The short, stout, white haired woman stood in the doorway of her kitchen surveying the white walls, the red and white curtains,
the counter tops, and then she turned in the door way and looked
over the dining room table, covered in a lace cloth, then walked over to a chair and took the handbag from the seat. She ran her gaze over the ruffled sheers at the windows, the china closet, the window seat - seeing all of them as if for the last time. She patted the table and traced the design of a rose with her finger, sighing.
The temperature was 103 degrees and it was one of the hottest days in the hottest month in weather history. Martha drove to the speedline train station to pick up her daughter, Maggie, who was going to escape that sweating terrarium of a city where she lived, and join her parents for a week's vacation on their land in West Virginia. As she pulled up to the staion, she saw a tall
woman wearing a heavy backpack emerge from the glass doors in the front of the white stucco building. She seemed pressed down
by the weight of both the pack and the heat, and she looked vaguely like a refugee.
"Well, well, look at you, Rose in bloom!" Martha boomed with a
bright smile aimed at her daughter, six months pregnant with her first child.
Maggie smiled, threw her back pack on the seat in the rear of the car and replied, "Hi Mom; God it is hellishly hot, isn't it? When the train went over the bridge, I looked out over the city and it looked like a shimmering desert. The mugginess was so thick that yellow smog hid the tops of the buildings. Is everyone at the house ready to go?" Maggie threw her back pack into the back seat, shut the door, and then opened the front and got in next to her mother.
"No. All the plans are changed. It will be just your father, you and me. Bruce and Nancy are staying home. Bruce wants to go to the seashore and Nancy has tickets for some rock concert.
Your other brother couldn't get his son for the week after all, so he is staying home with his girlfriend and her daughter."
Maggie looked out the open window at the drooping tree, brown grass, and the too white houses as they drove along, and she thought, "Thank God, maybe it won't be so bad after all." Turning away
from the hot blowing air and facing her mother, she said, "Have you got everything packed? Is Dad ready to go? Man, I hope it's cooler in the mountains."
Her mother was peering over the steering wheel, with her head tilted slightly to see over the bifocal part of her glasses, at the melting asphalt street, with the water mirage shimmer hanging over it, and she was driving very slowly and carefully.
"Oh, everything is under control, don't worry. There were so many errands to run, shopping for food for the kids, last minute cleaning - I like to leave the house in good shape, though, God know I don't find it that way when I come home - all that stuff had to be done, so I have a few things left to do, pack some clothes, but, that won't take long. You don't need more than a few clothes thrown into a bag for West Virginia. Your father and I feel like different people down there, relaxed and calm and peaceful. Your father is like a different man altogether.
Oh, Maggie, it is so beautiful that I just can't describe it. I can't wait for you to see it for yourself. I mean it! It really is my Shangri La. The beauty of the mountains, the nice people, the quiet - I hate to come home again; it is like paradise there."
They drove up a street lined with huge old suffering maple trees and then bumped up into the drive way of another white house, a large old and very well kept Colonial with a veranda and green
trim. Maggie pulled herself up and out of the car by holding onto the roof and the door jam. It was hard to move, between the pregnancy, the extra weight and the oppressive heat that pinned her down. She and her mother walked up a white concrete path, up the steps, and into the red and white kitchen. Fans were roaring everywhere and all the air they blew felt as if it
had come straight from the oven. Even so, the kitchen was even hotter - like being inside the oven itself. Before she could comment on it, another car pulled into the drive, and Jack, husband of Martha and father of Maggie, walked jauntily up the steps and into the kitchen.
"Well, hello there Maggie May; got everything all packed?" He almost sang the words in his excitement. "What about you Martha, all ready?" As Jack shot the questions at his wife and daughter, he dropped his briefcase onto a dining room chair and bustled around opening drawers and not listening to the answers. "What the hell are you cooking? Jesus Christ, it's like a furnace in here! What's for lunch? Should we eat now or on the road - stop for a picnic, maybe. Better get a quick lunch now, then make a pit stop at the half way point. I don't want to get caught in all that traffic on the Beltway. What do we have to eat, Martha?" Jack opened the refrigerator and pulled out a head of lettuce, a green cardboard tray of clear wrapped tomatoes, a couple of white paper wrapped packages of cold cuts, bread, mayonnaise, and turned to his daughter. "Get some paper towels and a knife, and get some sandwich bags, and some plates. Take this stuff into the dining room. It's too Goddamn hot in here."
