Songs of the Humpback Whale Read online

So you might say that I have betrayed you because I knew all these years that your marriage would not last. I did not tell you because you had no reason to believe me, until now. I also did not tell you the dream that I had over and over every night until the wedding. In it, I saw you and Oliver making love-a very difficult thing for a brother to envision his sister doing, I might add. Your legs were wrapped around Oliver’s lower back, and then suddenly you cracked down the middle like a Russian doll and split into two halves. Inside was another you, a smaller you. Oliver did not seem to notice. He was still thrusting when again you cracked down the middle, splitting to reveal an even smaller person. And so on and so on until you were so tiny that I could barely make out your face. I was terrified to see what would happen, and because of this, maybe, I always woke up. But the night before the wedding the dream continued all the way to the end, and as Oliver finally came, you cracked down the middle and split again and this time there was nothing inside at all; there was just Oliver, exposed.

  When I woke up the night before the wedding, I heard you screaming, and you continued to do that until the sun came up.

  You are going to be here sooner than you realize-another week at the most. Please wish Rebecca a happy birthday. Head north on Rte. 15 to Rte. 2, and take that east into Towner, North Dakota. It may take you a couple of days but it is a straight shot. There’s only one P.O. in Towner.

  God, I can’t wait to see you.

  Love,

  Joley

  29 JANE

  After Utah, Rebecca and I rip up a piece of paper Oliver used to track our miles per gallon and write the names of five states on the back: Nevada, Colorado, New Mexico, Wyoming and Idaho. We stuff these in one of Rebecca’s sneakers, and then I give her the honor of choosing our destination. And in Idaho, as I expect, Joley’s letters find us again, guiding us through the plains.

  We decide to sell the car in Poplar, Montana. Well, not sell it, really, but trade it in for a less expensive car and get some cash. I have credit cards by I am leery of using them; Oliver must be well on his way, and since the cards are in his name, American Express would gladly give him a record of the last purchases, their dates and locations. The last time I used a credit card was just at the border of California and Arizona, to get gas. And in truth we have stretched our several hundred dollars a third of the way across America, which deserves mention. Why couldn’t we have run out in Palm Springs of Aspen, a town steeped in an inflated economy and populated by the rich? Why Montana?

  “Poplar,” Rebecca says. She is in charge of reading the small brown road signs that line Route 2. The Missouri River runs on her side of the car, right alongside the highway. When we were bored earlier we tried to outrace it. She is sitting cross-legged, her hair flying wildly around her face. She hasn’t brushed it yet today-we had to sleep in the car last night since we had no money for a motel, and thank God it was warm enough. We put down the back seat and spread an old blanket across the rusty hinges. We used the spare tire as a pillow. It was nice, actually, the way we could see the stars. “I can’t see the place from here,” Rebecca says. “Maybe we’d better turn off.”

  We are looking for a town that seems well populated, which is a fifty-fifty toss-up this far north in Montana. We gave up trying to find a car dealership hours ago. Apparently, many gas stations double as dealerships in Montana.

  I’ve promised Rebecca she can pick the car. After all, her birthday is tomorrow and she didn’t even complain about sleeping in the back of the wagon. We had a long discussion about the most practical type of car and our dream cars (Mercedes for me, Miata for her) and the likelihood of finding any vehicle in Montana that will actually start.

  I pull off the exit and brake at the end of a dusty dirt road. There is no sign, no more road, nothing. I haven’t any idea which way to turn, so I look at Rebecca. “Looks like Poplar isn’t too pop’lar,” she says, and giggles.

  To my left is a heavily wooded area. To my right is a purple mountain. The only place to go would be straight ahead, which means crossing through a field of some sort that is laced with red wildflowers and yellow berries. “Hang on,” I warn Rebecca, and then shifting the station wagon into overdrive, I roll its thick tires over the weeds and tall grass.

  The grass is so tall that I cannot see out the windshield. I am afraid of running over a little kid, or a cow, or crashing into a combine. It is a little like driving through a car wash, where those wet cloths massage the surface of your car like a million lapping tongues, except here we are in a tunnel of soft silver brushes. We roll along, five miles per hour, with our fingers crossed.

  “This is wild,” Rebecca says. “we don’t have towns like this around San Diego.”

  “No,” I admit, not quite certain if that is for better or for worse.

  “I could get out,” she suggests. “I could scope for you. You know, tell you if you’re about to hit a woodchuck or something.”

  “I don’t want you leaving this car. Then there’s the chance I’ll hit you.”

  Rebecca sighs and resigns herself to slumping down in her seat again. She starts to French-braid her hair, an incredible feat to me, since she has no mirror for reference. She braids all the way to the bottom but she has lost her ponytail holder. Rummaging through the garbage trapped between the seats she comes up with a trash bag twist-tie, and improvises.

  Suddenly the field opens and I am inches away from a Coke machine. I slam my foot on the brake and send Rebecca crashing into the windshield. “Shit,” she says, rubbing her forehead. “What are you trying to do to me?” Then she looks out the windshield. “What is that doing here?”

  I back up several feet so that I can maneuver the car around the vending machine. As I break through the last row of reeds, the car rolls, free, onto the blacktop of a gas station. There is only one pump and a small concrete building, not large enough for service. However, at least ten cars are lined up in a row diagonally across from where we are parked, which leads me to believe they may be for sale. An old man with white hair braided down his back is leaning against the pump, doing a crossword puzzle. He looks at us but doesn’t seem surprised that we have driven out of a field. He says, “What’s a five letter word for ‘irritate’?”

  “Annoy.” I step out of the car.

  The man makes no effort to look at me. He fills in the word I’ve given him. “It fits. What can I do for you?”

  Rebecca gets out of the car and slams the passenger door. She stands back and surveys the station wagon and starts to laugh. It is wreathed with berries and black-eyed Susans, which have become tangled in the overhead rack and the antenna during the journey across the field. It looks as if the car has been at a 1960s commune. Rebecca begins to pull off the long, knotted stems of the plants.

  “To tell you the truth, we’re looking to get a new car,” I say. “Something a little flashier.”

  The man makes a strange noise through his nose, and then removes a handkerchief from his pocket and wipes it across his forehead. “Flashy,” he says, circling the car. He makes that noise again. “Won’t be hard to get flashier than this.”

  “It’s a very good car. Solid, and reliable, and there’s only thirty thousand miles on it. A cream puff.” I smile at him, but he is inspecting the tires.

  “If it’s so damn good, why are you looking to get rid of it?”

  I give Rebecca a look that tells her to keep quiet. “May I speak to you alone for a moment, Mr.-?”

  “Tall Neck. The name is Joseph Tall Neck.”

  Alibis and excuses race through my mind, but when I begin to speak I find that I am telling him the truth.

  “. . . So we left my husband in California, and we’re driving across America and quite honestly we need a car and we need cash, which brought us to you.”

  This man looks at me with his coal-colored eyes, and he doesn’t believe a word I’ve said. “Tell it to me straight, lady.”

  “Okay,” I say. “Okay. This is it: my daughter’s birthday is tomorrow. All her life she’s been taking these tap dancing lessons, and there’s an audition for a movie in L.A., and s