Free Hearts by Hilma Wolitzer Page A

superstitious fear of disobeying those printed instructions. In her sleep, Robin made unintelligible sounds that were almost words, and Linda said, “Shhh. Shhh.” Then she took a flashlight from her purse and opened one of the Exxon maps across her bed. With her finger she found their approximate location and then traced the continuation of their journey over the yellow line. The next state was Ohio, the state of Presidents. Linda couldn’t remember where she had heard that. Or why she thought of it now. She was so tired. Maybe if she slept for a few minutes. You could set yourself like an alarm clock to wake at a particular time if you wanted to. She could lie down on the covers, not get too comfortable or settled. Under her arm, the map crackled and she pushed it away, gently, so as not to tear it. Her flash of intuition in the car that morning could have been nothing, a false alarm. She didn’t feel different, really. There were supposed to be other signs, weren’t there? Breast soreness and swelling, weight gain, and whatever her mother saw in other women’s eyes. Cars went by on the road outside. There were people who traveled all night to get someplace. Trucks carried milk and eggs into Ohio for the breakfasts of future Presidents. In her mind’s eye, Linda followed them down the real double line of the highway until they disappeared into the darkness.
    When she woke, she was conscious first of the continuing traffic. She peered and squinted until her eyesadjusted, and she saw that it was almost two o’clock. Robin had flung off the covers and was lying spread-eagled and open-mouthed. Linda went into the bathroom and put on the light. A roach ran crazily for cover behind the toilet. Even before she saw the ring in the test tube, she felt the stunning blow of truth.

10 The hitchhikers were everywhere. You’d never know it was against the law. There was at least one contender at each entrance to the parkway, arm raised like the starter’s in a demolition derby.
    They were mostly young people, probably recently sprung from college, and setting out to see the world on this glorious June day. Some of them held signs:
Chicago. Phoenix. Anywhere!
Maybe the state troopers were looking the other way, given the gasoline shortage. Linda knew better than to pick anyone up, no matter how innocent he might seem. In their newspaper photos, captured murderers and rapists didn’t always appear sinister or different, either. When a criminal was handcuffed to a detective, Linda often had to read the caption to see who was who. Not that she worried so much about her own safety; she was too miserable by now to care. In some respects, the worst had already happened. But she was still responsible for Robin, who sat or lay in the backseat as if Linda were the chauffeur and there was a wall of glass between them.
    There was a new joyless refrain in Linda’s head: What will I do? What will I do? When they crossed the border into Ohio and were welcomed by the governor’s sign, she could not work up the enthusiasm to share it with Robin, who was looking the other way.
    As they approached Youngstown, Linda felt a slight change in the car’s movement that she ignored, and even when it seemed to limp and there was a strange plopping noise, she attributed it to the uneven surface of the road. When a trucker passed to her left and blasted his horn and gestured downward, she finally understood thatshe had a flat tire. She signaled and pulled over too quickly onto the graveled shoulder, and stopped at the end of a skid. Before she could open the door, a bearded man in a khaki T-shirt and chinos ran up to the car and yelled breathlessly, “Hey, thanks!”
    Linda stepped out, clutching the keys in her fist. “For what?” she asked, and saw that he had a backpack with a bedroll attached, and knew that he was the last hitchhiker she’d watched to the diminishing point in the rear-view mirror. “Oh,” she said. “I didn’t stop