"We can eat some of the meatloaf," Martha suggested, pulling open the oven door and letting out a blast of heat that felt as if it came from hell itself, only it was fragrant with the smell of cooking meat. Martha turned when she heard her daughter groan
and watched her leave the kitchen. She smiled and said, "Morning
sickness."
"Jesus Christ Almight, if your mother doesn't always have to get herself involved in some big complicated mess at the last minute. What in God's name do we need a meatloaf for when it is 103 degrees outside. Heats up the whole house. Why the hell can't we just have lunch meat with some lettuce, for Christ's sake?" Jack's face had turned a fiery red both from aggravation and the excessive heat in the small kitchen.
"Now, just calm down. I made some chicken for our picnic later when we stop at that place we like on the road. I made the meatloaf so I could leave half for the kids to eat." Martha pulled a huge aluminum foil clad roasting pan from the oven and peeled back the foil on the top. She poked it with a fork as her daughter walked over and looked over her shoulder.
"Jesus, Mom, you can't eat that; it's all raw. It won't be done for another couple of hours. It's huge. You're going to have to leave that baking till the kids come home or something." Maggie empathized with her father's annoyance. Why did her mother have to cook a meat loaf on a 103 degree day. Any when did she start the damn thing. Last minute, probably. Maggie
walked out of the kitchen to find a cooler spot in front of a fan, maybe in the parlor.
"Now, you mind your own business, too. It's just fine. I'll cut slices from it and fry them." Martha put out a huge platter
and cut half of the meatloaf and lifted it out of the pan. She
put the rest of the meatloaf back into the oven. Then, she threw a dish towel over the half of the meat loaf on the plate.
She was distracted with the things she still had to do.
"Let's get a move on! Goddamn it all Martha, you know I wanted to get past the Beltway before rush hour and there you are baking a meat loaf and now you want to fry it. Jesus Christ, we might as well stay home and leave tomorrow. Why in hell's name did you have to bake a meat loaf today, of all days. You never change. You knew I wanted to get early start and you sabotaged me." Jack had started with a hearty voice but it had risen to an enraged bellow, so he began to calm himself gradually and added, "Now, let's all calm down and have some lunch. Sit down, all of you. Mother, do you want salad with your lunch? Maggie, how about you; get some vitamins!" Jack put lettuce on 3 dishes
and sliced tomatoes on top while Martha walked around putting things in brown shopping bags.
"Jack, someday you'll have a stroke, carrying on like that. I told you I wanted a nice picnic for the road and I wanted to leave something for the kids to eat. What's the big rush all the time anyhow, to see how fast we can get there, all irritated and overwrought in all this heat? Just sit down, everybody, and eat, and stop carrying on all the time." Marth sat at the dining room table, and Maggie sat, looking at the salad and wondering if her father had washed the lettuce and tomatoes.
Jack flung the plastic bag of white bread onto the table.
"Dad, why don't you let me fix my own food. I don't want salad.
I'm going to make a sandwich." She looked suspiciously at the white bread, then shrugged slightly, scraped her salad off onto her father's dish and put two slices of the bread on her plate.
She added some cheese and some mustard and cut the sandwich in half.
Her father looked at the salad with an expression of outrage. "Those tomatoes and that lettuce came right out of my garden!"
"Saints preserve me from that man's temper," Martha sighed. "You get more and more like your mother every day, Jack. Between you and the kids; I get the feeling that I never do anything right, no matter how hard I try. Now, why can't we all try to eat and get on the road without any more aggravation. You can all take care of your business and I'll take care of mine. You try to do something nice for people and all you get is criticism. I don't know why I bother. After all these years, I should know better."
"That's right. After all these years, you should know better than to bake a Goddamn meatloaf on a 103 degree day a half hour before you're supposed to leave for vacation. Are the clothes all packed? I bet," Jack said, leaning conspiratorially over towards his daughter, "there all still in the dryer!"
Maggie looked pained and rose from the table to put away the lunch things as her father went to pack his redwood chairs on the top of the family stationwagon and her mother went to gather the clothes from the dryer. Her misgivings about the next five days began to turn to panic. How would she every manage to endure the bickering, the bugs, the lack of privacy or solitude.
This would be the first time in 20 years that Maggie had stayed
overnight with her parents - not since she had left home at 18, had she been under the same roof, and though she loved them, she felt weak and tired and in need of rest. It was too demanding.
Finally, several large trash bags and a few brown paper bags were added to the jam packed back of the stationwagon. The redwood chairs were firmly tied on top of the car. Martha climbed into the front of the car and possessed of a sudden gust of mirth, she cried out, "We look just like a bunch of Porta Rickan gypsies on the way to Coney Island!"
