The next day, yesterday, they'd made an early start and driven with just a few short stops all the way across Indiana and Illinois and on into Iowa. And all day long, as the vast continent opened up around them, Grace kept her silence.
Last night they'd stayed with a distant cousin of Liz Hammond who'd married a farmer and lived near Des Moines. The farm stood alone at the end of five straight miles of driveway, as if on its own brown planet, plowed in faultless furrows to every horizon.
They were quiet, religious folk - Baptists, Annie guessed - and as unlike Liz as she could imagine. The farmer said Liz had told them all about Pilgrim, but Annie could see he was still shocked by what he saw. He helped her feed and water the horse and then raked out and replaced as much of the wet, dung-soiled straw as he could from under Pilgrim's thrashing hooves.
They ate supper at a long wooden table with the couple's six children. They all had their father's blond hair and wide blue eyes and watched Annie and Grace with a kind of polite wonder. The food was plain and wholesome and there was only milk to drink, served creamy and still warm from the dairy in brimming glass jugs.
This morning, the wife had cooked them a breakfast of eggs, hash browns, and home-cured ham and just as they were leaving, with Grace already in the car, the farmer had handed something to Annie.
'We'd like you to have this,' he said.
It was an old book with a faded cloth cover. The man's wife was standing beside him and they watched as Annie opened it. It was The Pilgrim's Progress by John Bunyan. Annie could remember it being read to her at school when she was only seven or eight years old.
'It seemed appropriate,' the farmer said.
Annie swallowed and thanked him.
'We'll be praying for you all,' the woman said.
The book still lay on the front passenger seat. And every time Annie caught sight of it she thought about the woman's words.
Even though Annie had lived in this country for many years, such candid religious talk still jolted some deep-seated English reserve in her and made her feel uneasy. But what disturbed her more was that this total stranger had so clearly seen them all as needing her prayers. She'd seen them as victims. Not just Pilgrim and Grace - that was understandable -but Annie too. Nobody, nobody ever, had seen Annie Graves that way.
Now, below the lightning on the horizon, something caught her eye. It started as little more than a flickering speck and grew slowly as she watched it, assembling itself into the liquid shape of a truck. Soon, beyond it, she could see the towers of grain elevators then other, lower buildings, a town, sprouting up around them. A flurry of small brown birds erupted from the side of the road and were buffeted away on the wind. The truck was nearly up to them now and Annie watched the glinting chrome of its grille get larger and larger until it passed them in a blast of wind that made the car and trailer shudder. Grace stirred behind her.
'What was that?'
'Nothing. Just a truck.'
Annie saw her in the mirror, rubbing sleep from her eyes.
'There's a town coming up. We need gas. Are you hungry?'
'A little.'
The exit road traveled in a long loop around a white wooden church that stood on its own in a field of dead grass. In front of it a small boy with a bicycle watched them circle by and as they did, the church was suddenly engulfed in sunshine. Annie half expected to see a finger pointing down through the clouds.
There was a diner next to the gas station and after filling up they ate egg-salad sandwiches in silence, surrounded by men who wore baseball caps emblazoned with the names of farm products and who spoke in hushed tones of winter wheat and the price of soybeans. For all Annie understood, they might as well have been speaking some foreign tongue. She went to pay the check then came back to the table to tell Grace she was going to the rest room and would meet her back at the car.
'Would you see if Pilgrim wants some water?' she said. Grace didn't answer.
'Grace? Did you hear me?'
Annie stood over her, aware suddenly that the farmers around them had stopped talking. The confrontation was deliberate but now she regretted the impulse to make it so public. Grace didn't look up.
She finished her Coke and the sound her glass made when she put it down punctuated the silence. 'Do it yourself,' she said.
The first time Grace had thought about killing herself was in the cab coming home that day from the prosthetist's. The socket of the false leg had dug into the underside of her thighbone, but she'd pretended it felt fine and had gone along with her father's determined cheerfulness while wondering which would be the best way to do it.
Two years ago a girl in eighth grade had thrown herself under a downtown express on the subway. No one seemed able to come up with a reason for it and like everyone else Grace had been shocked. But she had also been secretly impressed. What courage it must have taken, she thought, in that final, decisive moment. Grace remembered thinking she herself could never summon such courage and that even if she could, her muscles would somehow still refuse to make that last launching flex.
Now though, she saw it in an altogether different light and could contemplate the possibility, if not the particular method, with what amounted to dispassion. That her life was ruined was a simple fact, only reinforced by the way those around her sought so fervently to show it wasn't. She wished with all her heart that she had died that day with Judith and Gulliver in the snow. But as the weeks went by she realized - and it came to her almost as a disappointment - that maybe she wasn't the suicide type.
What held her back was the inability to see it only from her own point of view. It seemed so melodramatic, so extravagant, more the sort of extremist thing her mother might do. It didn't occur to Grace that perhaps it was the Maclean in her, those cursed lawyer genes, that made her so objectify the issue of her own demise. For blame had ever flowed but one way in this family. Everything was always Annie's fault.
Grace loved and resented her mother in almost equal measure and often for the same thing. For her certainty, for example, and for the way she was always so damn right. Above all for knowing Grace the way she did. Knowing how she would react to things, what her likes and dislikes were, what her opinion might be on any given subject. Maybe all mothers had such insight on their daughters and sometimes it was wonderful to be so understood. More often though, and especially of late, it felt like a monstrous invasion of her privacy.
For these, and a thousand less specific wrongs, Grace now took revenge. For at last, with this great silence, she seemed to have a weapon that worked. She could see the effect it was having on her mother and found it gratifying. Annie's acts of tyranny were normally executed without a hint of guilt or self-doubt. But now Grace sensed both. There seemed some tacit and exploitable acknowledgment that it was wrong to have forced Grace to join this escapade. Viewed from the backseat of the Lariat, her mother seemed like some gambler, staking life itself on one last desperate spin of the wheel.
They drove due west to the Missouri then swung north with the river snaking broad and brown to their left. At Sioux City they crossed into South Dakota and headed west again on Route 90 which would take them all the way to Montana. They passed through the northern Badlands and saw the sun go down over the Black Hills in a strip of blood-orange sky. They traveled without speaking and the brooding sorrow between them seemed to spawn and spread until it mingled with the million other sorrows that haunted this vast, unforgiving landscape.