Widow’s Fire

Route 66 from Los Angeles to Chicago runs backwards, according to the narrative. Most people start near the slate-gray buildings of Michigan Avenue and end up in the palm trees beside the Pacific Ocean. Going west seems romantic, but I lived in southern Arizona. Eastbound made more sense. Just an eight-hour drive to LA, and I was ready for adventure.

At the Santa Monica pier, I mugged in front of a male friend’s cellphone camera. Afterwards, he gave my waist a seductive squeeze. We’d met on Facebook, but never before in person. The guy looked shorter and more nervous than I’d expected. I could tell that he wanted to fuck me, but I wasn’t interested. I slept alone in his queen-size bed and tried not to think about my dead husband.

Russ had been gone for less than three months, and I felt horny, but wary. I’d read about widow’s fire on the internet, so I knew my creepy discomfort was normal. It was too soon for me to relent, however. I needed to wait at least a couple more weeks before busting loose. Meanwhile, I stored my pent-up lust for a Midwestern ex-boyfriend.

Two weeks is barely enough time to crawl along the Mother Road. After twelve days, I’d gone as far as Springfield, Illinois. The flat, barren landscape was familiar, but uncomfortable. I spent my adolescence downstate, in a backwater hamlet named Tuscola. My parents fled Chicago for the cornfields, hoping the family would thrive in a quiet, bucolic environment. Instead, we surrounded ourselves with people who despised us.

Central Illinois seemed even more decrepit than I remembered. I had a tattered coupon for a free room at the Red Roof Inn, so I broke my vow to sleep only at mom-and-pop establishments. Of course, I’d already fudged on the promise twice—first in Aloft in downtown Oklahoma City, then at a St Louis Holiday Inn. Hundred-dollar hotel mattresses felt better than the ones inside roadside motels. Most of the cut-rate places served as brothels and open-air drug marketplaces. At 62, I was way too old for that shit.

The Springfield Red Roof Inn fit the dive mold well. As I approached the bullet-proof office window, a cop car squealed away and took off across the parking lot. “What the hell was that?” I asked the desk clerk.

“Nothing.” She squinted at my coupon. “You can only have one of our smaller rooms. There’s no coffee maker. You still want it?”

A high-school friend called and suggested that we meet for dinner. Kim lived an hour away in a town named Macomb. We’d known each other briefly as teenagers in Tuscola. After graduation, she embraced Christianity with an impassioned fervor. I got out of downstate Illinois as soon as I could. Most of my adulthood, I indulged in shameless debauchery. What the hell would we talk about?

“The radio mentioned thunderstorm warnings,” I said.

“I drive in thunderstorms all the time.” Her tone sounded breezy, like dodging lightning bolts was no big deal. “Besides, we haven’t seen each other in almost fifty years.”

Kim’s peripatetic mother hauled her family back to Macomb after less than a year in Tuscola. The two of us didn’t even have the chance to say goodbye. My high school seemed like an elaborate torture chamber. Without Kim, I was a sitting duck for all sorts of medieval humiliations. The two of us lost touch almost immediately, only to reconnect on social media decades later.

“Sure,” I finally said. “Meet me in my room. I’ll see if I can find a place with vegan options.”

A middle-aged dairy allergy had caused me to drift toward a plant-based diet. Such restrictions were pure hell for a backroad vagabond. I’d scored big in Albuquerque, devouring vegan tacos at a poolside food court. But towns like Shamrock, Texas offered little in the way of edible cuisine. Most of the time, I subsisted on trail mix and supermarket hummus.

After scouring the internet, I found a 100-year old Italian joint called Marzetti’s, in the middle of downtown Springfield. The restaurant offered vegan spaghetti with house made tomato sauce. How could I have gotten so lucky? Downstate Illinois was a food desert.

Two hours later, Kim pounded on the door. We hugged each other, and she lowered her body onto the edge of my mattress. “Great to see you.” Her voice sounded Midwestern, authentic. She gazed around the room at the curtains and lampshades. “This brings back weird memories. Years ago, I worked as a maid at a Red Roof. One morning, I went into someone’s room to clean, and a man was going at it with his girlfriend. All I can remember is his big, hairy butt on the mattress. He screamed at the top of his lungs, told me to leave immediately. I hated that job so much.”

