From the Road

Rose’s niece, Courtney, called from the road.

We’re at a convenience store on the outskirts of town. Wait, it’s a suburb. Prescott.

That’s 50 miles from here, Rose said. Not quite a suburb. But we’d love to see you.

Well, Courtney said.

Courtney and her boyfriend, Jason, were on the way to California when their car broke down. The garage in Prescott had to order a new part. The couple had run out of money. Courtney asked if she and Jason could “crash.”

Of course you can stay here. We have an extra bedroom, Rose said. But please let me lend you the money for the car part.

Oh, we don’t want to impose. If we could sleep in the basement for a few days? You wouldn’t know we were there.

Rose said, The spare room is more comfortable.

Rose was much amused. She hadn’t heard the word “crash” in years. She supposed Courtney must be twenty-four or twenty-five, a reader of travel sagas, a fan of Isabella Bird, Kerouc, and Paul Theroux, longing to explore back highways but disappointed by the sameness of the WalMart culture, by breakdowns at convenience stores. Rose had last seen Courtney at Courtney’s wedding, reading people’s palms for a joke and laughing at her husband’s card tricks.

Courtney crossed her eyes at the wedding photographer. The marriage only lasted a year.

Courtney drove Rose’s sister (Courtney’s mother), Mary, mad. Courtney refused to follow in the footsteps of her siblings: a lawyer, an MBA, and a gypsy scholar who taught basic geology ("Rocks for Jocks") at four colleges in Philadelphia (no health benefits). After graduating Phi Beta Kappa from an expensive college, Courtney turned down a fellowship in archaeology at a large state university. She had a sort of breakdown and worked as a clerk in an upscale boutique at a mall. She married a man she met at the mall, a salesman. Mary raved long-distance to Rose: She wears black and stands behind a counter folding scarves and hanging up rich women’s clothes for them! What is she doing? Does she do it to get back at me?

Courtney supplemented her income by casting horoscopes for a corporate astrology website.

It’s a lot of math, Courtney had said. Interpretations of the stars, fairy tales for wistful people. I try to be kind.

Rose and Ben drove to the convenience store to pick up Courtney and Jason. Courtney, reeking of Patchouli oil , sprang up to embrace her aunt. Jason, a somber young man with a shaved head, shook Ben’s hand. Both of them looked exhausted.

They ordered pizza and stayed up late and listened to the young people's stories. The couple had been traveling for a month, stopping in big cities across the country to meet with fellow members of an environmental group. They had planned some "actions" and written some press releases. Courtney intended to volunteer at a branch office based in L.A. She showed Rose a clipping about a guerilla theater event. The protesters had dressed up like trees and danced in the street or something...maybe they were nymphs...Rose couldn’t tell from the picture...Jason’s ambitions were simpler. His background was in advertising.

After they went to bed, Ben said, We don’t want lodgers, do we? They can’t move in here and work at minimum-wage jobs till they can pay for their car part.

It'll be nice to see them for a week or so, said Rose. But we have to give them a loan. I wish to God she’d go to graduate school. I don’t know what’ she’s doing. She’s a strange, sad, very sweet girl. And where did her money go? She’s always lived cheaply. She’s very responsible.

Well, a month on the road.

I’ll have to talk to her about graduate school. Thank God I’m just her aunt.

How did she get from archaeology to guerilla theater?

I don't know, Rose said.