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“Whoops-my-dear!” Granpop cries, and when Billy asks him what that means, Granpop tells him it’s what you say when you go over a bump like that. “Isn’t it, Frank? We used to say that all the time, didn’t we?”
Mr. Brown doesn’t answer.
“Didn’t we?”
Frank doesn’t answer. His knuckles are white on the steering wheel.
“Didn’t we?”
“Yeah, Dad. Whoops-my-fucking-dear.”
“Frank,” Corinne says in a chiding tone.
Mary giggles. Billy snickers. Granpop bares his dentures in another leer.
We’re having such fun, Frank thinks. Gee, if this trip could only last longer. If only it could last forever.
The trouble with the old bastard, Corinne thinks, is that he still gets a kick out of life, and people who get a kick out of life take a long time kicking the bucket. They like that old bucket.
Billy returns to his game. He’s reached level six. He has yet to make it to level seven.
“Billy,” Frank says, “have you got bars on your phone?”
Billy pauses the game and checks. “One, but it keeps flickering on and off.”
“Great. Terrific.”
Another washboard shivers through the Buick and Frank slows to fifteen. He wonders if he could change his name, ditch his family, and get a job at some little bank in an Australian town. Learn to call people mate and say g’day.
“Lookit, kids!” Granpop bawls.
He’s leaning forward, and from this position is able to overload both his son’s right ear and his daughter-in-law’s left. They wince away in opposite directions, not just from the noise but from his breath. It smells like a small animal died in his mouth, shitting as it expired. He starts most mornings burping up bile and smacking his lips afterward, as if it’s tasty. Whatever’s going on inside him can’t be good and yet he exudes that horrible vitality. Sometimes, Corinne thinks, I believe I could kill him. I really do. Only I think the kids love him. Christ knows why, but they do.
“Lookit there, right over there!” One arthritis-bunched finger stabs out between Mr. and Mrs. Brown. The horny talon at the tip almost rips into Mrs. Brown’s cheek. “That’s the old Slide Inn, what’s left of it! Right there! I been there once, you know. Me and my sister Nan and our folks. We had breakfast in our rooms!”
The kids look dutifully at what remains of the Slide Inn: a few charred beams and a cellar hole. Mrs. Brown sees an old panel truck up there, parked in the weeds and sunflowers. It looks even older than Granpop’s Buick, the sides caked with rust.
“Cool, Granpop,” Billy says, and once more returns to his game.
“Cool, Granpop,” Mary says, and goes back to her funnybook.
The ruin of the hotel slips behind them. Frank wonders if perhaps the owners burned it down on purpose. For the insurance money. Because, really, who would want to come out here to spend a weekend or, God forbid, a honeymoon? Maine has plenty of beauty spots, but this isn’t one of them. This isn’t even a place you go through to get to somewhere else unless you can’t avoid it. And they could have. That’s the hair across his ass.
“What if Great-Aunt Nan dies before we get there, Granpop?” Mary asks. She’s finished her comic book. The next one is Little Lulu, and she has no interest. Little Lulu looks like a turd in a dress.
“Well, then we’ll turn around and go back,” Granpop says. “After the funeral, accourse.”
The funeral. Oh God, the funeral. Frank hasn’t even thought about how she could be dead already. She might even pop off while they’re visiting, and then they would have to stay for the old bird’s funeral. He’s only brought a single change of clothes, and—
“Look out!” Corinne shouts. “Stop!”
Frank does, and just in time. There’s another plugged culvert and another washout at the top of the hill. Only this washout goes all the way across. The crevasse looks at least three feet wide. God knows how deep it is.
“What’s wrong, Dad?” Billy asks, pausing his game again.
“What’s wrong, Dad?” Mary asks, stopping her search for another Archie funnybook.
“What’s wrong, Frankie?” Granpop asks.
