“I would!” said Steven.
The woman looked back down at him. “You might at that.” She held her glass out to Wendy. “Perhaps I will have some of that lemonade.”
“Sure. We have lots.”
“What am I thinking of?” The woman rose from the couch in a single, flowing motion. “Let me help.” She followed Wendy back into the compact kitchen. Alicia watched them dig the lemonade out of the refrigerator, turned her chair toward her husband.
“Frank, I wonder if we did the right thing.”
“What …?” He lowered his voice. “What are you talking about? You saw her, standing out there all by herself. If we hadn’t picked her up she could be in serious trouble by tonight.” He gestured at the road. “Rides look about as scarce as she said they were.”
“Some trucker would have stopped for her,” Alicia declared with conviction. “She’s pretty. I’m surprised one hadn’t picked her up already.”
“You can’t tell she’s pretty until you see her up close,” Frank pointed out, “and there haven’t been that many trucks, either. As soon as it starts getting hot like this they try running at night. What’s wrong with helping someone in trouble?”
“It’s not like you, Frank. You never stop for hitchhikers.”
“So this is my trip for doing different things. Don’t tell me you’re worried about her? Look at her. She’s barely as big as Wendy.”
“I don’t mean that. It’s the way she talks. So soft, you can hardly hear her.”
“Kind of nice for a change, isn’t it? Maybe the kids’ll pick up on it.”
“Those strange clothes she’s wearing, and not having any luggage, not even a purse.”
“Yeah, I noticed. So she’s down on her luck or something. None of our business. We’re just giving her a lift. That doesn’t entitle us to know her life story.”
Alicia turned her chair full around so she was facing forward once more. “Maybe she’s a hippie or something.”
Frank almost laughed aloud. “You’ve been watching too much TV, sweetheart. Hippies are like dinosaurs. They’re both extinct.”
“Then what if she’s a drug addict or like that?”
Her husband made a disgusted noise. Alicia folded her arms, refusing to back down.
“I’m just saying there’s something abnormal about her. You can tell just by looking at her.”
“Poor kid probably hasn’t had a decent meal in no telling how long. Skinny as a rail.”
“Not so skinny,” said Alicia carefully, “though she is on the slim side. Doesn’t that go with taking drugs?”
“So I’ve heard. It also goes with exercise, dieting, and good genes. A few days out in this country would sweat poundage off anybody.”
“Hush. She’s coming back.” Alicia pretended to find something of interest in the unchanging scenery.
Frank shook his head. Funny gal, his Alicia. Calm, composed, charming, and ever ready to see a conspiracy in everything from a cluster of Libyans to a line of talkative nuns. A glance upward revealed that their guest had resumed her seat on the couch, holding her lemonade like a glass of rare wine. She was smiling and whispering to Wendy, who giggled and whispered back. He wondered what they were chatting about. As the thought left his mind, the hitchhiker looked toward him. Guiltily he dropped his eyes from the mirror.
“Since all of you have introduced yourselves I suppose the turn is mine. My name is Mohostosocia.” Her tongue twisted around the syllables, adding at least two impossible inflections. Frank tried and failed to place the accent. No linguist he. Central European at a quick guess, possibly Slavic. Certainly not Spanish, which he had a nongrammatical but efficient grasp of. “Now that we are all friends, though, you may call me Mouse.”
Wendy giggled. Steven grinned. “We’ve got some cheese, if you want.”
“Steven!” His sister took a swipe at him and he was forced to duck.
“It is all right. As a matter of fact,” she said, staring at the mesmerized boy out of strangely transparent eyes, “I do like cheese. Swiss, colby, longhorn, Brie, Gruyère, Gouda, shannon—”
“I like American!” said Steven proudly, interrupting before she could finish.
“Most little boys like you do, I understand.”
“I’m not a little boy. I’m eleven.”
“Ten,” Alicia said patiently.
“I’ll be eleven in six months.” Steven subsided, but only slightly.
“I stand corrected. You are not a little boy.”
Steven looked mollified. Frank was straining to listen to the conversation. Though Mouse’s couch wasn’t far behind the front seats, her breathy voice tended to get lost in the motor home’s copious interior.
With a start he realized that their guest was far more interesting than anything else they’d encountered since commencing this ill-conceived journey. He wasn’t sure about Alicia, but he found her fascinating. So did his daughter. As for Steven, the boy was giving the woman the sort of attention he usually reserved only for fried foods and large desserts. It was easy to understand. That exquisite and mysterious face, the unknown figure enshrouded in yards of iridescent silk, the whispery, musical voice—those could hypnotize a ten-year-old boy as easily as they could a much older male.
“Frank, you’re drifting over the center line again.”
“What? Sorry, hon.” He conscientiously eased the motor home back into the slow lane. Steven could freely fall under Mouse’s spell. Frank had to drive.
Alicia looked back, made an effort to be pleasant. “Where are you from?”
Mouse turned slightly on the couch to wave indifferently at the rear of the motor home. “Back that way.”
