“Son, did you strike her? Is that why you’re here?”

“No,” Monette said. “I wanted to kill her for it-the money, not the cheating, the cheating part just seemed unreal, even with all that fuh…all that underwear right in front of my eyes. But I didn’t lay so much as a finger on her. I think it was because I was too tired. All that information had just tired me out. What I wanted to do was take a nap. A long one. Maybe a couple of days long. Is that strange?”

“No,” the priest said.

“I asked her how she could do something like that to me. Did she care so little? And she asked-”

10

“She asked me how come I didn’t know,” Monette told the hitchhiker. “And before I could say anything, she answered herself, so I guess it was a whatchacallit, a rhetorical question. She said, ‘You didn’t know because you didn’t care. You were almost always on the road, and when you weren’t on the road, you wanted to be on the road. It’s been ten years since you cared what underwear I have on-why would you, when you don’t care about the woman inside it? But you care now, don’t you? You do now.’

“Man, I just looked at her. I was too tired to kill her-or even slap her-but I was mad, all right. Even through the shock, I was mad. She was trying to make it my fault. You see that, don’t you? Trying to lay it all off on my fucking job, as if I could get another one that paid even half as much. I mean, at my age what else am I qualified for? I guess I could get a job as school crossing guard-I don’t have any morals busts in my past-but that would be about it.”

He paused. Far down the road, still mostly hidden by a shifting camisole of rain, was a blue sign.

He considered, then said, “But even that wasn’t the real point. You want to know the point? Her point? I was supposed to feel guilty for liking my job. For not drudging through my days until I found the right person to go absolutely fucking bombers with!”

The hitcher stirred a little, probably only because they’d hit a bump (or run over some roadkill), but it made Monette realize he was shouting. And hey, the guy might not be completely deaf. Even if he was, he might feel vibrations in the bones of his face once sounds passed a certain decibel level. Who the fuck knew?

“I didn’t get into it with her,” Monette said in a lower voice. “I refused to get into it with her. I think I knew that if I did, if we really started to argue, anything might happen. I wanted to get out of there while I was still in shock…because that was protecting her, see?”

The hitchhiker said nothing, but Monette saw for both of them.

“I said, ‘What happens now?’ and she said, ‘I suppose I’ll go to jail.’ And you know what? If she’d started to cry then, I might have held her. Because after twenty-six years of marriage, things like that get to be a reflex. Even when most of the feeling’s gone. But she didn’t cry, so I walked out. Just turned around and walked out. And when I came back, there was a note saying she’d moved out. That was almost two weeks ago, and I haven’t seen her since. Talked to her on the phone a few times, that’s all. Talked to a lawyer, too. Froze all our accounts, not that it’ll do any good once the legal wheels start turning. Which will be soon. The caca is going to clog the air-cooling system, if you take my meaning. Then I suppose I’ll see her again. In court. Her and Cowboy Fucking Bob.”

Now he could read the blue sign: PITTSFIELD REST AREA 2 MI.

“Ah, shit!” he cried. “Waterville’s fifteen miles back thataway, partner.” And when the deaf-mute didn’t stir (of course not), Monette realized he didn’t know the guy had been going to the Ville anyway. Not for sure. In any case, it was time to get this straightened out. The rest area would do for that, but for a minute or two longer they would remain enclosed in this rolling confessional, and he felt he had one more thing to say.

“It’s true that I haven’t felt much for her in a very long time,” he said. “Sometimes love just runs out. And it’s also true that I haven’t been entirely faithful-I’ve taken a little road comfort from time to time. But does that warrant this? Does it justify a woman blowing up a life the way a kid would blow up a rotten apple with a firecracker?”

He pulled into the rest area. There were maybe four cars in the lot, huddled up against the brown building with the vending machines in the front. To Monette the cars looked like cold children left out in the rain. He parked. The hitchhiker looked at him questioningly.

“Where are you going?” Monette asked, knowing it was hopeless.

The deaf-mute considered. He looked around and saw where they were. He looked back at Monette as if to say, Not here.

Monette pointed back south and raised his eyebrows. The deaf-mute shook his head, then pointed north. Opened and closed his fists, showing his fingers six times…eight…ten. Same as before, basically. But this time Monette got it. He thought life might have been simpler for this guy if someone had taught him the sideways figure-eight symbol that means infinity.

“You’re basically just rambling, aren’t you?” Monette asked.

The deaf-mute only looked at him.

“Yeah you are,” Monette said. “Well, I tell you what. You listened to my story-even though you didn’t know you were listening to it-and I’ll get you as far as Derry.” An idea struck him. “In fact, I’ll drop you at the Derry Shelter. You can get a hot and a cot, at least for one night. I have to take a leak. You need to take a leak?”

The deaf-mute looked at him with patient blankness.

“A leak,” Monette said. “A piss.” He started to point at his crotch, realized where they were, and decided a road bum would think he was signing for a blowjob right here beside the Hav-A-Bite machines. He pointed toward the silhouettes on the side of the building instead-black cutout man, black cutout woman. The man had his legs apart, the woman had hers together. Pretty much the story of the human race in sign language.

This his passenger got. He shook his head decisively, then made another thumb-and-forefinger circle for good measure. Which left Monette with a delicate problem: leave Mr. Silent Vagabond in the car while he did his business or turn him out into the rain to wait…in which case the guy would almost certainly know why he was being put out.

Only it wasn’t a problem at all, he decided. There was no money in the car, and his personal luggage was locked in the trunk. There were his sample cases in the backseat, but he somehow didn’t think the guy was going to steal two seventy-pound cases and go trotting down the rest area’s exit ramp with them. For one thing, how would he hold up his I AM MUTE! sign?

“I’ll be right back,” Monette said, and when the hitchhiker only looked at him with those red-rimmed eyes, Monette pointed to himself, to the restroom icons, then back to himself. This time the hitchhiker nodded and made another thumb-and-forefinger circle.

Monette went to the toilet and pissed for what felt like twenty minutes. The relief was exquisite. He felt better than he had since Barb had dropped her bombshell. It occurred to him for the first time that he was going to get through this. And he would help Kelsie get through it. He remembered a quote from some old German (or maybe a Russian, it certainly sounded like the Russian view of life): Whatever does not kill me makes me stronger.

He went back to his car, whistling. He even gave the coin-op lottery-ticket machine a comradely slap as he went by. At first he thought maybe he couldn’t see his passenger because the guy was lying down…in which case, Monette would have to shoo him upright again so he could get behind the wheel. But the hitchhiker wasn’t lying down. The hitchhiker was gone. Had taken his pack and his sign and decamped.