The drive from the incipient winter chill of Montréal southward toward the perpetual sun, warmth and anonymity of Miami was, we were careful to convince ourselves, not so much an escape from the unpleasant events of the recent past but, more, a way to ensure a fresh and brighter future for ourselves.
All through the day, the first of our journey, our spirits had been high. On my right, Siobhan was my navigator, commentator and radio dj as stations drifted in and out of range while the miles faded away behind us. Sometimes she was silent and her hand would seek out mine, squeezing it in reassurance. When I glanced over to her, she would be smiling at me, her face brightly lit in the low angle sun that washed over the New York state landscape.
And a beautiful landscape it was. Siobhan guided us along the state roads, avoiding the noisy, teaming and confusing interstates so we had an opportunity, on more than one occasion, to stop, Siobhan deftly producing her digital camera, and capture the fleeting brilliance of the autumn colours. Then, once we had suitably absorbed the vista, I would receive a kiss for my patience and we would be off again.
In this way, we had been awed by a rocky gorge painted in orange and gold, capped at it's south end by a glistening waterfall. I felt the healing effects of the calming view seeping into me. We had stopped for lunch on a high hill, just beyond the Finger-Lakes region, enjoying, in silence, bread, cheese and salami carefully cleaved in appropriate slices by my ever-present, pocket knife while gazing over a panorama of meticulously tended fields of wheat and alfalfa punctuated by wild wood lots. Siobhan pointed out a foal cavorting in a field, attentively followed by its mare.
By evening, New York was behind us. We had gradually angled east and were greeted by the rolling hills of New England. The weather had changed, becoming cloudy. We witnessed no sunset. Rather, the day, grown steadily darker, simply faded into night and the headlights picked out the unknown road before us in elongated halogen cones.
“Getting foggy,” I suggested to Siobhan who was silent in her seat. Another bank of whiteness, more dense than before, absorbed the car. “Are you sure this is the right road?” Siobhan clicked on the little glove-box light and studied the map unfolded over her tattered jeans. The radio was playing low – some hymns arranged in a jazzy fashion.
“I'm pretty sure,” she answered and yawned loudly. “I think I noticed the right road sign a ways back. We should be about here.” I deviated my eyes from the road to note the position indicated by the chipped, red polish of her fingernail. “The next town should be Watson, Mass. in about ten miles.”
“OK,” I answered. “But if this fog gets any worse, I think we should stop for the night.” Some drops of rain exploded on the windshield and I turned the wipers on low.
“How far have we come today?”
I shifted, a little stiffly, in my seat and studied the odometer, making the calculation. “Almost a thousand clicks.”
“Then I think you probably need some rest anyway. Hey! Do you smell that?”
“Smell what?” I sniffed at the air.
“The ocean, silly! We're closer to the coast now!”
“Cool! Maybe, if it's clear tomorrow, we'll be able to see the Atlantic. Or even put our feet in it!
“And I can take a picture of you, barefoot, and with your jeans rolled up like a beach-comber!” She laughed at the mental image and I had to join it. I have never been quite the 'beach-comber' type but it might be fun.
The fog continued to close in, becoming thicker and more dense with the passing minutes. My own anxiousness increased in just measure as, first, the roadside trees gradually faded away and, then, the shoulder of the road became difficult to locate. My speed decreased from 80, to sixty and, finally, to forty. No other car appeared on the road and it was like drifting in some silent, new universe.
“Baby, I gotta stop,” I told Siobhan emphatically. “I can't see a damn thing.”
“I know, baby,” she answered. There was an edge of tension in her voice. “It's kinda creepy not being able to see anything.” Her hand went absently to the radio and clicked it off. “We'll look for the first place that's decent. Hey! A light!”
It appeared first as a possible mirage or reflection of the headlights and then grew stronger, resolving into red and blue. I slowed the car to crawling, looking for a curb or driveway. Siobhan was quick to discern the sign in detail.
“Watson's Family Hotel... vacancy!” she pronounced, triumphantly. “We made it - and that seems like as good a place as any.”
My straining eyes, reddened from exhaustion, picked out the entrance and I turned in under the flickering neon sign, coasted, relieved, across the parking lot and to a stop under an overhead lamp dimly visible in the swirling fog.
thanks for visiting.
please read 'Watson's Family Hotel (II)'.
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