The Whore's Child by Richard Russo Page B

mother, as if Maine had no extradition treaty with New Hampshire.
    â€œYou think he’ll come after us?” I asked, a possibility that had been on my mind all morning.
    â€œYour father?” she said with a snort.
    I studied her. “What do you think he’ll do?”
    â€œRemarry,” she said, checking the mirror again, which made me turn around and look too, even though I had no idea what to look for. We had the Ford, so if he was chasing us, it would be in a car we’d have no way of recognizing. When we crossed the Piscataqua Bridge, my mother still didn’t relax, as I’d hoped she would, though she did say, as if talking to herself, “Okay, okay.”
    â€œYou know the best thing about New Hampshire?” she said as we flew by the Portsmouth exits. “There’s only about ten miles of it before you’re in Massachusetts. In another fifteen minutes we’ll be two complete states away from a certain hardware store owner of our acquaintance.”
    I squinted at her logic, knowing that my duty was to accept it. “We’re not any farther away just because this part of New Hampshire’s skinny,” I pointed out, studying the appropriate page on the Triple A map.
    â€œDon’t be a smart-ass,” she said. “You know what I mean.”
    â€œI don’t,” I assured her. It seemed important right then to disagree with her, perhaps because she was counting on me as an ally and I didn’t want to be taken for granted. “I don’t know what you mean.”
    I could tell, without having to look up from the map, that she was studying me. “I didn’t have to bring you with me, you know,” she finally said.
    â€œAll I said was—”
    â€œI heard you,” she assured me. “Loud and clear.”
    This was not a long conversation, but it was long enough if one of the speakers was driving a car and staring the other speaker down instead of keeping her eyes on the road.
    A few minutes later we passed a sign welcoming us to the Commonwealth of Massachusetts. “There,” she said. “See?”
    Sure enough, Massachusetts was right where she said it would be, and we were now two complete states away from my father.
    After an hour or so, we stopped for gas, and my mother had the attendant, who wasn’t much older than I was, check the oil. I watched him. He opened the hood, stood there for several beats out of respect, then slammed it shut again.
    â€œIt’s cheaper to pump our own,” I said.
    â€œThat’s true, sweetie, but we can’t afford to break down.” She’d taken the map book from me and was running her index finger along our route.
    â€œCould you not call me that?” I said. I didn’t mind it in private, just in social situations like the present one, when a teenager with a real job was hovering at the periphery of our conversation.
    She didn’t look up. “What should I call you—Conan?”
    Which meant she’d found the comic books I’d hidden on the top shelf of my bedroom closet. “My name?” I suggested.
    â€œAll right, John Dern,” she said. “Here’s the plan. We’re getting off the interstate for a while. See some of this country, since we got to drive through the whole damn thing anyway.”
    Now I watched her. “I thought you said he wouldn’t come after us.”
    â€œHe won’t,” she assured me, watching the cars roar by up on the interstate. “He might report the car stolen, though. Technically it’s his.”
    â€œTechnically,” I repeated.
    â€œI think of it as half mine. Everything in marriage should be half and half, don’t you think?”
    â€œThat makes
me
half his,” I pointed out.
    â€œEverything except you, sweetie,” she said. “You hungry?” It was noon and we hadn’t even eaten breakfast. “There’s a Burger Doodle across the