Elizabeth Wrenn - Last Known Address

‘My stuff’s right here,’ said C.C., pulling several containers out of the refrigerator. ‘Some leftover tuna casserole, some cheese, bread, watermelon pickles and tapioca pudding.’

‘Let’s eat!’ said Shelly, grabbing the stack of paper plates and handing one to Lucy.

‘Can Meemaw open the present first? Please?’ Lucy handed her plate back to Shelly.

‘Oh, yes!’ said C.C., lifting the box from the counter again. ‘I want to open my present!’ She undid the ribbon, handing it to Lucy, then tore off the paper, revealing a creamy yellow box with bright illustrations on the top. ‘Butterflies! What could this be?’ She set the box on the counter and lifted the lid. Inside, was a thick stack of pale yellow stationery bound up in a bright yellow silk ribbon. C.C. fingered the soft, ragged upper edge of the sheets as she tried to swallow the lump in her throat.

‘Look under!’ shouted Lucy.

C.C. did, finding two neat stacks of matching envelopes, also tied with yellow ribbons. In the middle were two long strips of colorful butterfly stickers.

‘Look at this envelope!’ said Lucy, pulling one from the stack. She held it in front of C.C., her small hands gripping either edge. ‘See? We already addressed it!’

C.C. read Lucy’s uneven scrawl aloud. ‘Lucy Prentiss. Thirty-one twenty Clemmons Way, Wisataukee, Iowa.’

‘And read the other, up here!’ said Lucy, pointing excitedly to the upper corner.

‘Meemaw Byrd, seven thirteen Raven Road, Fleurville, Tennessee.’

Damn. C.C. could feel her eyes welling up. Something about seeing that address printed on an envelope, especially in Lucy’s labor-intensive hand, took her aback. That address was both more than and less than home; it was the place she had landed, the place that had caught her, after a long, hard fall. She felt like her body was being stretched forward and back in time, all at once.

‘You have to send the first one to me!’ said Lucy, putting her finger on her chest. ‘And we got another box for me! Mine has dolphin stickers and it’s blue and I already wrote to you!’

C.C. kneeled, quickly gathering Lucy up in a hug, hiding her tears behind her granddaughter’s head. ‘Oh, my darlin’ girl.’ C.C. swallowed again, hearing her southern accent creep into her words. Emotion always brought it out of her. ‘I will write to you. And I can hardly wait till I get my first letter from you!’ She had to struggle to get her words out. ‘I am going t’miss you, Lovee.’

‘Will you fill me up with brave, Meemaw?’ asked Lucy softly.

‘Well, of course I will!’ Shelly gave her a hand, helped her stand, as Meg retrieved a small empty ceramic pitcher from the sill above her sink. She handed it to C.C., who held it above Lucy’s head, and began to pour. ‘Show me where your fill-line is, Lovee.’ Lucy held her hand near her stomach, then let it rise. C.C. poured till Lucy’s hand was at the top of her head. ‘Full of brave?’ C.C. asked her. Lucy nodded, and they hugged again.

Still clutching Lucy, C.C. looked up at Kathryn, then at her two best friends, all of whom were teary. But Kathryn turned away from her. C.C. could hear her daughter’s sharp intake of breath, but she didn’t know how to read it. Kathryn held her hand out to Shelly for a plate.

Only her granddaughter enjoyed the picnic dinner on an old sheet on the floor of the empty living room. For C.C., and she suspected for the others as well, all the leftovers of their lives made for an odd and bittersweet meal.

‘I spy with my little eye, something blue.’

‘Blue ?’ said Shelly. ‘It can’t be inside the car, Ceece!’

‘It’s not! Look! On the bottom of that silo.’

‘Well, don’t show me, for God’s sakes! Now you have to pick something else!’

Meg smiled at them, Shelly riding shotgun, C.C. in the back, where she would be the entire trip because she didn’t drive a stick. Meg wasn’t playing the I Spy game; she was too worried about her car. The windshield wipers had done it again, a sort of hiccup. As she watched, they stalled mid-swipe and finally slid down and lay there, as if exhausted. Meg stared at them; she could relate.

At least it had nearly stopped raining. She glanced over at Shelly, then caught C.C. staring at her in the rear-view mirror. Both of them had that flicker of alarm in their eyes, their lively chatting abruptly stopped. It was clear to all of them now, the car was unwell. But it kept on going. Good ole Rosie, Meg thought. But she wondered again if the full load–all their suitcases, the cooler and the three of them–wasn’t too much for her ancient Honda.

‘I think your old car is having mid-life issues too, Meg.’ Shelly was fanning herself with the map again. She laughed, and C.C. chortled in the back.

Meg turned the radio off, then the headlights. She flipped the wiper switch off, then on, and the blades reluctantly picked up. But then the car surged and sputtered, and the wipers flopped spasmodically again.

As long as the car is moving, I’ll be damned if I’m going to pull over here, in Middle-of-Nowhere, Illinois . Meg stared up at the gray sky, not to God, because she’d long ago dismissed that notion, but rather in the same way Eeyore would look at his personal rain cloud, not questioning, but with a somber acceptance. Hello there, Rain cloud. I knew you’d stay with me .

‘Those wipers look about as useful as goose doo on a pump handle,’ said C.C., matter-of-factly.

Meg smiled, finally. She was always grateful for C.C.’s take on things, and now it seemed their every mile southward was bringing out a little more of her latent accent and homespun sayings.

Meg looked at the trip odometer: 212. And they had nearly four hundred miles to go!

She tried the wipers again. ‘C’mon, you worthless things!’ They sprang to life, as if to mock her.

‘Yay!’ said C.C., and she and Shelly resumed their conversation.

Meg straightened in her seat again, able to see now through the cleared arcs. They rolled past another mile marker and Meg flinched when she saw it: 32. Her upcoming wedding anniversary. She said nothing, fearing that C.C. would interpret it as a bad omen.

Was it her imagination or were the wipers slowing again? Her fingers tightened on the steering wheel. They were. They stuttered, then refused to rise. Again. She glared at the blades, black and crisp-looking–she’d bought new ones just for this trip-but utterly useless on their metal arms. Involuntarily, she glanced down at her new pants, loden-green corduroys, also purchased just for this trip; she’d been shocked to find that she had to buy a size six. She’d been a fit ten her whole married life, except for when she was pregnant. A deep and audible sigh of empathy with the wipers slipped out as she decided she really couldn’t see. She carefully steered the car toward the side of the road.

Suddenly the wipers picked up again and the engine hummed to life. ‘Make up your friggin’ mind!’ Meg growled. She steered the car back onto the paved but unlined country road.

‘What the hell’s wrong with the wipers?’ asked Shelly.

‘Yeah, what’s wrong?’ C.C. asked.

Meg felt a surge of irritation that she was expected to know what was wrong, just because it was her car. She was a high-school English teacher; her mechanical aptitude wouldn’t fill a thimble. She tried the wiper switch again as rustling sounds came from the back seat.

‘Here, hon.’ C.C.’s chubby pale hand appeared between the seats, holding four squares of a Hershey bar. ‘Have some chocolate.’ C.C.’s panacea.

‘No, thanks. I’m okay,’ said Meg, though she realized her posture, hunched over the steering wheel, hands clenched and bloodless on the wheel, belied her claim. C.C.’s hand silently retracted, followed by soft sounds of smacking from the back seat.