Along the road
Which way did you come?’
He turned from the window to face us, his hands buried deep in his pockets. “Did you go through Broken Bow, or cut across at Victoria Springs?”
I stood at the back of the room while my brother-in-law answered. “We cut across.”
“Have much traffic?” His father continued to question us. He lowered his head and gave a shy smile, as he realized he was now the center of attention. But his eyes were alert for Rod’s answer.
“No, we drove straight through.” My brother-in-law smiled, anticipating the next question. “Made it in just under five hours.” His father smiled back and nodded his approval. Not a record, but we had made good time nonetheless. It was all right.
We exchanged hellos and quick introductions, for my benefit. As we settled in to talk, I noticed that Roy seemed preoccupied. His eyes moved often to the window, where he could see the entrance to the apartments where they lived in Tilden, and the road leading away from the parking lot.
While we visited—about the prevailing weather, the aunts and uncles, the cousins—we faced the recliners where Roy and Elvera spent their time. The room had a television. I think it was on, but we ignored it while we laughed and caught up on the family stories. We may even have shared some cookies.
And all the while, Roy’s question kept playing in the back of my mind: “Which way did you come?”
Roy had worked out for most of his life, I learned, usually as a hired hand for farmers or ranchers in the area. Now his health had grown too poor for driving, so he spent his days inside. I began to wonder what it would feel like, to miss climbing behind the wheel of a pickup in the early morning, with a job and a destination in mind. To remember watching the sun rise through the windshield, instead of through a window.
I imagined all the scenes I knew, from a childhood spent in pickups. Accelerating up a pasture hill, on the hunt for a missing cow and calf. Circling back to retrieve a hammer and bucket of staples left behind while building fence. Parking in front of the bar and grill on Main Street to get a burger at noon. Picking up a few bales. Delivering lunch to the field during wheat harvest. Running for parts when the combine broke down.
I imagined all the routes Roy had taken during his 50 years of work in north central Nebraska. County roads, bumpy highways, single-lane blacktop in the Sandhills, trail roads, pivot roads. Thousands of miles, thousands of turns, thousands of decisions, always with a destination in mind. The more I thought about it, the more I knew he’d have his favorite roads, favorite shortcuts, and his places to watch for drifts during a snowstorm. He’d know the stretches where mud holes formed after a rain, and which end-guns were most likely to be watering the road. He’d have a line on who planted what that year. He’d note the tree groves where deer congregated and judge the pheasant population by the numbers he saw in the road ditches.
“Which way did you come?”
Roy had come through years, through a lifetime. And all those turns and decisions had brought him to this dusky room with two recliners and a television that played, unheeded. The real program, the one of interest to him, was airing outside his window. I could see him then, standing and looking out that morning, wondering about our drive and the route Rod was taking. Imagining the different roads and the time it would require. Finally seeing us enter the parking lot, and turning to ask: “Which way did you come?”
If Roy were here now, I’d offer to take him for a drive. I think he would accept. And I’d let him choose the route. It would be my honor.