After stopping at a third gas station and having every credit card in Monica’s wallet declined again, Jane knew things
were looking bleak. The first time, she’d assumed it had been a computer error. The second time, she grew worried but still held some hope. But now…no, there could be no mistake. Every card Monica possessed was maxed out.
No car. No money. As Jane, she’d never been in such a fix, no matter how tough she’d thought things were. Right now she couldn’t even afford to buy a twin pack of Twinkies.
Cold—she hadn’t thought to put on a jacket this morning, she’d been driving a car with heated seats for God’s sake and wearing a snuggly sweater—starving and exhausted, she sat on the curb outside the gas station and fought to keep it together. She wouldn’t cry like a baby! No way. Nor would she panic. Home, warm but with an empty refrigerator, was miles away. And Jason’s house was miles away, in the opposite direction.
Would a man who was cruel enough to repossess a car from his ex-girlfriend be willing to feed said ex-girlfriend if she asked nice? Or would he simply laugh in her face? Did she have any other options?
She inhaled sharply as a patron exited the gas station, savoring the scent of coffee as it wafted out the open door. Her stomach grumbled.
That was it. Desperate times and all that. She’d take her chances and pay Jason Foxx a visit, beg for a scrap of bread if that was what it took. Now was not the time to be prideful.
As she sat and rubbed her numb toes to try to return circulation to the blood-starved appendages before setting off—evidently there was a time limit on comfort even for designer shoes that cost a small fortune—an elderly woman stopped and smiled at her.
“Do you need some help, dear?”
Jane shook her head. “Oh no, thanks.”
The woman lowered her walker over the curb and shakily stepped down. “A ride, perhaps?”
Undecided, but tempted to take the woman up on her offer, despite the gruesome stories she’d been told as a kid about the dangers of accepting rides from strangers, she eyed the frail-looking woman. What kind of danger could a woman who could barely keep herself erect possibly pose? Guns were the great equalizers, but would someone like this kind- looking elderly woman carry one?
“I don’t have any money or valuables, outside of what I’m wearing. Unless you like Gucci bags.” She motioned toward Monica’s purse. “The plastic inside it is worthless.”
“I’m not looking to rob you, dear. You won’t rob me, now, will you? Since you’re broke.”
“Oh, heavens no! I wouldn’t know how to be a crook.” Laughing, and grateful for this unexpected lucky break, Jane slipped on her shoes and followed the woman to her car. “Thank you,” she said as she helped the woman fold up her walker and put it in the backseat, and then settle herself behind the steering wheel. “It would have been a long walk, and frankly I don’t think my feet are up to it.”
“I’m glad to help. I’ve been where you are once, you know. Did he throw you out for some young hussy?” “He? Who?” Jane took her seat.
“Your husband.” Not waiting for Jane to close the passenger side door, the old woman started the car and hit the gas, racing toward the road and showing no signs of stopping for traffic.
Jane quickly slammed the door and braced herself against the dashboard. Petrified, she closed her eyes, fully expecting the car to slam into some poor unsuspecting soul driving down the road. But before they hit anyone, the woman slammed on the brakes. Jane flew forward, her chest landing square on the dashboard, the force knocking the wind out of her. She opened her eyes, checked to see where they were—sitting at the end of the driveway—then glanced at the old woman.
She grinned. “My grandson says I should have my license permanently revoked. He says I’m a menace on the road. Can you believe it?”
Jane gulped as she tried to reinflate her lungs and secured the seat belt, pulling it as tight as she could. “No.”
Without looking, the old woman gunned the engine again and sent the car careening into traffic, narrowly missing an SUV and a subcompact that looked much like hers. Finally turning her attention to the road, she said, “I’ve been driving since 1932. Do you know what it’s like to drive a thirty-two pickup truck? Compared to that, this little beauty’s a piece of cake. It has power everything. And it’s very zippy. By the way, where are you headed?” “Franklin? Will that be out of your way? You could let me out sooner if you like.” “Hell, no. I’m going that way myself. I live on Woodbridge Street.” “Is that close to Harding?”
Running a red light, but seemingly unconcerned, the woman nodded. “Right around the corner. By the way, I’m Mabel.” Obviously deaf to the sounds of car horns as she jetted through traffic leaving near-crashes in her wake, she smiled.
