R J Hembree - Writers' Village University

of her jeans.
She glanced at the bed. Her face paled until the freckles across the bridge of
her nose stood out like tiny pinpricks. “You guys gonna get a divorce?”
Stuffing his keys in his pocket, he walked past her into the hall.
“’Cause if you do, I want to stay with you,” Annie called after him.
“Wait in the car. I’ll get your mother.”
Route 29 ran southeast from Lambertville to Trenton. Flanked by the
Delaware River on one side and the outskirts of the city on the other, it slipped
beneath Skudder Falls Bridge and past The Calhoun Street Bridge before it
expanded into three lanes and entered the business district of the city. As Bill
drove towards Trenton, the morning light cast the clapboard siding of Trenton’s
oldest homes in silken tones of gray and the homes took on a nostalgic aura that
soothed the desperation from the neighborhood. Bill soaked up the illusion and
tried to ignore the space between himself and his wife.
Half way across the Calhoun Street Bridge, Annie’s face appeared inches
from his own. Her head bobbed in time to the thrum of rubber on steel. “Cool. I can
see straight down into the river. Think we’ll fall?”
“It hasn’t fallen, yet.”
“It’ll fall someday.”
“Not today.”
“Says you,” Annie sat back. A heavy staccato beat drifted from the back seat.
“That better not be rap,” he warned.
“Everything else sucks.”
Gritting his teeth, Bill leaned forward and adjusted the heat. His gaze
skimmed Rachel’s lap. Her hands rested there, palms down. As the jeep cleared
the bridge and swerved onto River Road, she turned and gave him a long,
searching look.
River Road followed the shore of the river along the Pennsylvania side. From
this side of the Delaware the state museum stood in silhouette against a colorless
sky. Beneath it, the dome of the planetarium sat like an inverted cereal bowl.
As they left the bridge behind, they entered the old Pennsylvania suburbs
and saw many stone-faced mansions with multi-leveled roof lines. The homes sat
far back from the road, fronted by deep lawns and onyx driveways that bumped
against three-car garages or slipped out of sight behind expensive landscaping.
fists.
“Everything looks so perfect,” Rachel said.
“It’s an illusion.”
“I know that.” Her shoulders sagged and her hands shriveled into two small
“I miss you.” The word escaped from him before he could stop them. He
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