A Song for the Road by Kathleen Basi (classic literature books txt) 📕

Miriam remained silent. They probably did think they’d kept it from her.

“Neither one of them were any good at all that warm fuzzy stuff, and it probably hurt them more than it hurt us. But it doesn’t mean they didn’t love us. Dad wanted to provide for us, and Mom … I think Mom worked so hard around the house because she didn’t know how else to show us how she felt. When they were having problems, I figure she was too scared to own up to the hard stuff. She figured she’d just do what she could.” He paused. “You’re a lot like her, you know, Mira.”

“Emotionally constipated?”

Brad uttered a short bark of laughter. “I’m just saying, cut yourself some slack.”

Miriam considered. Maybe Mom, too, had dreams she’d had to bury, hopes left unrealized, ghosts unresolved. Maybe she’d done the best she could with what she had.

Brad was right; she was like her mother. She, too, had been scared to face the hard parts in her marriage; she, too, had compensated by making sure dinner was on the table and everyone had everything they needed. She wasn’t perfect, but she’d done the best she could.

“As far as Jo,” Brad said now, “don’t worry about it. My theory is, thinking about you makes her feel guilty.”

“Jo? Guilty?”

“Sure. All this touchy-feely social justice Catholic stuff you and Teo were into—the food pantries and the refugee resettlement stuff—she can’t figure why you’d put so much energy into giving other people a leg up when you always had to make do with so little yourselves.”

“She sort of missed the point of all that Catholic schooling.” It was getting easier to talk, now that she could focus on something else.

Brad liked it better also. His chuckle was a little too high-pitched to hide his discomfort. “Actually, I think she got the point perfectly well. That’s why she feels guilty. But I don’t have room to talk. Look what I’m doing with my life.”

“Breast augmentations for A-listers?”

“Well, wannabe A-listers, anyway.” He laughed at his own expense, then sobered. “I hate it, you know.”

“Really?”

“It’s awful, Miriam. I mean, I’m good at it. And I like the way I live. I like my house, I like surfing, I like throwing big parties. I need the money to make all that possible. But I hate the work. I always admired you two. What you did … it was who you were. They were one and the same. There aren’t many of us who get to tie together our work and our identity. I always envied you that. I still wish I knew what I could do to make my life like that.”

The surge of affection for her brother surprised her. Growing up, Brad had never been all that supportive. Or even present. He’d left for college when she was in the fifth grade. Mostly, she remembered him teasing her.

“I had no idea you felt this way,” she said. “I’m sorry I never asked.”

“Oh well, our family never really talked about our problems, did we? Maybe we’d all be happier now if we’d learned to deal with things instead of sitting on them and letting them fester.” The line fell silent for a moment. Then he took a breath. “Look, I gotta go, but if Jo gives you any crap, just ignore her. You be you, Mira. And I’ll be happy knowing you’re happy. Or anyway, knowing you will be again.”

“Will I?”

“Oh yes,” he said quietly but with conviction. “You will. And you should let yourself be.”

 23

Monday, May 2

Near Des Moines, Iowa

MIRIAM KEPT THE RADIO on all the way into Iowa to discourage conversation and leave space to think. Her unexpectedly profound conversation with Brad had given her a lot to unpack.

Dicey took the hint, breaking Miriam’s reverie only to request occasional bathroom breaks. They both stared out the window, drinking in the sight of endless miles of fields. Something about the sight of green tractors sweeping up and down the black fields settled Miriam’s soul. Repetitive work, she thought. By all indications, boring—yet full of purpose.

They arrived at the High Trestle Trailhead late in the afternoon. It was in the middle of nowhere—not particularly near Des Moines or anything else except a water tower and two tall grain elevators.

As soon as the car stopped, Dicey headed for the trim red building that housed the restrooms. Miriam got out and stretched, breathing deep of the cool, clean air. One thing had become clear in the last five hours on the road: today needed to be about Teo. She might have forgotten her anniversary, but she hadn’t missed it. She knew what she wanted to do with this day. She wanted to play Teo’s guitar out on that bridge.

She headed for the restroom too, and when she returned, she didn’t see Dicey anywhere. She pulled the guitar out of the car and strapped it on her back. As she donned Talia’s beribboned hat, she heard Dicey speaking indistinctly. She turned. The young woman sat on a nearby bench, talking to her phone. At first, Miriam thought she was arguing with someone by video chat; she had a fierce, impassioned look on her face. But as Miriam approached, the words became clear. “… so that’s the first thing I want you to remember. My second would be, always listen to your grandma. She’s a pain in the neck, but she knows what she’s doing. And the third is this: you are brown, you are beautiful, you are strong. Go change the world for me, baby.”

Miriam halted. This was no conversation; Dicey was recording a message for her daughter.

She inched backward, but Dicey noticed her anyway. Her face wiped clean. “Hey,” she said. Her phone disappeared into her pocket.

“Sorry,” Miriam said. “I didn’t mean to disturb you.” She hesitated, wondering if she dared ask the purpose of that video. Dicey was by turns totally open and prickly as a porcupine.

Dicey gestured. “You’re