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I pour you more coffee?" "Oh, no, thank you," Maggie said. In fact, her mug was untouched. She took a little sip to show her appreciation.
Mabel tore the bill off a pad and handed it to Ira. He paid in loose change, standing up to root through his pockets. Maggie, meanwhile, placed her damp Kleenex in the empty chip sack and made a tidy package of it so as not to be any trouble. "Well, it was nice talking to you," she told Mabel.
"Take care, sweetheart," Mabel said.
Maggie had the feeling they ought to kiss cheeks, like women who'd had lunch together.
She wasn't crying anymore, but she could sense Ira's disgust as he led the way to the parking lot. It felt like a sheet of something glassy and flat, shutting her out. He ought to have married Ann Landers, she thought. She slid into the car. The seat was so hot it burned through the back of her dress. Ira got in too and slammed the door behind him. If he had married Ann Landers he'd have just the kind of hard-nosed, sensible wife he wanted. Sometimes, hearing his grunt of approval as he read one of Ann's snappy answers, Maggie felt an actual pang of jealousy.
They passed the ranch houses once again, jouncing along the little paved road. The map lay between them, crisply folded. She didn't ask what he'd decided about routes. She looked out the window, every now and then sniffing as quietly as possible.
"Six and a half years," Ira said. "No, seven now, and you're still dragging up that Fiona business. Telling total strangers it was all my fault she left. You just have to blame someone for it, don't you, Maggie." "If someone's to blame, why, yes, I do," Maggie told the scenery.
"Never occurred to you it might be your fault, did it." "Are we going to go through this whole dumb argument again?" she asked, swinging around to confront him.
"Well, who brought it up, I'd like to know?" "I was merely stating the facts, Ira." "Who asked for the facts, Maggie? Why do you feel the need to pour out your soul to some waitress?" "Now, there is nothing wrong with being a waitress," she told him. "It's a perfectly respectable occupation. Our own daughter's been working as a waitress, must I remind you." "Oh, great, Maggie; another of your logical progressions." "One thing about you that I really cannot stand," she said, "is how you act so superior. We can't have just a civilized back-and-forth discussion; oh, no. No, you have to make a point of how illogical I am, what a whifflehead I am, how you're so cool and above it all." "Well, at least I don't spill my life story in public eating places," he told her.
"Oh, just let me out," she said. "I cannot bear your company another second." "Gladly," he said, but he went on driving.
"Let me out, I tell you!" ' He looked over at her. He slowed down. She picked up her purse and clutched it to her chest.
"Are you going to stop this car," she asked, "or do I have to jump from a moving vehicle?" He stopped the car.
Maggie got out* and slammed the door. She started walking back toward the caf. For a moment it seemed that Ira planned just to sit there, but then she heard him shift gears and drive on.
The sun poured down a great wash of yellow light, and her shoes made little cluttery sounds on the gravel. Her heart was beating extra fast. She felt pleased, in a funny sort of way. She felt almost drunk with fury and elation.
She passed the first of the ranch houses, where weedy flowers waved along the edge of the front yard and a tricycle lay in the driveway. It certainly was quiet. All she could hear was the distant chirping of birds-their chink! chink! chink! and video! video! video! in the trees far across the fields. She'd lived her entire life with the hum of the city, she realized. You'd think Baltimore was kept running by some giant, ceaseless, underground machine. How had she stood it? Just like that, she gave up any plan for returning. She'd been heading toward the cafe with some vague notion of asking for the nearest Trailways stop, or