Page 120 of Full Contact

“I said yes,” Mark said.

“I had more material.”

“Save it for the drive.”

Anna confirmed that she could stay with Peaches. Mark cleared the two days and left Leah a list.

On the morning we left, I walked down the hall with my bag and found Mark crouched beside the window bed in his coat.

“Anna is much more generous with treats,” he was telling Peaches, “if you act like nobody’s fed you.”

“I am not,” Anna said behind him.

“I’ve observed it.”

Peaches considered him, then Anna, and rested her chin on the edge of the bed. I stood in the hallway and let them argue. It was good to have both of them comfortable enough to disagree about my cat.

***

Mark had a canvas bag at his feet. At the first light, I glanced over: sandwiches in foil, apples, and a bag of pretzels.

“Are we expecting to get stranded?”

“I’ve traveled with hockey players for a decade,” Mark said. “I know how long you last between breakfast and your first questions about lunch.”

Past Joliet, the warehouses gave way to farmland, the snow lying in long white stripes between last year’s corn rows. I told him about Russ’s spare parts in closets, drawers, and stacked on appliances. He bought replacements before anything broke. There was a spare garbage disposal in the garage, still in the box.

“Was the spare peeler part of that system?” Mark asked.

“The peeler illustrates an unexpected benefit of the system. Some spares can be mined for gifts.”

Mark laughed and handed me half a ham sandwich.

North of Springfield, Illinois, a large hill rose to the left of I-55. “We always called that the Illinois mountain,” I said. “This Springfield is a state capital, but Russ’s Missouri Springfield has more people.”

Mark shifted in his seat to face me. “Does Josh still call you Uncle Clare?”

“Yes.”

“Am I expected to keep a straight face?”

“I expect the same discretion you exercise at work.”

He reached over and rested his hand on my thigh. He left it there through the next two exits, his thumb moving now and then along the seam of my jeans.

As we approached the Mississippi, Mark sat forward.

“Is that the Arch?”

“Surely not your first time—we play the Steamers.”

“First time from the highway.” He looked across the river at the silver curve above the buildings. “I knew it was big. I didn’t know how big.”

On the bridge, he turned to keep it in view. His hand had left my thigh.

“We need to visit sometime when we’re in town to play the Steamers,” I said.

“I’d like that.”