70-Mph

“What’s this?” Wrong Willie asked, rather sharply I might add.

Packed tighter than the contents of Dolly Parton’s bra, we were barreling down the highway in the War Department’s Expedition.

The we portion of that statement included Wrong Willie, Doc, Woodrow, Jerry Wayne, Patrick, Delbert P. Axelrod, the man whose mother consistently files missing person reports on him in the hopes that it will be a self-fulfilling prophecy, and Youngster.

Groceries and one bag and one gun filled the storage area behind the third back seat. The coolers were strapped to the metal platform snugged up in the Draw-Tite tailgate.

Since we were rolling along at 70 mph, I couldn’t take my eyes off the road, watching for small egg-shaped cars, which had apparently mistaken Interstate 20 for a racetrack.

I cleared my throat and glanced at the item in Wrong Willie’s hand. “Uh, that’s not really mine but . . . it’s mascara.”

Up to that point the boys had been engaged in at least three different conversations, all going on at the same time. My answer created a silence usually known by the male portion of our society as one in which the Spouse responds to a situation with Stony Silence.

You know. “What’s wrong honey?”

“Nothing.”

“You mad about something?”

“No.”

“Then why are you so quiet?”

“It’s nothing. I don’t want to talk about it.”

“So you are mad.”

Stony Silence.

Doc leaned forward to peer into the front seat at the item Willie was holding. “Rev, that’s not your shade, I hope.”

“It belongs to the Bride. Remember, this is her car.” I played into the game. “Well, I heard you can use old mascara as camo. You know, to break up all the white space on your face.”

“Gonna wear this tie, too?” Woodrow asked, holding up one of the grandkid’s hair ties he pulled from under the seat.

“You boys must be bored,” I said. “Quit digging around back there. No telling what you might find. I know I need to clean this thing out, but I won’t until turkey season is over.”

I saw Delbert’s rear in my rear-view mirror as he leaned over the back seat before his feet waved in the air. Complaints and expletives erupted from the backseat.

“What are you doing?” Doc asked.

“Looky what I found,” Delbert held up a pocket-size bottle of hairspray.

Before I could deny ownership, Youngster took the little bottle and touched up his hair.

“I found a Koosh-Koosh,” Delbert announced from the floorboard. “Wanna see it?”

“If he shows me something nasty I’m going to throw him out the window,” Woodrow said.

“It’s a toy. It belongs to the kids,” I explained and avoided an exploded armadillo in my lane. I think they blow up simply by crossing the road.

They batted the Koosh-Koosh around the car like a beach ball. “How old are you guys?” I asked after being hit in the back of the head for the third time.

“Skittles anyone?” Delbert held up a half-empty package of the colorful candies.

Jerry Wayne claimed it and emptied the entire thing into his mouth. I neglected to tell him they had been spilled in the floor for a whole week before I raked them back into the package, intending to throw it away.

Jerry Wayne spent the next thirty minutes scraping lint and hair out of his mouth. My girls tend to brush their hair a lot.

“Snake,” Delbert said casually from under the seat. He threw a leftover rubber Halloween snake over the seat.

It was the wrong thing to do. No one realized he was kidding. Since Doc has been known to drive around a snake on the highway in order to avoid touching the thing with his tires, he was the first to respond.

“Yaaahhh!!! Oh, lordy, it bit me!”

Chaos.

Terrified shrieks.

Expletives I shall not repeat here.

Everyone was screaming at me to stop the Expedition, which is rather difficult to do in the fast lane of an interstate. Doors opened and slammed in the 70-mph slipstream. There were suddenly four people in the front two captain’s chairs with me.

I found driving to be difficult at that point. We hit the shoulder at 60 miles an hour and slid to a stop amid chaotic screaming, dirt, flying rubber strips and bits of old dried possums. During the slide I looked in the mirror and wondered how Doc had gotten outside on the coolers.

Youngster was frozen in the fear, staring straight ahead, his still damp sprayed hair standing straight up. Delbert’s forehead had the waffle treadmark from someone’s shoe.

“Find anything else of interest?” I asked as the dust swirled around the stopped vehicle.

“Just this little can of tick repellant,” Patrick answered in a small voice.

“Now that belongs to me,” I said, and got out to pry Doc’s fingers from the luggage rack so we could go.