 |
|
Comentario
“Oh! Oh, Jesus! Gross!”
“What, Mary, what?”
“Didn’t you see it?”
“See what?”
She looked at him, and in the harsh desert sunlight he saw that a lot of the color had gone
out of her face, leaving just the marks of sunburn on her cheeks and across her brow,
where not even a ~trong sunblock cream would entirely protect her. She was veiy fair
and burned easily.
“On that sign. That speed-limit sign.”
“‘What about it?”
“There was a dead cat on it, Peter! Nailed there or glued there or some damned thing.”
He hit the brake pedal. She grabbed his shoulder at once. “Don’t you even think about
going back.”
“But—”
“But what? Did you want to take a picture of it? No way, Josd. If I have to look at that
again, I’ll throw up.”
“Was it a white cat?” He could see the back of a sign in the rearview mirror—the speed-
limit sign she was talking about, presumably—but that was all. And when they’d passed
it, he had been looking off in the other direction, at some birds flying toward the nearest
wedge of mountains. Strictly attending to the highway was not something one had to do
every second out here; Nevada called its stretch of U.S. 50 “The Loneliest Highway in
America,” and in Peter Jackson’s opinion, it lived up to its billing. Of course he was a
New York boy, and he supposed he might
| |
