56.

In 1999, McKenna rented a car and drove to Kalamazoo. Like most Americans, she had earned her license on her sixteenth birthday. Unlike most Americans, her fourth time behind the wheel came at age twenty-seven.

She preferred public transportation. McKenna rode the bus to the Old Kent on Plainfield where she worked as a full-time teller. The twenty-minute trip allowed her to read, think, and write before she had to turn off her mind and deal with customers for eight hours. Every day, she sat in the same bus seat—third row, left side. When someone happened to be in her spot, she took the nearest one available, but this always soured her mood and meant that she would have a bad day.

She had worked at the bank for four years, since earning her B.A. in philosophy and English from Aquinas College. Murray had long ago stopped asking if McKenna was going to “use” her degree, as if an education was a screwdriver.

One year ago, she’d completed her conversion to Catholicism. She and Grandma Pencil attended weekly mass together at St. Monica’s. The two were tall and lean, of identical height, with severe cheekbones. No makeup. Their shoes were low-heeled and closed-toed. They favored conservative, loose-fitting dresses, earth tones or navy blue, sometimes with a subtle floral pattern. Occasionally, they wore each other’s clothes. When entering and exiting the church, arms linked, people asked if they were mother and daughter.

Driving on the open expressway, McKenna was overwhelmed. She felt vulnerable. She’d never been naked in front of anyone, not since she was a baby, but this is what she imagined it would feel like. Her flaws were on full display. Every person in every car whizzing past was witness to a petrified lady gripping the wheel of a tin can, and they laughed at her. She was drifting over the center line, driving too slowly, sitting with improper posture.

She refused to speed up. Rolling along with nothing but a thin layer of metal between her and the pavement? Fifty-five was fast enough, thank you. McKenna knew about metal. Kalamazoo knew about metal now, too. Metal was a joke.

Despite the pleasant June weather, she kept the windows closed. Too noisy, that wind. The radio on, but very low. Air conditioner off. She heard it used up gasoline, and she was not going to be stranded out here. Just in case, she’d made certain there was a gas can in the trunk. And flares and a first aid kit. And a crowbar on the seat next to her. She nibbled daintily at the Hershey bar her father had given her.

Neither Murray nor Toby wanted to come along. If they had, she wouldn’t be driving, that’s for sure. She wouldn’t be so tense. She had asked. Pleaded. Laid a guilt trip.

“Almost two years, Dad. Don’t you even care how she’s doing?” “I can throw a rock and hit someone who’ll tell me how she’s doing. I don’t need to go to Kalamazoo for that.”

“She hasn’t been on the news in months. She could be sick.” Toby came through the front door and immediately closed all the living room blinds. “Watch the windows. There’s a blue Saturn out front. Probably some goddamn freelancer snooping around.” “Please, Dad. I’m officially begging.” “Sit down, Kojack. That’s McKenna’s Saturn.” “Kenny’s?” Toby chuckled. “My bullshit meter’s going off.” “Don’t call your sister that. It’s stupid. Grow up.”

Toby had gotten his own apartment in 1998 and was now a supervisor in the Outdoors Department at Lowe’s Home Improvement. He could really talk awnings. On the weekends, he flexed his oily wares for regional bodybuilding competitions. Murray still put in his forty at Hanson Mold, still bought five Lotto tickets a week, still bore the white beard he’d grown after Misty died nine years ago. He lived alone and no longer cracked Catholic jokes.

“Okay, Mr. Discipline,” Toby said. “What ever you say.” He dropped into the recliner, which groaned. He looked at McKenna. “So why’d you rent a car, Ken?”

“To see Audrey.”

The playfulness drained from his face. “Are you fucking crazy ?” On his temple, a pair of veins bloomed. His knee bounced. “Tell me you’re kidding. Is she kidding, Dad?”

Murray, eyes closed, hands folded, gently rocking, didn’t answer.

“Why would you do that?” Toby said. He was on the verge of tears. “Oh wait, let me guess. You’re a Christian now. You want to save her soul. Did Grandma put you up to this?” His searched the room for something inexpensive and dramatic to smash, so he could make his point without using these pesky words. Finding nothing, he sputtered, “Can’t that old bag leave Audrey alone?”

Murray opened his eyes. “Cool it, sport. Annabelle’s recovering, remember. And she’s still your grandma. You better hope you never end up in a hospital.”

“Grandma has nothing to do with it,” McKenna answered. Her heart was in a sprint, threatening to snap her chest like finish line tape. Her voice, however, sounded relaxed and steady, and she was proud of herself. “She’s my sister. She’s family.”

“Those reporters are going to eat you alive. Look at you.”

“Are you scared of something I might say?”

“Everything.” He shook his head. “Anything. Fuck.”

She understood Toby’s concern. The media blitz had only recently ebbed to a tolerable level. From October of 1997 until May of 1999—nineteen solid months—legitimate reporters and paparazzi alike had been daily presences at the house. From the beginning, Murray, Toby, McKenna, and Grandma Pencil had sworn a solemn oath to never say a word to the press. Whenever possible, they would avoid being photographed. Since this was inescapable, however, Murray bought everyone huge sunglasses. He also suggested wearing hats and engaging in unabated nose-scratching whenever stepping outside.

“Why don’t you come, Tobe?” McKenna said. “We’ll rescue Audrey together.”

He thought about this, trancelike. A small vertigo nested in his eyes. At last, he seemed to wake up and see the living room, his father, McKenna. He drew a deep breath through his nose. “I think she needs to rescue us.”