Jack just grunted and Maggie looked offended. The back of the wagon was loaded with coolers, suitcases, boxes and the last minute bags. In the middle seat, Maggie was wedged between her backpack, another cooler, and two big, warm, brown paper bags that smelled like chicken and meatloaf and bore spreading grease stains on them. Her father turned around and surveyed the contents of his car. "Are you o.k. back there?" He asked.
Her mother craned her head around and repeated the question.
"I'm fine and I'll feel a lot better when we get moving so the air gets blowing in back here, so let's get going." Maggie felt like crying. She was so hot she felt sick and she had to suppress her dread about the next five days and replace it with reasoning and determination to not only endure, but be pleasant about it.
A small silver car pulled up into the driveway behind them just as Jack had begun to back out. A tall, heavy, but quick moving blonde man jumped out of the car and ran over to the stationwagon calling hearily, "Looks like I got here just in time. Here," he called, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a wallet and some money, "get me a T-shirt for my collection. Wait a minute...." He dashed off into the house.
Jack smacked the steering wheel calling out, "Jesus Christ Almight, now what?!"
"God only know," replied his wife, sighing dramatically as her daughter wiped the perspiration from her face.
Maggie was feeling like a persecuted sinner in hell.
Bruce reappeared dragging a yellow dog. "Why don't you take Spike? He's a great dog, never had a vacation, and he can guard you. Besides, I'll be down the shore while you're gone and you know Nancy won't take care of him. He'll just tear the house
apart and mess all over. He howl and bark and the neighbors will complain. Down there in the mountains, he can run free and keep you company. It'll be better for everyone." He stuffed the dog into the car while everyone sat momentarily speechless
and he had the door shut again before anyone had found voice for protest.
"What if he gets carsick?" Maggie was trying to find a place for Spike to sit while he was trying to climb over her lap towards irresistable fragrances coming from the brown bags.
"No, no, Spike doesn't get car sick anymore. He got used to the car. He'll be great, just make sure you keep the window up half way so he can't jump out. I'll get his water bowl." And with that, Bruce was off again.
"I'll be a son of a bitch; now we have the Goddamn dog to contend with!" Jack, Martha, and Maggie all drooped, looking pained, and glaring at Spike who writhed this way and that, scattering strands of saliva in every direction, trying to make himself comfortable.
Bruce returned, pushed the water bowl through the half opened window and called loudly, "Have a great time" as he jumped into his little silver car and squealed out of the driveway.
Jacked backed his overloaded stationwagon down the drive and scraped bottom going over the curb onto the street.
The BREAKDOWN
For two long, hot hours riding down the highway, Maggie wrestled with the dog who was panting and dripping saliva all over her lap. His lips were drawn back over his teeth and great furrows marked his brow. He had, altogether, the look of a dog in acute discomfort. He was too hot to lie on the floor, and there was only room enough for him to sit squeezed between Maggie and the car door with the handle pressing into his ribs. His nose remained jammed through the opening of the window. Perspiration ran off Maggie and she felt as though she had never been so hot before. She suffered mutely as did the dog. Her mother twisted around from the front seat of the car to look at her and exclaimed, "My God, you're all red! Jack, put on the airconditioner. She looks terrible!"
"How's that? Any better?" Jacked was peering into the rear view mirror as his pushed buttons and turned dials on the dash. A slim wisp of vinyl scented cool air snaked its way over the front seat of the car into the back. The dog took a dive over Maggie's lap to suck it up and jammed his sharp paws into her stomach. She sighed and made her voice as cheeful as she could while she shoved the dog back over to his corner, "It's fine, thanks."
"Goddam it all Martha, we never should have brought that dog. It's just like Bruce to push him off on us like that at the last minute. All their lives they bring in stray animals and beg to keep them and then they run off and we get stuck with them. Two Goddamn dogs, and two Goddman cats, and two Goddamn kids still in the house! Jesus Christ almighty, where does it end!" Jack lit his cigar and the smoking drifted back to the baking middle seat.
"Now, that is much better," Martha said cheefily, "I feel like a new person already. Isn't it nice and cool now, Maggie? Do you want us to put the dog up front with us? Jack, let's put the dog up front so Maggie has more room."
"I'm o.k." Maggie replied, thinking, though, that she smelled
something strange mixed with the odor from the air conditioner and the cigar smoke. Hardly any of the air seemed to make it to the back and it must have been well over a hundred degrees in the car. The sun beat pitilessly down on the highway which shimmered. The grass was burned white. Maybe, Maggie thought, the burning smell was just the vinyl melting in the car, or the steaming meatloaf, or the heat from all their bodies.
