She was the guarantee that when men looked, they would only let their eyes pass over him on the way to her. If they heard later that somebody had been killed, they would not remember Varney as a solitary young man who looked capable of doing someone harm. They might not remember him clearly at all. He was just another family man on his way somewhere with his wife. She could do some of the driving later, after he got tired. He might even use her to go into motel offices to rent rooms, or into fast-food places to get food, so he could remain completely invisible.
The most important feeling Varney had was elation that he had broken out. He had been like a man in a hospital, his mind like a doctor delivering lectures to him every day that being there was the only thing he could do for the present, while the rest of him was screaming for release. That was over now. He had come away rested and sharp, with an envelope full of money, a clean, honest car, untraceable guns, a companion that he was confident would follow his orders. And somebody had hired him to do what he had always done better than anybody else.
He drove for three hours without stopping, without even having to slow the car for any reason except to keep from speeding. His car sliced between the gatherings of cars ahead, then occasionally edged to the left lane to pass the big box of a tractor-trailer rig and moved back into the right. Much of the time, the road was flat and straight as a surveyor could make it. When there were curves, they were gradual, made without haste, as a boat moves from one compass heading to another.
At the end of the three hours, Mae said, “I’d like to pee, if you can stop someplace,” and he realized that she must have set this time for herself in advance, waiting for a while and hoping he would spontaneously think of stopping, then telling herself she could wait, that she wouldn’t say anything until it got to be three hours.
“Okay,” he said. “Next exit.”
He pulled off the interstate and filled the car’s tank at a gas station while she went inside and got the key to the ladies’ room. He pulled the car away from the pump and parked, went to the men’s room, then came back and waited. When she came out, he saw her look at the gas pump, then whirl her head around more quickly toward him, an abrupt, unconsidered movement. He could tell that he had scared her. She had come out and seen that the car was no longer where she’d left it, and she had panicked, afraid he had stranded her. He felt a strong distaste. She was weak and stupid, like a child, somebody with all sorts of needs that he would have to take into account.
When she got to the car, she shocked him again. It was as though it had been normal. She wasn’t even embarrassed. “There you are,” she said with a smile. “I was afraid you’d gotten impatient and left me here. Want me to drive for a while?” He nodded, got into the passenger seat, and watched her closely while she drove out onto the entrance ramp and moved into the line of cars. He decided she was competent enough for this and began to relax. He leaned back in the seat and closed his eyes.
“Do you like to travel?”
He opened his eyes, astounded that she had not understood that he wasn’t interested in talking.
“I do,” she continued. “It’s one of my favorite things. I just love all of it. Being on the open road, packing, hotels. I never got much chance to do it.”
He controlled himself and asked the question. “Why is that?”
“Oh,” she said, and looked at him uncomfortably. “Just the way things worked out. My parents never seemed to think of it. I got married young, and my husband always said we’d do it, but there was never any money. He was just saying that, because he was like my parents: like a stone that just stays wherever it’s dropped, and doesn’t move an inch unless it’s kicked or something. As far as he would go was saying he would do it, which was more than my parents would do, I guess. They would just say it was stupid. He would lie to me so I wouldn’t try to convince him. If he said yes, but that there’s no money, then I couldn’t say anything, just wait until there was more money. There never was enough. Then that was over, and he was gone, but that meant I had even less money.” She shrugged. “I was doing hair and nails and makeovers, and people had to have regular appointments, so if I went away, then I knew that when I got back, they would have found somebody else. It never worked out.” He unhooked his seat belt, and she looked alarmed. “What are you doing?”
“Just watch the road,” he muttered. He was fast and flexible from his years of martial arts training, and he easily rolled over his seat into the back of the car. He looked over her shoulder at the windshield. “Keep heading north for a couple of hours while I get some sleep.” He lay on the back seat and closed his eyes.
“Okay.”
He could hear in her voice a quiet, sad resignation. She sounded as though she was being punished. He supposed that she must know he was back here to escape her meaningless, empty talk. He was aware that there was a range of feelings he could select from and she would accept. He could be sympathetic, curious, apologetic, or even angry. He knew that people felt those things and expected him to act as though he felt them too, and he knew how to do it: how his voice should be modulated, how his face should look. But he did not feel any of them. Sometimes he imitated emotions, practiced them as he practiced his other skills, because they were useful. Right now he didn’t need the practice, and he didn’t need to know anything she was saying, and didn’t need to manipulate her into doing anything. He closed his eyes and let the steady hum of the tires on the pavement below his head soothe him and put him to sleep.
He awoke a couple of hours later, and she was still driving steadily. She went a little bit slower than he had, but she was careful and methodical and had put them a good hundred and thirty miles on. He said, “How are you holding up?”
“Fine,” she answered. “Just fine. But I’m not sorry you woke up just now. I’d like to stop again, if you don’t mind.”
“No,” said Varney. “I’m hungry.”
They parked at a truck stop, went inside, and sat in a big booth with red vinyl seats and a Formica table. Varney ordered a hamburger, then took it out of the bun, cut it up, and ate it with the garnish of lettuce, tomato, and pickle. Mae asked, “Why do you do that? If you’re worried about gaining weight, the milk and meat both have fat in them.”
He said, “I eat what I need. I need protein for my muscles. Milk builds bones. Everybody needs plants.”
“Why did you ask me to come?”
He stopped chewing and looked up. Her eyes were in his, searching for something. He swallowed. “I like having you around. I thought you might want to get out.”
“Why don’t you like to talk to me?”
“I never said that.”
“You never said anything much,” she said. “We’ve been together for three months. You never even look at me, except at night, naked. And then you don’t talk.”
“I look at you other times,” he said. He put on a false expression of apologetic concern that he had once seen on a man trying to keep his wife from embarrassing him with a fight in public. “I’ve had a lot on my mind,” he said quietly. It occurred to him that it sounded right because the man had said exactly those words. He tried to remember what else the man had said, but couldn’t. “I’m not much of a talker,” he said. “I think about you a lot, though.” He considered saying he would talk more, but it would be like breaking a dam. She would spend the rest of the trip yapping in his ear like a little terrier, and he would have to dream up things to say in return, as though he wanted to keep her talking.