The Westfield Gardener: Part 9
On the Road South
The following is not a standalone. It’s part of a larger piece of fiction, written in a first-person narrator style and placed in a contemporary setting. You can access each part of the story here.
***
What can I say? We left the house almost on schedule, and it was a quiet morning’s drive, sidestepping Cincinnati and on into the Bluegrass State. Just a hair under three hours to our first stop, a rest area along the southbound interstate. I wash my hands in lukewarm water over an industrial metal trough, trying to focus on the positive energy of Purdue clinching the conference title yesterday. It gives a little something extra for 12-year-old Josh and I to bond over.
Instead, walking out of the men’s room, I see Josh standing in front of a vending machine, his eyes fixed on the potential feast of empty calories. Without turning to acknowledge my existence, he casually asks, “Do you have a couple bucks, Dad?”
And they always used to say that Mom is the one with eyes in the back of her head. “You serious? We’ve got sandwiches, snacks, sodas… everything, packed up in the van.”
“But we don’t have this!” A little closer now, he is pointing directly at bags of chips in some spicy exotic flavor. “And this!” Now at some artificial cream-filled snack cakes.
“You are not serious, boy, no….” A pause. “Do you really need to overdose on all the junk right away?” Not that I care too much. “If you want it, you’ve got money to pay up.”
Finally, Josh turns to me with a petulant scowl. “I bet Mom would let me.”
“Really?” I attempt to sound sincere, barely stifling a fit of laughter. “Well, I don’t see her right now, so let’s just stick with that plan.”
“What’s taking her so long?”
Lise and Tori had walked into the restroom about the same time as I did. I want to tell him, “What do you mean? This is the way of the world, son.” But instead: “Wow, you are impatient.” Ironic. I know. Each time I open my mouth at him, more of the patience drains out of my voice.
By now, my only son has distracted himself with the rack of nearby brochures, particularly one showing a picture of a happy kid getting ready to ride a zip line. Pointless for this trip, since we’re not spending time anywhere nearby. I cast a thoughtless glance back over at the restroom doors, fully expecting to see Lise emerge and avert her eyes from me in disgust. But no, instead it’s a larger woman, tattooed like a truck driver’s ex-wife. For a split-second our eyes lock, and she gives me a dirty look. At least it’s from a stranger. But seriously, lady, do you think I’m staring at you?
Josh breaks my concentration with an offhand observation about yesterday’s priceless win over the Spartans. “Did you see Braden Smith knock down that three…?” So now my son wants to chat about Boilermaker basketball, though his voice sounds a little too businesslike and lacking any real enthusiasm.
“Yeah, yeah,” I catch myself, turning back to look at him. “Pretty good stuff. How far do you think they can go in March Madness?” Some questions should never be asked.
***
Well over halfway to our destination, and we're about to make the hard left at Knoxville toward the Carolinas. We're near the area where Addy will be staying with friends, once she arrives here tomorrow. It's my shift to drive, and I'm lost in thought again, right now about my failed attempt to better understand what might be amiss with my oldest child.
She's probably shared more with Lise. If there were something important to be tuned into, my wife would have told me. Then again, the words between us on this trip have been few: some rote essential logistics about tomorrow's campus visit with Tori, to keep the crew on schedule and our expectations in check. That came shortly after my needlessly curt remark, “You couldn't do that in the van?” in response to Lise’s explanation of the argument, er, “conversation” she had with Tori that delayed them in the rest area bathroom.
Fortunately, there's only light music from the speakers in the background. Whatever audiobook was playing a while ago, my wandering mind caught only incoherent bits and pieces. It had the flavor of a self-help selection, which could be perfect for some people in the van right now.
It's a clear day, giving us a fresh afternoon panorama of the Smoky Mountains that feels almost soul-cleansing. My wife starts humming a tune that I swear is the old hymn “How Great Thou Art,” but I'm not inclined to ask.
A glance back in the rearview mirror, and there's Josh deep into Minecraft, no doubt, on his tablet, and an oblivious Tori with headphones on, eyes closed, arms folded. No appreciation for our picturesque surroundings. It feels like the latest projection of shared misery.
Though I had forsworn focusing on any work emails or other activities, professional life is where my thoughts keep drifting in search of quiet equilibrium. Smartphone notifications are off this week, but at our last stop I peeked and saw a message from Zara in my inbox. Over the weekend, and spring break of all times? Well, the Callinicus Foundation is on its own calendar. Guess I had to expect at least a few messages from outside the Westfield College bubble.
I wonder what Zara has to say now. We're still in the process of scheduling the two candidates’ visits, as much a hassle as a relief from my perspective. I can't imagine what she must be reaching out about. Nor am I entirely sure when it will be safe from vacationing family eyes to read the contents.
