by Marcie Roman
The Mission
Quite the procession we make. We clutch our steering wheels at ten and two. Mutter each time we tap the brake. Anita is in front and between her nearsightedness and history of fender benders, she progresses at the rate of a slug. That leaves more time for our imaginations to whir.
We think home invader.
We think broken hip (especially Martha).
We think stroke or heart attack.
None of us are spring chickens, although Diane’s propensity for tight pants and low necklines has afforded her the nickname “chickadee.” The one thing we don’t consider is car accident since the Caddy, with its tank like construction, is considered by all to be indestructible.
By the time we reach Esther’s housing development it’s been over an hour without a word. When we were younger an hour was nothing. Something that could be whiled away on an afternoon soap opera. But we practice more care now that we understand hours come in dwindling supply.
We project into a grim future of what next. Does anyone have Stanley’s number? Perhaps his store in Wilmette will know how to reach him? Hadn’t her son recently moved to a new apartment? Did she say she wanted a large or small funeral? This might sound morbid, but these are things you think about when you get to be our age.
The best cure we’ve discovered for worry is to sing it out. So we do. Rolling down our windows we belt last year’s medley as we weave through the streets. Anita makes a wrong turn past the duck pond and another past the windmill. The rest of us trail behind—start, stop, start, stop—the breadsticks balling in our stomachs. By sheer luck, Anita turns down Whispering Pines Drive with its oversized duplexes and notable lack of tree cover. We spot the Caddy in the driveway, front end facing the street, as if lying in wait to prey on small dogs and arthritic joggers.
“Esther,” we harmonize as we ungracefully exit our cars. “We’re here.”
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