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virulent ambers, bilious greens. These nasty shades disturb me, especially projected on the stalactites, suspended like daggers from the cavern ceilings, bleeding limestone. Iclose my eyes, but it only makes me imagine my insides, as they are now, ugly and encrusted with matter. When I open them moments later, I immediately see an enormous shadow of two figures up on the wall of a cave. At first I think we’re the shadow, but then I see illuminated statues of Frank and Jesse James in their secret hideout below.
    “Be careful, John,” I say, pointing out some wet patches on the path.
    He says nothing, just pushes me along, nice as you please. Our guide leads us to a medium-sized cave with a lit stone bed. The sign on it says:
    TV’S “PEOPLE ARE FUNNY” HONEYMOON ROOM
    Our guide croups and gives us a big fake smile. “Art Linkletter, funnyman that he was, once made a newlywed couple sleep in this cave for nine nights so they could win a vacation in the Bahamas on his television show.”
    “Are you kidding?” I say out loud. The people around me nod.
    “No, it’s true. They stayed nine whole nights so they could win a beautiful honeymoon vacation.”
    “That would be horrible,” says a tiny woman in her sixties, to my left.
    “That’s not funny, that’s just plain old mean,” I say.
    Everyone in the group murmurs in agreement. The crowd is on my side now. I hear someone say, “That son of a bitch.” The guide flashes an even broader fake smile and leads us away, before an anti–Art Linkletter revolt breaks out. As we roll forward, she keeps talking. Now we can’t shut her up.
    “Lester Dill, the man who promoted the caverns for many years, was actually very kind to young couples. In fact, in 1961, he once offered a free wedding to any couples that would agree to get married in the caves. It was a huge success. Thirty-two couples signed up.”
    She looks over at me, expecting me to spout off, but I’m bored with rabble-rousing and I just smile at her. Why anyone would want to get married in a cave is beyond me. When John and I got hitched, we just did it like everybody did back then. A simple ceremony at the church in my neighborhood, a little party at my aunt Carrie’s house, our parents, our friends, a cake my mother made, some sandwiches and coffee. Just a small celebration, not the kind of show-offy affairs they make of weddings these days with cathedrals and halls and limousines. Cindy’s wedding almost sent us to the poorhouse, and it didn’t even take. What’s the point of all that madness, I ask you? All the fancy weddings in the world don’t prepare you for where you end up—getting rolled around in a wheelchair through a garish tourist cave by the man who is the father of your children. But before you know it, there you are.
     
    Surprise! There’s another depressing little hellhole on Route 66—Cuba, Missouri. In my guidebooks, I read about the past glories of these sad hamlets. In Cuba, there was a place called“The Midway,” a giant complex with a hotel, a car dealership, and a twenty-four-hour restaurant that fed up to six hundred people a day. Now, there’s a one-person fruit stand. Go figure.
    “John, stop at this stand. I want to buy some grapes.”
    John pulls the van up to a small clapboard stand where they are selling fresh grapes and grape juice. Apparently, this is wine country and we are here during the harvest.
    “Why don’t you just stay in the car, John?”
    “All right, Ella. Is there anything to drink there?”
    “I’ll get us some grape juice, okay?”
    John nods at me. “Sounds good.”
    “Don’t take off without me,” I say as a little joke, but I kind of really mean it. Either way, John is mostly resistant to humor now. He can still make me laugh, whether he knows it or not, but my jokes, such as they are, miss him completely.
    I pick out a small bag of grapes and a quart of grape juice, dark as blood. The woman at the stand puts them both in a paper bag