“Hell, I don’t know!” Quinn broke eye contact, studied his manicured cuticles, and said to his hands, “Maybe an irate neighbor shot Schweitzer because of his constant barking, and Mom lost it somehow, and—I just don’t know. What’s the worst that could have happened?”
“She could have murdered whoever shot Schweitzer.”
“If she hasn’t killed Dad by now, she’s not likely to murder anybody.”
This was a joke; therefore, Forrest answered it soberly. “True,” he admitted. But something about his face or tone made Quinn laugh, and Forrest had always loved to laugh; he joined in.
“The real capital error,” he told Quinn, chuckling, “is to try to figure out Mom.”
“And yet we do.”
“Yeah, well, how about those Yankees?”
An excellent diversion. A subject fascinating to both of them. One of their few mutual interests. Quinn put away his iPad and willingly discussed the Yankees during the rest of the flight to Tallahassee.
Deplaning took as long as ever, but lugging his carry-on duffel bag through the Tallahassee terminal, Forrest, to his surprise, saw the light of outdoors ahead. This was not as large a terminal as he had expected. A moment later they checked in at the one and only rental car desk, then stepped outside. Forrest looked back at a single brick building flanked by tall pine trees.
“This airport is tiny!”
“For a state capital, yes. There’s our rental.” Quinn stopped rolling his carry-on leather suitcase, tucked away its handle, and lifted it into the car’s trunk. “Dorothy, we’re not in Kansas anymore. Would you like to drive?”
“Sure, but don’t call me Dorothy.”
“I’ll navigate.” Belted into the passenger seat, Quinn deployed his iPad and pulled up a map app. “I’m hoping we can get to Mom’s place before dark.”
During the two-hour drive on I-10 that followed, Forrest found himself and his brother in heartfelt agreement on a couple of sentiments not involving the Yankees. One, a Chevy Aveo had to be the Worst Rental Car Ever. “It was all I could get on short notice,” Quinn said, genuinely apologetic. Two, the Florida Panhandle was the most alien place either of them had ever seen outside of a sci-fi movie. Miles and miles of nothing except tall forest standing in dark water. A road-killed bristly bloating black pig on the shoulder. At a rest stop, a hillbilly with a long beard that looked entirely too much like Spanish moss—only he couldn’t rightly be called a hillbilly, because there were no hills in this flatland. Call him a swamp denizen, selling watermelons and boiled peanuts.
Adding to the surreal feel were Stetson-shaped billboards advertising a Western-wear outlet, and others, normal in their rectangular shape but not so normal in content: “Learn to Fly at Wiregrass Aviation,” “Camp at Sinkhole Springs,” “Enjoy Family Fun at Possum Park.” Forrest slowed down to look at that last one.
“Dancing possums?” he reported doubtfully. “Tempting tasty possum soup?”
“Not in my lifetime.”
Another billboard that caught their attention advertised Bucky Bob’s Bait and Live Oyster Bar.
“I like oysters,” Quinn mused aloud, “but not when they’ve been rubbing elbows with night crawlers.”
“Since when do oysters have elbows?”
“Shut up and drive.”
Late in the afternoon they exited I-10, and once they got past the small cluster of motels, gas stations, and fast-food restaurants by the interstate, they left behind civilization as they knew it. The rudimentary road on which they drove was a pencil-straight line punctuated by a few trailer parks and several small frame houses painted in rainbow colors. When they reached an ornate but faded sign, THE CHURCHES OF MAYPOP WELCOME YOU, Quinn told Forrest, “Keep going to the third traffic light, which happens also to be the last traffic light.”
“Why does that not surprise me?” Forrest had slowed down not so much in obedience to the posted speed limit as to gawk at what might as well have been a Midwestern not-quite–ghost town with false fronts. PAWN SHOP, WE BUY GOLD. CHECK CASHING. Then he did a slight double take and read aloud, “‘Best Pharmacy and Hunting and Fishing Supplies. Gun Sale.’”
“Eek.” Quinn gave an exaggerated shudder. “I’d be scared to go in there for Advil.”
“Look what’s right next door. ‘Snell Furniture and Undertaking, Family Owned for Three Generations.’”
“We’re in Oz, Forrie. Look over there at Cutzit Hairstyles.”
“You’ve got to be kidding.” But Forrie could see all too clearly the beauty salon’s window display of conditioners, curling irons, and chain saws.