Page 12 of They Call Her Dirty Sally

Finn makes a strange cough-groan sound in his throat. “She was something. Loved with her whole heart but demanded respect and expected me to treat others likewise. Hence, the opening of the door. As long as you’re helping me, you might as well stand beside it and wait. If you don’t, I’ll hear my mom’s lecture inside my head, and no one wants to hear a repeat of that.”

His words might be funny, but I heard the one word he glossed over.

“Was?”

“She died six years ago. Cancer. That’s what I was told, anyway. Who knows if that’s actually the truth.” He mutters that last part as his hands flex on the steering wheel like an anxious tic. It’s an odd thing to say about his mother dying, and there’s something in his voice, a tone that I can’t quite place. Disbelief or resentment, maybe, though it’s hard to say who he’s aiming it toward.

I want to ask but settle for “I’m sorry” and sink into my seat. The dampness of the still-wet bra against my skin leaves me chilled. The seat warmers help, but once cold has seeped into your bones, it’s hard to get the sensation out. Trying to be inconspicuous, I dial up the heat a couple notches.

“You cold?” Finn asks, sliding me a concerned look.

“A little,” I say, my chattering teeth betraying my lie. “It was a stupid mistake walking in the rain.”

“Maybe, but the reason behind it wasn’t.” He turns up the dial on the heat even more, and I begin to thaw within seconds.

“Where are we going?” We’re on the outskirts of town and nowhere near Mr. Bailey’s house when I remember I was supposed to drive.

“I honestly have no idea,” he says, putting on the brakes like the same thought just occurred to him. “I got lost in thought and just started driving.” He pulls the car to the side of the road and hops out, running around the back of the car. I take it as my cue to slide behind the wheel and do, quickly, only then realizing I’m sitting behind the wheel of an Audi. I have no business driving this car, me of the four busted tires and one flattened stop sign in my driving history. Most people have very little trouble staying within the confines of city streets, but I hit curbs and sidewalks like whack-a-moles, hoping for a prize. My biggest prize so far was a five-hundred-dollar front wheel replacement and a seventy-five-dollar fine from the city that my father paid under the table. We can’t all win the lottery.

My hands fist the wheel at ten and two o’clock, but I don’t attempt to move.

“I’m not sure what type of car you own, but this car works best when you shift into drive.”

“I can’t drive your car. It’s too nice.”

“It’s three years old and won’t bite you,” Finn says. “It drives like any other car.”

At that, I give him a look. “Does it drive like my ’84 Chevy Malibu with the dent on the passenger door?” He frowns, and I know I’ve got him.

“Depends on what the dent is from.”

“Me forgetting to put a shopping cart back in the corral on an especially windy day.”

Finn shrugs. “Then we’ll stay out of parking lots.”

It’s a valid alternative. I take a deep breath, shift the car into drive, and pull onto the road, taking the first left turn we come to. Finn overshot Mr. Bailey’s house about five miles ago, but within a couple minutes and three more turns, we’re back on track and heading for the other side of town. It’s a silent car ride, unlike what I expected. I assumed he would have questions for me about the town or my life, about the hospital fire or the upcoming anniversary. At the very least, maybe hit me with his list of interview bullet points. But he says nothing, just sits as if lost in thought. If I hadn’t seen him only last night, I would suspect he’d been dealt a heavy blow or some sort of life-altering revelation. Like maybe he was fired. Or broke up with a girlfriend. A neighbor ran over his dog? But he’s just quiet, head moving back and forth as he takes in the small-town scenery. Considering there’s nothing but cow pastures on one side of the road and chicken houses on the other, the scenery is questionable. Not even the smell of chicken waste earns a remark—he even takes a deep breath as if to say something. But then nothing. I’m used to this town being the butt of many jokes. I’m not used to this.

“Have you ever heard of ancestry testing through the internet?” he finally says.

I’m not used to this either.

“Like, on computers?” We have computers here, of course. Have had for about three years now. I’m just rarely on them. Besides the row of already outdated IBM’s inside the public library, I’m not often around computers. We don’t have them at the hotel, and I can’t afford to buy one for home use. I’d ask my parents, but I quit doing that last year when my dad paid that fine. Seventy-five dollars is a lot of money when it comes with a reckless driving lecture at every family dinner.

We approach a sharp turn, so I ease my foot on the brake and slow down to twenty. The car rolls with it like butter, no jerks or starts.

Finn looks over at me. “You’re not on the web much, are you?”

The Web? Like Charlotte?is the first thing that comes to mind, though even I know he isn’t referring to the book or the spider. I think that’s how some people refer to computer pages, so I test out that theory by feigning confidence.

“Not a big fan of it. I don’t like that people I’ve never met could reach out to me through that box.” Finn finds that statement funny. “What? They totally could. Maybe not with their arm literally coming through the screen, but…” He laughs harder. It annoys me at first, but then my own words register inside my head, and I’m smiling too at my lame version ofPoltergeist. It’s like I’ve developed a crack in my verbal filter that allows moronic words to keep sliding through. “Back to your original question,” I say, dragging out the word ‘original’ in my attempt to save face, “I have heard about people researching their ancestors. I think you can order a floppy disc or something with instructions, then you follow what it says to do, and they’ll send you results in the mail.” It’s the extent of my knowledge, but it must have been partly right because Finn stops laughing and nods.

“That’s what I thought. Any idea how long it takes? Or what the procedure is?”

“I think you pee in a cup or scrape the inside of your mouth or something. There might be blood involved, so count me out.”

He audibly winces. “None of those sound pleasant.”

“Sounds masochistic to me, but what’s worse is, can you imagine being the one getting that package in the mail? ‘Happy Birthday, here’s my pee. Hope you like it.’”

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