My mind fights back, trying to focus instead on the visits to historical sites that await us, an escape for me, a drudgery for others. When the sign finally welcomes the Gardener minivan to North Carolina, it almost feels like a welcoming opportunity to exhale the angst of recent hours and days, and breathe in a sense of historical adventure.
Or at least a professor can dream, can't he?
***
In my estimation, the biggest downside to traveling cross-country on Sunday is the inability to stop and feast on the Lord’s chicken and waffle fries. No pleasure to be found there today, sadly. Opinions diverge among weary travelers on where to eat. One vote for McDonald's, one for Mexican, one for barbecue, and one for “any place with a decent salad.”
The Mexican coalition quickly consolidates, though, prompting Tori to cynically prod, “Is Dad going to bring up the tyranny of the majority again?”
“Very good,” I smirk. “Are you sure you don't want to study history with your Dad?”
“I think I've got it down,” she mutters, looking back down at her handheld device. I give up the appealing idea of spare ribs, and Josh can have himself a quesadilla. No use spending more time in the Hampton Inn parking lot.
Our subdued dinner conversation veers from curiosity and anticipation about the upcoming campus visit to some random college memories from Mom and Dad that leave the younger crowd restless and fidgety.
“Can we go back to the hotel now?” Josh asks.
I eye my watch. The pool is open for a couple more hours. Lise is ready to nurse a headache to sleep. Might as well be far from home.
***
The tour is done—a thorough and mildly exhausting tour, one might add. A thought casually popped in my head along the way: I wonder if any of the departments here are also signing on any guest scholars from the Callinicus Foundation? I’d love to talk to anyone else about the experience but filed the thought away, knowing there’s no ready-made way to get an answer today. And besides, this visit isn’t about me.
I’m grateful to get a moment alone with Tori. It’s not hard to find a bench to sit on, as few of the students decked out in thick jackets and sweatshirts seem eager to linger outside. The temperature feels pretty pleasant to me, but perhaps less than ideal for the native southerner.
Where Tori and I sit gives us a view of the luxurious student center. “Looks like they spent a pretty penny on that.” She absorbs the offhand remark before I seek to take the discussion in a more serious direction. “So, what did you think? Ready to apply?”
She’s clearly still taking it all in, but looks much more upbeat than last night. “I could see myself here.”
“Sorry about the remark last night.” My words quickly catch Tori’s attention. For the first time in a while, she makes direct eye contact, ready to hear more. “Even when you were little, it didn’t take long for me to recognize that you’re a girl who would, uh, want to spread her wings when the time came. And a history major isn’t for everyone. I didn’t mean to undercut your decision.” My lips purse tightly as I catch a lump in my throat.
“Thanks, Dad.”
“It doesn’t hurt that this place is named after a Revolutionary War veteran either.” When Tori rolls her eyes this time, it’s done with warmth and good humor. “You know what John Adams said?”
“Even if I did, you’re probably gonna’ tell me….”
“I can’t quote, but here’s the gist: he told his wife Abigail that it was his duty to study the science of government so his sons could study things like math and philosophy, and so their sons could study art, music, architecture and so on….”
“Sons, huh?”
A chuckle. “Well, I guess in some ways the Founders weren’t as, uh, enlightened as we sophisticated souls. Sons, daughters—the point stands. I’m glad to study where our free country came from so a young lady like Victoria Gardener can pursue an education in musical theater….”
Well, now I’ve guilted myself into signing her up for that teen theater camp, not to mention it’s starting to get too serious. Tori glances off into the distance to find her rescue. “Look, there’s Mom and Josh.” I’m kind of relieved, too. I wasn’t sure how long the boy might take in the campus bookstore to find some kind of trinket or keepsake.
“What do you think? Did he get something?” Tori shrugs. “If he did, you might have to apply here next year.”
It doesn’t take more than a minute for us to find out. Tucked away in Lise’s purse is a small paper bag with an Anderson University refrigerator magnet. “I couldn’t resist,” she says. Well, if Mom has such a favorable reaction, that can’t hurt the chances. It might be time to start planning for our middle child to enroll somewhere far away next year. At least hundreds of miles of distance will give this Dad an excuse for not identifying when something is wrong.
I shake my head as I think about Addy on the road to Tennessee today. Strangely, my wife seems to be operating on a similar wavelength. While Josh shows off his new magnet to his sister and entertains her with his juvenile antics, Lise’s expression cools and her voice softens. “I’m worried about Addy.”
“Is something wrong?” Lise shakes her head subtly. I glance at the tracker app. Our oldest daughter seems to be right about where she should, having left home with friends this morning. “So far, so good on the road, I think.”
“Nothing like that. I just have a feeling….” A little doubt creeps onto her face.
“It’s going to be fine.” Maybe I can make myself believe that, too.
To be continued…