“A young man burst into my room when I was lying in bed at the Munger Moss a couple of night ago,” I said. “It’s a classic motel in Lebanon, Missouri, with photos in the Route 66 guidebooks. I was on my phone and forgot to lock up. The guy screamed ‘I’m SORRY’ and ricocheted into the parking lot like he’d bounced off the door.”

My ex-boyfriend hovered on the opposite line, breathing hard as the two of us detailed our carnal intentions. I reclined on the mattress with my legs against the wall. He vowed to clear his schedule so I could show up any time I wanted. Nothing good would come of such a reunion, but we were both completely into it. When the door flew open and an uninvited guest stumbled across the threshold, I just laughed and waved him away.

I knew better than to mention these details to Kim, however. She chuckled. “You were lucky. Hey, it’s after six. We’d better head to that restaurant. I’ve never eaten there, but I’ve driven past dozens of times. You can follow my car.”

The street overflowed with vehicles, so I parked two blocks from the restaurant. Faint peals of thunder rumbled in the distance. Kim and I huddled in the entryway and peeked through the glass doors. Marzetti’s looked cavernous and elegant—dark wood, high ceilings, tables covered with immaculate linen.

Every table was occupied. The hostess fixed us with a frantic expression. She took a halting step forward and shoved a couple of menus into our hands. “We don’t…have…any tables,” she stammered. “You’d better go sit at the bar.”

The remaining staff looked like they were barely keeping their cool. They scuttled in all directions, pushing wheeled trays. A couple of forks hit the floor with a loud clatter. The sudden noise sounded almost deafening. I didn’t mind, however. Chaos kept Marzetti’s from being too pretentious.

“No problem,” I said. “I could use a drink, anyway.”

Kim and I approached the bar. To our relief, most of the seats were unoccupied. Our thirty-something bartender was bearded and gaunt, his long face set in an expression of perpetual melancholy. He sported a rumpled white dress shirt and a thin black tie that had come loose from its clip.

As we lowered ourselves into a couple of stools, the bartender shook his head. “Are you eating here?” Instead of sounding hostile, the man seemed bewildered. “Why aren’t you at a table?”

“The hostess told us that none were available.” With heavy effort, I kept my voice steady. “I’ll have a glass of the house merlot, please.”

The bartender rolled his eyes. “She’s adorable.” He pulled a bottle from behind the bar and squinted at it. “You can have a glass of one of our better wines. Then I’ll make sure the two of you get a table. Don’t worry.”

“I want one too.” Kim smiled at the bartender. “The two of us don’t mind eating at the bar. We didn’t have a reservation, so the hostess said she couldn’t seat us.”

“She’s adorable,” the bartender said again. His voice sounded weary, like he’d long endured his colleague’s confusion and had stopped expecting any semblance of order. He turned around, pulled another wineglass from a rack, and filled it to the brim. After following suit with my glass, he places both receptacles on coasters and nudged them in our direction.

I watched the bartender from the corner of my eye. He seemed like the kind of guy I would’ve coveted in my thirties. Way too young for me to ogle now. I wondered whether his eerie resemblance to Abraham Lincoln was intentional. Maybe every young guy in Springfield wanted to look like Honest Abe.

Lincoln’s purported honesty was at least partly apocryphal. Like most Illinois kids, I’d grown up with stories that showcased the man’s virtues. His aura of homespun purity spoke to something deep within my bones. What Midwestern girl could resist a craggy-faced guy in a stovepipe hat?

My own home life couldn’t have been more different from Abe’s. After I turned seventeen, my mother and stepfather sold the Tuscola house and bought a dilapidated farm in Greenview. Our new town held only 800 people, mostly farmers. Their unwashed offspring taunted me in high school corridors. Springfield, thirty miles south, seemed like a promised land, filled with bookstores, pizza restaurants, and folklore museums.

I rode in the backseat of the family Suburban during bi-monthly shopping trips to Springfield. Most days, my parents lounged on their couch and drank Schlitz malt liquor. When their dreams of organic farming failed to bear fruit, they became increasingly bitter. The once-happy couple spent hours screaming at each other, and Mom threatened to file for divorce. Finally, my stepfather doused himself with lighter fluid and erupted in flames.

The local cops pinned a murder rap on my mother. Despite their best efforts, they couldn’t make the charge stick. After failing two lie-detector tests, Mom sold her farm and moved to Mexico. The authorities had no choice cut to let her go. Lie detectors uncover stress, not truth. But, in the end, none of it mattered. My mother really believed she had killed her husband.

