We leave Middleton on schedule, each item of the list on my desk having been checked off. I worry about how the plants are going to look once we return from our trip to Pennsylvania, it’s been so hot and dry and the Weather Channel promises no sure relief.
I drive to West Allis where we spend a couple of hours at Jeannette Bell’s surprise 50th birthday party. It’s held at the Southern Plantation, a giant-sized bungalow that used to house the play area for Allis-Chalmers executive types. I could have been a real bear at this celebratory event, grousing about how we could have gotten an earlier start on our road trip, spent more time with my folks, blah blah blah ad nauseum. The boys keep me busy, but I realize how much being here means to JoAnna. Actually, I have a great time, watching Andy and Eddie move and groove on the dance floor. Yes, even Eddie. I let him roam around and he heads for the parquet flooring. He crawls for five or six feet, rests on his butt, and then moves his body up and down in time to the music. Maybe it’s just the proud papa talking, but it certainly appears as though he’s got the beat. I laugh until my eyes well up with tears. He’s such a cutie. Andy takes more of a thrashing approach to dancing, running around and dashing across the floor, engaging in innocent horseplay with one of Jeannette’s grandsons.
When JoAnna tells me she’s ready to leave, I excuse myself to go to the bathroom. As usual, my bowels are rumbling and I’m hoping that a quick and hard evacuation will clear out the demons. The first push is not thorough so I spend the next ten minutes grunting my way to an acceptable level of inner contentment. Attached to the door of the stall is a watercolor reproduction of a 10-year-old boy wading in the ocean, his swimming trunks down to his knees. He’s a soft, wide-bottomed young lad. I wonder whose decision it was to place this poster here. The obviously gay maitre d’, a middle-aged man who lisped his way through an announcement of Jeannette’s imminent arrival?
Except for a visit to the ladies’ room, Barb spends the two hours in West Allis in the van, although we find her outside s we approach the parking lot. As we were piling out of the van, she expressed concern for the piece of luggage I had secured to the rack on the top of the van. JoAnna is the only one who feels it will remain in place. As I start to undo one of the bungee cords, Barb says she will stay in the van and read. Barb, it’s going to be hot in there and the light won’t be sufficient, I think to respond but don’t verbalize. Even though there is nothing in the suitcase of hers, I’m sure her intention is to stand watch.
Along the short stretch of 80th Street we drive to get back to the Interstate, there is no place to stop to buy a cup of coffee. At a few minutes past 9 o’clock, though, I feel that I must have a few hours of watchful wakefulness in reserve. The remaining miles of Wisconsin, through Racine and Kenosha counties, pass by quickly. My Motown Pick Hits tape actually makes this driving a pleasure. Once we hit Illinois, though conditions change. Rain starts to fall and suddenly the lines on the road surface disappear. The inky night soaks up the headlight beams. The rainfall is so variable that I’m constantly adjusting the windshield wiper control. At one heart-stopping point through Chicago’s northern suburbs, the intense spray of water created by the truck I am passing reduces visibility to zero. For a very long three or four seconds, I am driving blind. In the rear-view mirror, I see a rigid Barb. She must be sharing every agony of the road with me. It’s not until the weather clears and the road is dry that she relaxes and curls up into a sleeping position. Everyone else has been asleep all along, but what is it with Barb? Doesn’t she trust my driving? Does she want to see the crash coming so she can brake herself? I think she’s just being Barb, the inexplicable, Barb, the inscrutable.
I drive as far as the first rest area east of South Bend. I have experienced frequent short circuits of the brain. At one point, I feel as though I’m hallucinating. I could have sworn I saw a large animal in a crouched position along the roadside, just waiting to dart into the van’s path.
My primary concern about giving up the wheel is that my replacement driver, in this case, JoAnna, will be more tired and disoriented that I am. She assures me that she’s fit to drive. I stretch out as much as the middle seat will allow me to do and actually sleep for at least an hour. I’m comforted by the fact that Barb is keeping JoAnna company. Their occasional conversation and the consistent sound of the road lull me to sleep. Andy has been out like a light – except when he moved from the front to the back of the van – since before Chicago. Eddie, though, needs an occasional comforting touch but fortunately, his interruptions of my middle-of-the-night naptime are few.
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