriously, I could be disgustingly beautiful if I wanted."
"You are disgustingly beautiful."
She shot him a look as if he had just spoken in a demonic voice.
"You are pretty," he said, turning her head back and forth, his fingers gently holding her chin, "especially from certain angles."
She felt smug, all of a sudden.
"Yep, turn me two inches to the right, and you wanna fuck my brains out and cum on my face," she said. "Turn me two to the left, and you wanna kick me out of the bed."
"Stop," he said, half-smiling.
"Stop what? I'm not putting myself down."
"No, you're putting yourself up."
She spun around in her seat, her eyes wide with both curiosity and indignation. He sat back, dropped his hands into his lap, and gazed at her for a long moment.
"Okay, here's the thing with you, Rosie. You know you're the hottest, sexiest bitch on this planet." He nodded. "You know you are."
"Okay," she said, sitting up, a big grin spilling off her face, "you've got my attention. You definitely got my attention with that."
"You are pheromone 120 proof, and you want every cock you pass to stand up at attention."
"Oh my god!" she yelped out. "This is soo precious. Go on! Go on!"
When he started unzipping and zipping his fly, back and forth, making his jean zipper sing, she leaned away from him, her eyes jacked up all the wider, face lit up with an out-of-this-world look.
"Here comes Rosie," she heard him say, in the goofiest voice. "All penises north."
Her eyes popped out to their farthest. Her head jutted forward.
"Oh my god," she burst out, hand to her mouth, "you're so different suddenly."
She leaned over and peered into his eyes.
"That's the thing about my face. I can look really pretty from the right angle. Wanna see me look like Elizabeth Taylor?" she said.
He nodded.
"Thought you'd never ask—oh, wait," she said, hurrying to dig her wallet out of the console, then to pull a picture from it. "My Barbizon School modeling picture. For promotionals." She handed it to him and watched as he looked closely at it, even flipped it over. "I know, my name's not even on it. That's because we all got these courtesy pictures. There were only eight of us in my group. You know, the homely girls getting a makeover." She rolled her eyes. "The group to feel sorry for." She laughed about that.
"You model?" he asked, his head dipping down.
"I model?" she said. She made her little cross-eyed, ditzy look at herself. "No, I just tried out. I know, god, why's the girl such a fuck-up? Oh, did I tell you, I was in a cable commercial?"
He gave her a skeptical look.
"I was. Honest. Three of us from Barbizon singing 'Get your car from 444-Cheap Bucks Auto.' Don't wait—do it now!"
She burst out laughing. He was quick to shake his head.
"444-Auto, 444-Auto, where honesty is our motto," she started singing, in a voice that was completely ridiculous. "Come get your car today!"
The grin on his face was so curled up it gave him a jack-o-lantern look.
"Wait, I can do the whole jingle—'Get your car at Cheap Bucks Auto. No bait and trade. No payment ploys. No sticker shenanigans. No rate razzle-dazzle. Just fair play, every day!'"
By the time she finished, the strain in his grin made him look hideous.
"But right now," she said, taking a deep breath and plopping back in her seat, "I'd just like to disappear."
She glanced over to catch the look on his face.
"Not disappear-disappear," she said, making a nervous laugh. "You know, travel far away and not come back, for a long, long, LONG time!"
She expected him to understand. Anyone would. Everyone wants to disappear at some point. But he gave her another uncertain look.
"What?" she said. "You think I should—"
She wanted him to finish for her. That was the problem. She wanted anybody to finish for her.
"Well," he finally said, handing the picture back to her, "I can certainly see why we're together."
"Oh, thank you. Thank you for saying that," she said back automatically, her whole being immediately relaxing, surrendering to this simply stated truth, as if she had waited all her life for somebody to put it to her in just this way.
She leaned over and gave him a kiss, then fired up the car, shoved the gearshift ahead, and said, "Memphis?"
"Absolutely," he said, smiling.
The short stories of John Michael Cummings have appeared in North American Review, Alaska Quarterly Review, The Chattahoochee Review, The Kenyon Review, and The Iowa Review. He has fiction forthcoming this year in Natural Bridge. His short story "The Scratchboard Project," published in The Iowa Review, received an honorable mention in The Best American Short Stories 2007. His first novel, The Night I Freed John Brown, will be published by Philomel Books in May.