“A table just opened up,” the bartender said. “I’ll put these two glasses on your tab.”

“No, let me get them.” A fifty-something man swiveled in his barstool and leered at us. He looked like he’d been parked at the bar for several hours. “You lovely ladies need a drink.” He raised his glass and twirled it in an unsteady arc. “Maybe more than one.”

“Thanks. One should be ample.” I flashed him an automated smile, all teeth with no substance. The man seemed overeager, like Kim and I were the first females he’d spoken to in weeks. Not for lack of trying, however. He’d probably been handsome twenty years ago, in a Ken-doll sort of way. Now pudgy and half-bald, he felt glad to stand within six feet of a woman. Especially after a few drinks. Poor guy.

“I need to sit down.” My voice sounded apologetic, like I really wanted to hang around but was too hungry.

A waiter ushered us to a small booth near the front of the restaurant. Unlike the elegant tables, our spot seemed cozy but sterile. It reminded me of a 1980’s diner—beige, unobtrusive, and spotlessly clean. Kim and I slid into the cushioned seats and opened our menus. “Do you mind if I order shrimp?” Her tone was timid, like she half-expected me to raise a fuss. Vegans are widely regarded as a touchy lot.

“Oh gosh. Of course not.” I squinted at the small print, searching for plant-based cuisine. Central Illinois had been steak country for as long as I could remember. Little had changed since my childhood. Not surprising. Meat paid the bills.

Our waiter strolled over, clutching a notepad. When I mentioned vegan options, his face twitched with panic. “I think we have something in the freezer. It’s sausage. Not the meat kind. But we’ll still have to thaw it. It’s made from plants, right? You won’t get salmonella or anything.” He darted across the room and disappeared into the crowd.

“I think we’re gonna be here for a while.” Kim set down her menu and peered at me. “How are you? I read all your Facebook posts, and it seems like you’re in good spirits. But I know how difficult it must be to keep up the appearance of being okay.”

“I work really hard to seem that way. It’s a well-imagined defense mechanism.” My voice seemed to emanate from the other side of the room. “I cry when I’m alone, though. That way, I don’t have to deal with anyone’s reaction.”

“Most people don’t know how to handle other folks’ grief. I learned that when I was a hospice volunteer.” Kim took a delicate sip from her glass. “I wish I could have met Russ. After my mother died a few months ago, he set an inbox note expressing his condolences. That told me so much about what kind of person he was. He’d only interacted with me a few times on Facebook, but he still reached out. Even though he was in such deep pain himself.”

Ashamed, I lowered my eyes and stared at the tablecloth. Kim had no idea how hard it was to be married to a wannabe saint. Russ was socialized by his parents to be good, no matter what. The internalized pressure eventually morphed into liver cancer, a condition ignored until it was too late. He spent most of his time trying to please me. At the end of his life, his main concern was whether I’d be okay without him.

The server reappeared, looking much more relaxed. “You’ll be delighted to know that we do have plant sausage. We found some at the bottom of the freezer. Also, the gentleman at the bar sends his regards. He’d like to buy you both another glass of wine.”

Kim sighed. “I have another stop to make after dinner. So I’d better not. It’ll be past midnight when I get home.”

“I’ll take one. Same kind as the last. The bartender will know what I mean.” I smirked at the waiter. He scuttled away and vanished into the bowels of the restaurant.

Kim grinned. “We might be old, but we’re still hot.” She took a huge gulp from her wineglass. “If the two of us were at my house, I’m sure we could kill an entire bottle.”

My friend was a wonder—that rare fundamentalist Christian who had no trouble chatting about hairy asses or describing herself as hot. I wondered how much sex she’d experienced after high school graduation. Her marriage had been solid for decades. Facebook photos depicted a bearded, pleasant-looking man, grinning as he stood beside his grandchildren.

To my left, several well-dressed, middle-aged matrons were having considerate trouble remaining upright. Partially full cocktail glasses littered their table, surrounded by an assortment of wadded-up paper napkins. The women were shitfaced. One of them erupted into a cascade of high-pitched cackling. A moment later, her friends followed suit. Their voices rose like a chorus of hacksaws, slicing through the restaurant noise.

The first woman stopped her racket and leaned in my direction. “Don’t mind us. We girls like to get out every once in a while. You know how it is.” She gestured toward Kim. “What brings you ladies here? I’ve never laid eyes on you before.”

