A lawn service truck passed going the other way, men in hats, a trailer of mowers. One of them glanced at the logo and then at the road. Recognition without curiosity. I used the next turn anyway, a street with no name I could remember, only potholes and a ditch with last week’s bottles in it.
“This is not my way.” Annoyed, not scared. Drivers are stupid every day.
“Shortcut. Maple is a thief.”
“Luis never comes this way.”
“Luis is not driving.”
Her eyes came up. Brown. Tired. Suddenly a person instead of a customer.
“Who are you?”
“Put the phone down.”
She laughed, unbelieving, and lifted it instead. I hit the brakes. The phone hopped into the cup holder beside Luis’s, two black maps kissing. I covered both screens with my palm. Perfume and bleach filled the van. The child latch held when she yanked the door. Her shoulder learned it before her mind did.
The van rocked. She yanked again. The handle made a cheap sound, plastic on plastic, a toy refusing to be a door. She hit the glass with the side of her fist. The fields did not care. A red barn leaned in the distance like a drunk.
She started to scream. I said her name because the clipboard had given it to me and names do a kind of violence all by themselves.
“Mira. Sit back.”
She went still. Still is not safe. Still is a held breath. I will remember those eyes longer than I will remember the rest of my life, which is a rotten kind of love if you need a word for it.
A pickup appeared at the far end of the side street, coming slow, dust lifting. I put the van in gear and rolled as if we were only a shuttle that had paused for a map. The pickup passed. A man in a cap. He lifted two fingers off the wheel. I lifted two fingers back. Country courtesy. The dust settled on the white shirt in the mirror.
Luis’s thermos rolled against my ankle. I faked a spill. I swore the way a clumsy man swears, loud enough to be ordinary. I pulled onto the shoulder like someone who had just ruined a dashboard and was embarrassed about it.