Free They Almost Always Come Home by Cynthia Ruchti Page B

driving, we don’t have to worry about whiplash at intersections with a light or sign. He’s yet to come to a com- plete stop. And isn’t there some well-publicized rule about not passing on the right of a slow-moving vehicle?”
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    CYNTHIA RUCHTI
    I stifle a chuckle. Greg didn’t inherit those habits from his
    father. I always feel safe with Greg behind the wheel. That’s a blessing, I guess. One I haven’t thought about for a while.
    Safe. I wonder if Greg’s computer thesaurus lists dispassion-
    ate as a synonym for safe .
    Was I always a half-empty thinker? How far back would I
    have to trace to find the point at which I lost hope? It wasn’t an episode. My bucket of hope for us—Greg and me—sported a mere pinhole. That’s why it’s taken so long for me to run dry— the reason I didn’t walk away three years ago.
    The honeymoon. Did it start then? Would the pinhole have
    sealed itself over if Greg hadn’t flipped on the television in the motel when we were done?
    If I’d spoken up rather than pouted, what might have hap-
    pened? What if I’d told him, “Greg, honey, could we just hold each other until we fall asleep?” I can’t imagine he would have refused me. Not his style. Maybe he didn’t know how much I needed the comfort of his steady breathing, the reassuring weight of his arm across my middle, the coordination of our pulses.
    Somewhere along the line, I stopped expecting what I
    needed. Now I expect I’ll be disappointed. And I am. That’s an easy expectation to meet. And then, of course, Lacey.
    Jen’s voice breaks through. “Are you asleep?”
    “What?”
    “You sleeping or thinking?”
    “Thinking.”
    “Is that wise?”
    Jen deserves her own talk show. Or radio counseling
    program.
    “You’re missing some great scenery,” she says. “We’re
    through Fort Frances and heading into the true North.”
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    They Almost Always Come Home
    I lift my head and glance out the window. The road isn’t a four-lane ribbon of asphalt anymore. It’s a thread. One lane each way. Smooth enough, but almost absent of shoulders. Road, rock, water. Nothing much between. A glacier-thrown pottery “fence” of gray, lichen-covered rocks keeps Rainy River and Rainy Lake from washing over the road.
    Four hundred miles south, the pine trees are thick-necked linebackers. Here, many of the pines that cling to the rocks are more like pool cues with shaved chenille pipe-cleaner arms. Their branches start high on their trunks, as if their arms extend from narrow chins. No necks.
    Did you notice that, Greg? When you passed this place, did you notice the skeletal trees? What was on your mind? Did you know already you weren’t coming home? How long ago did you decide? One of these days, I’ll know.
    One of these days, the truth will come out. He’ll call home, say he’s sorry but he couldn’t take it anymore and hopes the boys and I will forgive him. Or he’ll slip up and get caught on film—convenience store or ATM surveillance footage, in the crowd at a high school football game in his new hometown, on the video phone of Greg’s new neighbor—a computer geek— who stumbles onto the “My Dad’s Missing” website Alex will create.
    One of these days I’ll know if I have penance to pay for thinking such thoughts, for wasting time on anger when I should have spent it on worry. Or grief.
    I can’t begin to process this until I know what happened. Should I feel sorry for you, Greg? Or sorry for me?
    Frank powers down his driver’s side window and spits into the wind.
    “Frank!”
    “It was just chewing gum. Lighten up.”
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    CYNTHIA RUCHTI
    Jen presses her lips into a thin line. Or are they zippered
    shut? I, on the other hand, can’t make mine stick together. “No doubt Canada has rules against littering.”
    “It’s biodegradable.” The rearview mirror captures his
    expression. Deadpan.
    Biodegradable? That’s his reasoning? Number one, are we
    so sure? And number two—
    Jen puts a