“This is the first time we’ve seen each other in fifty years.” I took a nip from my second glass of wine. It tasted just as good as the first. “I’m taking a road trip on Route 66 from LA to Chicago, and we decided to meet for dinner.”

A wave of cheering rose from the table. Two women sprang from their chairs and clanked their glasses against mine. As an afterthought, they tapped the rim of Kim’s glass, then withdrew. My friend gazed at her napkin like she wanted to bore a hole in it and disappear. She’d never enjoyed being the center of attention. Where the hell was our waiter? Only the arrival of dinner could save us from these freaks.

The restaurant door opened, and another woman entered the fray. Staggering in her stilettos, she made her way across the floor until she reached the table of cacklers. One of them shoved her bulk sideways to give room.

The new arrival lurched toward her chair, but lost her balance and collapsed on the carpet with a dull thud. When her rump hit the floor, she dissolved into peals of laughter. A moment later, her friends joined in. Their guffaws changed pitch and rose to a crescendo. Perhaps the group was having a contest to see who could shriek the loudest.

The woman finally stumbled to her feet. “I got so wasted last night. In the morning, I woke up on the kitchen floor.” She peeled a fur stole from her neck and tossed it across the back of her chair. “But I’m ready for more. Who’s buying?”

“All drinks are on me,” another woman yelled. She reached into her purse, pulled out a credit card, and waved it in the air. “Look! American Express! Don’t leave home without it.”

I slurped my wine and studied the coterie. A wealthy, pedigreed lot, literally drunk on their asses. All of them hailed from old money families who’d lived in Springfield for generations. Pillars of the community, well-respected by their neighbors. In the daytime, these gals had to keep up appearances. But nights were long in downstate Illinois, and there wasn’t much to do after sundown.

Another woman stretched her body across the aisle and nodded in my direction. She seemed less inebriated than her companions. “Do you want to visit the Abe Lincoln Museum? I’m on the board there. Just mention my name, and they’ll let you in free.”

“I’m not sure,” I said, “I was planning on getting up early and heading straight for Chicago. It’s a long trek on 66.”

“Oh, you absolutely must go.” Her face looked stricken, as if my road trip would be an utter failure if I missed Springfield’s favorite shrine to its native son. I’d been away from central Illinois long enough to know that Honest Abe wasn’t all he was cracked up to be. But she was a true believer, steeped since birth in Lincoln lore.

The woman scooped up a coaster and scribbled on it with a ballpoint pen. “I’m Marjorie Adams. Just mention my name at the counter. I wrote it down so you won’t forget.”

I stuffed the coaster into my purse. “I’ll go if I have the time. Not making any promises, though. But I appreciate the offer.”

Marjorie was in full saleswoman mode. She craned her neck like a turtle and stared at me with glassy eyes. Her voice rose a couple of decibels. “We have so much to offer at the museum. Everything you can possibly imagine. Three-dimensional holographic exhibits. Lincoln’s actual papers. Even some tidbits about his marriage that most folks don’t know.”

The waiter appeared, holding a couple of plates above his head. He lowered them to the table and smiled. “Thanks for your patience. The two of you have been wonderful.”

“No problem at all, really.” Scooping up a fork, I tore into my meal. Piquant tomato sauce trickled down my throat. I took a tentative nibble of the sausage and sighed. Everything tasted delicious. Marzetti’s had delivered on its shaky promise of gourmet vegan cuisine.

Springfield wasn’t nearly as bad as I remembered. I’d last seen the town seven years beforehand, when Russ and I took a brief trip down the Illinois portion of Route 66. We photographed Muffler Men and giggled at abandoned, kitschy landmarks. Cancer cells were already beginning their long march toward Russ’ liver, but neither of us suspected a thing.

We pulled into a half-empty town and parked in front of a second-hand store. I jumped from my var and peered through the plate-glass windows. Their cracked panes barely reflected the sun. Beyond the grime, I could make out shadowy forms of overturned furniture and rusted tools.

“Did you see that dead dog at the side of the road?” Russ asked. “It looks like it’s been there for days.”

The shop door flew open, and an elderly man emerged. “Do you want to buy anything?” His voice sounded desperate, pleading. “I’m usually closed on Mondays, but I can open up if you see something you want.”

I shook my head. “We’re passing through town on Route 66. Our car’s pretty small.”

The shopkeeper’s face fell. “Are you sure? I happened to be in the store. When I saw you two, I figured I might be in luck.”

