In a movie I would have ditched Lester right there, snapped the locks, moved over into his seat, and torn out into the night, doing so for my own sake and for Augusta’s, saving us both, knowing right from wrong, solving the riddle of our own situation with a single, swift act, turning the tables, finding a foothold on a newfound sense of goodness; he’d be out there in some frozen field, amid the dead husks, taking a piss, when he’d hear the tires squeal, zipping himself up while making one of those funny staggers across the dirt, holding his fingers up into a frame and calling, Cut, cut, cut. In the car we’d give little hoot laughs, girl to girl, and Augusta would speak to me, her voice dry and tight in a Red Carpet tone, and she’d talk in a strange manner, like she was in an old play or something, and she’d say, We’ve torn ourselves free of the demonic, of the oracle that has given us the word, or something like that in a haunted voice, babbling on and on while I drove all the way to Oklahoma City. We’d get to the memorial in heavy snow. We’d get out of the car and there would be that fake movie night, that night that’s not really dark, or light. At least not dark enough to be real. There’d be fake snow on our shoulders, too, sticking to them, refusing to melt, while we went from chair to chair. One chair for each dead person. (I’d sit in one and say something along the lines of: My poor mom died in the blast, gone in a flash, got up one morning and headed for social services unaware that it was her last, and then Augusta, taking her turn, would talk about how her own sister had gone to the day-care center that morning, because her daughter was having problems with separation anxiety, problems parting, saying so long. With the snow coming down — still crying — we’d move from chair to chair, sitting in each one, leaving an impression in the snow on the dark stone. Then the camera would begin to rise above us, up and up, and you’d see the whole scene, chair, snow, girls, night light, the monument to the blast, the empty space, the shadows cast by the chairs, the road leading out, the buildings around it; up and up but always both of us visible, two girls who had somehow rescued themselves from a complete fuckup, from a demented Wind Country guy.) But, you know, the movie ending wouldn’t be that simple. Nothing ever is. You’d sit in the theater, scraping the last bits of popcorn from the bucket, knowing that Lester is still out there, probably up in that park, near that rock where the first Oklahoma oil well was sunk, the place that started the whole fucking mess, smoking a joint and racking his brain over where I might be. You’d be aware of this in the theater, as the camera kept moving skyward, and you’d feel a bit of the fear that I felt, then, in the car, knowing that he’d be lodged in your mind, waiting to pop up suddenly, to take advantage of the situation. You’d leave the theater with me in your mind, too, and with Augusta (but a better version of what she really was), and you’d carry me right back to your nice house in Tulsa. You’d drive into your garage, the door closing behind you, and go up the stairs into your warm kitchen for a glass of milk, maybe a cookie, and then to your warm bedroom, with the king-size bed; you’d take me under the covers with you, my eyes, my mouth, my long brown hair, and you’d lie with the blankets up around your chin, safe and sound, and see me inside your mind. I’d be giving you a huge smile, grinning a big, fat, shit-eating grin. Only later, waking to use the bathroom, would you remember Lester. You’d think of him out there, sneaking around, bottled up with a bunch of harebrained schemes, lifting Augusta’s breasts. You’d try to shake him out of your mind. But he’d lurk there. Lurking Lester. He’d bug you. Like a tick behind a dog’s ear. He’d bug you like the rattle of trucks on an overpass. He’d bug you like the squeal of bats in a cave. Then you’d know how I felt, in the car, when he came back across the headlights, tugging his fly, stopped for a second so that the light carved up under his chin and made his face hollow and skulllike, staring at me, staring hard, as if he knew what I was thinking, and then he slid in next to me, smelling like field mud. I said, What’re we gonna do? And he said, We’re gonna find a shopping mall, do some receipt hunting, find a way to make some money. Turning around to face Augusta, who had a long silvery strand of drool dripping from the side of her mouth, framing her with his fingers, he said, Then we’re going to make us that movie.