"I'll be a son of a bitch!" Jack slapped the dashboard and
yelled as smoke suddenly poured out from around all the sides of the hood of the stationwagon. He pulled over to the side of the
road and they all got out and watched him lift the hood. He stood red in the face, staring into a cauldrom of boiling smoke.
"So, what is it?" Maggie asked. She and Martha were both nervous now. To be stranded on this flat, empty, baked stretchy of highway with no gas stations or phones in sight, non in remembered passing and with the unnatural heat, looked like a very bad situation.
Jack looked at each of them and said, "The radiator belt is gone. That isn't too bad. I'll have to see if I can walk to a station somewhere and get another one."
"Do you want me to go?" Maggie asked her father.
"Not in your condition, you might get heat sick or something. You stay here with your mother. Now, don't worry, I'll be back soon and everything will be all right. Just sit down and take it easy. Jack set off on foot as Martha and Maggie stood sinking into the melting asphalt of the shoulder of the road, watching his short, stocky figure diminish into the waves of heat
over the highway.
Maggie suggested, in a thin, stretched wire kind of voice, "It's too hot to sit in the car, let's sit in the shade of the bushes over that ditch. Look, Spike is already over there. Dogs know the best places to go to be cool." She unzipped her backpack and pulled out a book and she and her mother walked over to a shallow drainage ditch fringed with fried, stiff, yellow grass.
They sat, heavily, on the spikes of the dead grass, partly shaded by sunburned, scraggly bushes that had a rank odor. Martha, usually an undauntable optimist and unstoppable conversationalist, was so hot and dispirited, she almost found it too much of an effort to talk.
She managed, though."I hope your father is safe what with this awful heat." As though arguing, she added, "He's 60 now, you know and he had no hat on and with his high blood pressure....God forbid he should get heat stroke, or have a heart attack. This sun is a murderer. I'm worried. Maybe we should have waited for a car to come by, or a policeman."
Maggie dropped the book she had been trying to read in order to take her mind off their predicament. "Mom, we'd be waiting forever. Nothing has gone by yet and we've been sitting here.
It is odd - no traffic. You're right, though, I never thought of his not having a hat on. She envisioned her father's bright red face and thin pale hair under the scorching sun. "I should have gone instead of him, even if I am pregnant. At least I'm not 60 with high blood pressure."
"You know your father would never have let you go, so don't even think about that. And neither would I. It's just one of those things. It can't be helped."
"Well, I'm going to walk to the top of that rise near the off ramp and see if I can see Dad or a station or some building or something."
"No, don't you dare. You should stay right here in the shade, with me." Maggie's mother was visibly upset now, and she begame to blame herself for mentioning anything to her daughter. Nonetheless, Maggie was up and off, so she simply resigned herself to the situation and watched her daughter disappear into the same shimmering heat that had swallowed her husband. She sighed deeply.
Maggie walked very slowly under the great weight of the sun's heat, to the top of the rise where the ramp left the highway, but she saw nothing but a sea of burned grass stubble and wavering black feeder roads melting like licorice strips. She couldn't see her father, or any building, not even a billboard, or a farm, or anything but parched ground. There were not even any cars. She told her mother, when she returned, that Jack must have gotten a ride to a local town.
They sat on the bank of the ditch in silence. Maggie picked up her discarded book and pretended to read. Her mother just worried. Spike hugged the bottom of the dried ditch and panted. What felt like hours dragged miserably by. Ocassionally one or the other would remark on how long it had been, how hot it was, how worried they were, and then, reassured themselves by reminding each other of how Jack was tough, or that he had no doubt gotten a ride. Suddenly, Maggie was scratching a sting on her arm and saw a tick. She screamed a small curse and jumped up. "Ticks! Look at yourself!"
"Oh, my God, they are all over us! Look at my blouse," her mother cried out, jumping up. Even Spike jumped up, and Maggie saw ticks on his fur, too. They climbed out of the ditch onto the side of the road and checked each other's clothing, pulling off the ticks and throwing them away.
While they were engaged in this, and Maggie was admonishing herself over the risk to her baby from tick bite, a truck came up the highway, a red pick up. They didn't even notice in the alarm of the ticks. Maggie looked up and held her mother's hand, exclaiming, "Oh God, please let that be Dad." And it was.
He had returned triumphantly with a mechanic, and a belt. In no time things were fixed and they were back in the car and Jack was
exclaiming on his luck at getting picked up just off the ramp by a passing mechanic. He took him to the station and got the belt, and here they were all fixed and back on schedule.
The Picnic