“Actually, we were just looking. We’d better be on our way now,” Russ said.

We fired up our vehicle and pulled away from the curb. The shopkeeper’s shoulders slumped as he turned away and headed into his store. His cherished dream had become a dusty vessel filled with junk. But there was always a possibility that a chance passerby might want to buy something on a whim.

Supposedly, the Illinois portion of Route 66 had improved since then. I wondered whether the guy ever found buyers for his merchandise, or if dusty chairs and wooden plows were still in his window, waiting for eager customers.

Perhaps I needed to visit the Abe Lincoln Museum, after all. It might offer some clues to the meaning of my bizarre pilgrimage. Mary Todd Lincoln and I were both widows. Abe’s sudden death dent his wife’s precarious mental health into a tailspin. After a brief spell in an institution, she spent her final years sequestered in her sister’s house. Like most nineteenth century women, Mary based her self-worth on her proximity to a powerful husband. She had no other identity.

Long before becoming a widow, Mom told me that funerals make some people horny. I was a fifteen-year-old virgin and had no idea what she meant. When I demanded an explanation, she replied, “It helps them remember that they’re still alive.”

I sure as hell didn’t want to end up like Mary Todd Lincoln. Or my mother, for that matter. In the morning, I’d rise from my rented mattress, stagger toward my car, and head for Chicago. I planned to spend a few days reconnecting with old friends before driving to my ex-boyfriend’s Michigan apartment. All that remained of my husband was a box filled with ashes. After two years of celibacy, I’d earned the right to do as I pleased.

Or had I? Guilt’s thick bulk lived in all the places Russ’ body had once occupied. His side of our king-sized hed. The weathered recliner I gave away soon after his death. The passenger seat were he hovered, startling whenever he saw something that might hit our car. Long before his diagnosis, my husband sensed that his days were numbered. Death crouched on the other side of our dashboard, ready to attack at any moment. It was easier for him to let me drive.

I shoveled a final forkful of pasta into my mouth and glanced over at Kim. Her face was thoughtful, as if she’d been studying me for a long time. “You feeling okay?” She pushed her dish away and smiled. “You look like you’re worried about something.”

“Nah. Just thinking about how long a road trip seems at the very end. Like I’m never going to reach my destination. It’s the hardest part of the journey.” I stared at my empty plate. “Too bad everything isn’t as easy as eating.”

Kim laughed. “I’m so glad we got to hang out. Who knows when the next time will be?”

We summoned the waiter, paid the bill, and rose to our feet. Marjorie turned toward me with a look of alarm. “Don’t forget to visit the museum.” Her voice sounded almost panicky. “You can’t leave Springfield until you’ve seen it.”

“Perhaps I’ll take you up on your offer.” I paused in front of the door and took a final glance at the dining room. The employees seemed much more relaxed now that the rush had ended. The drumbeat of noise had subsided, and an aura of calm hung over the tables. “Thanks for thinking of me.”

Shallow puddles coasted the outdoor tables. A sudden bolt of lightning crackled overhead, then subsided. The pitch-black sky shivered with electricity. Kim and I had missed the storm’s peak, but the downpour showed no signs of giving up entirely. My friend was a practical sort and had remembered to bring her umbrella. She shoved it open with a brisk, no-nonsense movement and motioned for me to step underneath.

The two of us huddled below the canopy and tried to remember where we’d parked our cars. “I think I’m two blocks that way,” I said, pointing in a northerly direction.

“I parked over on the next street.” Kim didn’t sound entirely sure. “What a strange night. I’m going to remember it for a long time.”

“It was a high point of my trip.” With a shock, I realized that my words were true. “Who knew that Springfield could offer so much entertainment?”

Kim took a step backwards and fixed me with an amused expression. “You should go to the Abe Lincoln Museum tomorrow. Marjorie seemed insistent.”

The two of us embraced, turned around, and headed in opposite directions. Half a block later, Kim burst into laughter. “She’d adorable!” she hollered. “Our bartender was a hoot. I should’ve drunk that other glass of wine.”

I found my car, clambered inside, and patted the dashboard. My battered Camry had already taken me two thousand miles. In the morning, I’d get the hell out of downstate Illinois. Chicago hovered in the distance like an enormous, predatory animal. It would open its mouth wide, and I’d let it swallow me whole. No matter what happened, I wanted to live. Take the long, circuitous route, drink a second glass of wine, have sex for no reason at all. Everything would be over before I knew it.