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Show Motherlunge a novel 236 35. In Which the Radio Makes Me Cry The road to you has a dotted line down the middle. It's all the white sticks I've peed on, all the home pregnancy tests with their pairs of lavender lines. These are the minus signs, the double negatives. The road is the road I drove with Dorothy next to me and the animal that I killed on the pavement behind us. The road shimmers in the heat like the start of a dream sequence; it's the highway that my father drives with Judith in tfie passenger's seat reading aloud from a book. Pavia drove this road when she left Xavier; she had gotten lost. It's the road between Supernal and our big city. It crosses seven states. Along this road everything changes; the mountains fall back and the farmland comes up, then the lakes-green to gold to blue-and at last there are small cities and then our city. Along the way the radio plays and plays. And just when the chorus of the song is about to start-the verse is over and you're in the bridge, the drummer kicks it up a notch and everything inside you suddenly wants to hurry forward or bear down hard-the station bums away, sizzling off like something on a hot pan. It's suddenly behind you, overhead, and gone. |
