Page 90 of Blame it on the Bet
I look at her from inside the car and wonder, for the tenth time in as many minutes, if I wouldn’t just be better off taking my rented sedan on this road trip. This is starting to feel like an episode of Ice Road Truckers.
“That little tin can won’t make it a half hour in the snow,” she informs me, as if reading my thoughts. “If the route were clear—okay, fine. But it could get hairy out there. Just stick to the main highway and go slow. If it gets really bad, pull off at a rest stop or an exit. Not on the side of the road—not even with your blinkers on. You’ll get covered up by snow quick, and the other cars might plow into you…”
“Are you trying to scare the crap out of me?” I ask her. “What’s next? Gonna warn me about Big Foot? How about rogue moose that dart out into the middle of the road?”
Walker just shakes her head and raises her palms, indicating she’s done with me.
Thank. God.
“I really appreciate it,” I offer as an olive branch. “I just…I’m just afraid to wait anymore. I need to get there by morning.”
“Okay, here you go,” Jameson says, leaning in the other window. She passes me a thermos of coffee and a bag of sandwiches and snacks. “Oh, and this is from Bailey,” she adds, passing me a CD. “Some travel tunes, she said. She had to burn it special since my old car still has a player in it.”
“Well, that was sweet of her. Of all of you. Right, I’m off, then.”
“Call us from the road,” Jameson says.
“I can’t. It’ll be the middle of the night, and I’m not going to wake the whole house.”
“I’ll be up,” Walker says quietly from next to me. “Shoot me a text every hour and let me know where you are. I’ll keep an eye on the weather along your route and let you know if there’s someplace you should detour. Okay?”
It’s the closest thing to kindness that she’s ever offered me.
“Yeah, okay,” I agree. “Bye and thanks.” I raise the windows before they can say anything else.
It’s been a few years since I’ve driven a stick shift, and I focus on the clutch-to-gas ratio. Finally, I lurch out of the driveway with a squeal that sends a string of obscenities from Walker’s mouth. I smile and wave as I pull past them and down the road.
The entrance to the highway is on the other side of Mayhem, so I make the short trip through town. As I wait at the one and only stoplight, a loud rap on the passenger window makes my heart jump up into my throat. When I look over, Janet Lahti is gesturing for me to roll down the window. I do.
“Here,” she says, hoisting a plastic bag through the window and onto the passenger’s seat. “There’s a pie for you to bring to Hennessy. Don’t eat it on the way! I put some muffins and cookies in there for you to munch on.”
“Janet, how did you know I was going to see Hennessy?” I ask incredulously. “And how on earth did you know I’d be driving by this corner at”—I glance at the clock on the dash—“at twelve fifteen in the morning?”
She gives me the witchiest smile I’ve ever seen. “Bryan, there are some answers you’re better off not knowing,” she informs me. “Now, just one more thing…”
Oh, great. Can’t wait to hear this one.
“Angels.”
“Angels?”
“Yes, angels.”
“What about them?”
“They’re all around you. So, don’t worry. If you get stuck, one of them will come to your rescue. Don’t be scared of the angels.”
Holy. Crap. This woman’s even nuttier than I originally thought.
“Okay, then… Gotta go…”
She’s still smiling that creepy smile and waving her spooky wave at me as I watch her disappear in the rearview mirror.
…
Under the best of conditions, the drive from Mayhem to the Minneapolis/St. Paul area should take about three hours. I’ve done it a few times already, flying into the airport, renting a car and driving north to the Iron Range. But this is not the best of conditions. Not by a long shot. Visibility is less than a mile as I crawl down 169-S along Mille Lacs Lake.
My knuckles are sore from gripping the steering wheel, and my eyes tired from the constant back and forth scanning of the road in front of me. What I can see of it, anyway, as the snow blows and drifts across the beam of my headlights. And that’s just the stuff that’s on the ground. What’s falling from the sky—actually, tumbling from the sky would be more accurate—is smacking the windshield and holding tight until the wipers fling it off. Unfortunately, like the rest of Walker’s loaner vehicle, they only work intermittently, forcing me to roll down the window and use my bare hand to try and clear the glass in front of me.
