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Warning Signs

Sally Simon

    Marge didn’t like the idea from the start. “Any road that says ‘Travel at your own risk and please be safe,’ isn’t.”

    “Has nothing to do with safety,” Jason retorts.
    “Then you admit it was stupidity?”
    Jason throws a scarf around his neck, getting out of the car without a word.
    A van whirls by sending a cloud of snow in its wake. It honks. Marge glimpses two clinking beer bottles. Cheers to you too, mother fuckers. Marge never curses out loud, but in her mind lives a drunken sailor.
    “God damn you,” Jason yells. He’s standing at the front of the Cadillac, an icon of wealth in these parts, pounding his fist in the air. Money isn’t going to save him now, although he’ll need it for the can of gas. First he needs a ride to Bayfield.

    Marge is wrapped in a blanket she found in the trunk, its beige pigment faded with age. She isn’t exactly freezing, but there’s barely a ribbon of light on the horizon of Lake Superior, so she knows it’s only a matter of time.

    She shouts through the window, “You could
walk, you know.”

    “It’s damn near a mile, Marge.”
    “Gonna be dark soon.”
    “I know that. You think I’m an idiot?”
    She knows that’s a rhetorical question. “You could’ve been there and back by now is all I’m saying.”
    Jason glares at her, “You have legs too, ya know.”
    Marge gasps. Fine. She throws off the blanket, tightens her hood, and grabs her pocketbook. She’s out the door.
    Jason comes toward her. She holds up her hand. “Don’t. I can save myself, thank you very much.” For nothing.
    Marge trudges through the snow, steps over the tree used to mark this godforsaken byway, and onto the clearing made by the Wisconsin Department of Public Works. She walks down the icy road, happy she’s wearing gloves instead of mittens so she can give Jason the middle finger as she makes her exit.
    The wind is blowing, cold. She talks to herself, quickening her pace, “You can do this, bitch.”

    Within minutes, Marge sees Bayfield Harbor. Stupid ass, it was closer than you thought.
    She walks down Front Street to Morrie’s Pub. It’s crowded, but she finds a stool at the end of the bar, takes off her coat, makes herself at home, and welcomes the warmth.

    The apron-clad bartender announces last call for happy hour.
    “Grey Goose with a splash of cranberry, no ice, double lemon.”
    College basketball hails from the TV above the bar. It reminds her of happier times at Villanova, and Mark, her first love during freshman year.
A ball is being dunked as she decides.
    She chugs her drink, pulls the engagement ring off her finger, and drops it into the empty glass. For now, Marge is traveling solo.

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