recreation playground and Iowa as a cornfield populated by hopeless rubes.
“It’s
Stenko said, “It’s the biggest and most luxurious thing I’ve ever been in. It’s amazing. You must really get some looks on the road.”
“Thank you,” Marshall said. “We spent a lifetime farming just so we . . .”
“I’ve heard a vehicle like this can cost more than six hundred K. Now, I’m not asking you what you paid, but am I in the ballpark?”
Marshall nodded, grinned.
“What kind of gas mileage does it get?” Stenko asked.
“Runs on diesel,” Marshall said.
“Whatever,” Stenko said, withdrawing a small spiral notebook from his jacket pocket and flipping it open.
“We’re getting eight to ten miles a gallon,” Marshall said. “Depends on the conditions, though. The Black Hills are the first mountains we hit going west from Iowa, and the air’s getting thinner. So the mileage gets worse. When we go through Wyoming and Montana—sheesh.”
“Not good, eh?” Stenko said, scribbling.
Sylvia knew Marshall disliked talking about miles per gallon because it made him defensive.
“You can’t look at it that way,” Marshall said, “you can’t look at it like it’s a car or a truck. You’ve got to look at it as your house on wheels. You’re moving your own house from place to place. Eight miles per gallon is a small price to pay for living in your own house. You save on motels and such like that.”
Stenko licked his pencil and scribbled. He seemed excited. “So how many miles do you put on your . . . house . . . in a year?”
Marshall looked at Sylvia. She could tell he was ready for Stenko to leave.
“Sixty thousand on average,” Marshall said. “Last year we did eighty.”
Stenko whistled. “How many years have you been doing this circuit as you call it?”
“Five,” Marshall said. “But this is the first year in The Unit.”
Stenko ignored Sylvia’s stony glare. “How many more years do you figure you’ll be doing this?”
“That’s a crazy question,” she said. “It’s like you’re asking us when we’re going to die.”
Stenko chuckled, shaking his head. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that.”
She crossed her arms and gave Marshall a
“You’re what, sixty-five, sixty-six?” Stenko asked.
“Sixty-five,” Marshall said. “Sylvia’s . . .”
“. . . approximately the same age,” Stenko said, finishing Marshall’s thought and making another note. “So it’s not crazy to say you two might be able to keep this up for another ten or so years. Maybe even more.”
“More,” Marshall said, “I hope.”
“I’ve got to clean up,” Sylvia said, “if you’ll excuse me.” She was furious at Stenko for his personal questions and at Marshall for answering them.
“Oh,” Stenko said, “about those potatoes.”
She paused on the step into the motor home and didn’t look at Stenko when she said, “I have a couple of bakers. Will they do?”
“Perfect,” Stenko said.
She turned. “Why do you need
“Sylvia,” Marshall said, “would you please just get the man a couple of spuds?”
She stomped inside and returned with two and held them out like a ritual offering. Stenko chuckled as he took them.
“I really do thank you,” he said, reaching inside his jacket. “I appreciate your time and information. Ten years on the road is a long time. I envy you in ways you’ll never understand.”
She was puzzled now. His voice was warm and something about his tone—so sad—touched her. And was that a tear in his eye?
INSIDE THE HYBRID SUV, the fourteen year-old girl asked the man in the passenger seat, “Like
The man—she knew him as Robert—was in his mid-thirties. He was handsome and he knew it with his blond hair with the expensive highlights and his ice-cold green eyes and his small, sharp little nose. But he was shrill for a man his age, she thought, and had yet to be very friendly to her. Not that he’d been cruel. It was obvious, though, that he’d rather have Stenko’s undivided attention. Robert said, “He told you not to watch.”
“But why is he taking, like, big potatoes from them?”
