Terminal Velocity by Blanche McCary Boyd

Author:Blanche McCary Boyd [Boyd, Blanche McCrary]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-0-307-76664-9
Publisher: Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group
Published: 2011-05-04T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 17

“Nothing personal, Jordan, but I don’t think I would like this much togetherness with anybody. And I don’t see how you stand all this disguise shit.”

The first night they stopped, at a tacky resort in the Sierras, Jordan put an auburn rinse on Rain’s hair and insisted she start wearing her prescription dark glasses. Rain complained that she could see fine without them and hated feeling like she had a windshield over her face.

In Boise, they checked into an Econolodge. Jordan made two cryptic calls from the room and went outside several times to use a pay phone. They’d picked up some Colonel Sanders fried chicken to eat in bed, and the smell competed with the odor of Rain’s recently rinsed hair. “Wow,” Rain said, “this is just like having dinner with Miss Lureen and Freud. All we need is the LSD.”

Lying beside the white plastic containers was a San Francisco Chronicle they’d picked up the day before in a truck stop. On the front page was a small article about Sigmund Heller’s research on American communes. The “American commune movement,” he asserted, was similar to the “kibbutz phenomenon in Israel.” He was returning to Vienna to complete his book.

The queen-size bed was covered with faded yellow chenille, and, hanging on the wall above the bed, was a painting of a striped yellow tiger on a black velvet background. “If we have plenty of money,” Rain said, “I don’t see why we’re staying in a dump like this.”

“I guess you’re not liking your new identity.”

“I hate it. So what will we do here? Go sightseeing in Boise?”

An hour into their flight from Haight-Ashbury, Jordan had tossed a new license across the seat. Under Ellen’s picture was a new name: Evelyn Roach. “Who on earth came up with this idea?”

“They can’t exactly choose the name. It has to be somebody dead who’s about your age. We’re lucky it could be done this fast.”

“This says brown hair. So why did I dye my hair red?”

“Your hair is auburn now. It was only a rinse.”

“Did you get this done at that bookstore?”

“Don’t guess, okay?”

“Goddamn. Evelyn Roach. That’s more oppressive than being married. I can’t believe it. With glasses and red hair.”

“You’ll develop a sense of humor about it.”

“Yeah, right. Here’s a joke: If I turned myself in, I couldn’t pass for myself.”

Later, staring in the bathroom mirror, Rain thought that she looked suspiciously like someone who might be named Evelyn Roach. Apparently a large piece of her identity had resided in the unremarkable color of her hair.

“Why do you get to be someone more like yourself? I mean, those licenses you have aren’t insulting.”

“Those aren’t good anymore. I’ve become”—she flourished a new license—“Susan Babcock.”

Her attitude was compelling, and Rain moved close to her. “Susan, I like that. Okay, Susan, why are we in this awful motel?”

“Susan and Evelyn. It’s good, isn’t it?”

Rain kissed her. “Why are we in this awful motel?”

“I’ll show you, Evelyn,” she said, unbuttoning Rain’s shirt.

“Call me Roach,” Rain said.

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