Mother Road

Author's note: All sexual activity in this story is between consenting adults over the age of 18.

This story is dedicated to all single moms out there; you're no unsexy matron. Motherhood kicks you up to another level of sexy.

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My divorce became official yesterday, so as of today my ex-wife Beverly is in the history books. After one year, six months, and 11 days, that guy in the mirror, Tom McFarland, is now officially single again!

Beverly and I met at the Art Institute of Chicago during an Impressionist paintings exhibit; our mutual love of Gustave Caillebotte was the match that lit the candle. (In hindsight, the way things blew up, it would be more accurate to say it was a fuse.)

At 29, I was a graduate of University of Illinois at Chicago with a Masters in Architecture, working as an architectural consultant the past eight years for SustainArch, a consulting firm in traditional and sustainable architecture, construction code mechanical systems and fire protection/life safety systems, etc. I was 6' tall, brown hair, brown eyes, at 215 pounds an average build (not muscular) but broad shoulders - genetics courtesy of my father's side of the family. I didn't go to the gym; since most of my work was outdoors and on construction sites, I felt I got adequate exercise that way.

Beverly Coggins (she kept her maiden name for professional reasons), 31, was brilliant, a PhD in Business Administration from Harvard University who worked as an international finance consultant for Deloitte. She was 6'1", blonde and slim, small breasted but with amazing legs that went on for days. She was all about fitness. When she wasn't working, she was usually lifting weights and doing aerobics at the gym or sweating at home on her treadmill.

We had a few things in common, like a love for art and high-paying consultant jobs. We dated for a couple of months and then quickly married, but with both of us being on the road consulting for most of the year and not seeing much of each other we quickly grew apart. Neither of us was happy; what little time our schedules allowed us to be home together, instead of quality time we really got on each other's nerves. All the cute idiosyncrasies we loved about each other while dating became major annoyances that drove the other person crazy.

Growing up an only child I eventually wanted children, Beverly did not; the one time I raised the topic of having kids, the reaction I got from her was severe enough that I never raised it again. My consolation consisted of enviously watching families with young children at Millennium Park in the Loop on weekends.

I think it was a relief to both of us that we agreed to divorce. We'd signed a pre-nuptial agreement (real romantic, right?), so everything was very cut and dried. No alimony was involved, we sold our Gold Coast condo and split the proceeds 50/50, she got all the artwork and the Cadillac Escalade. (No big loss, I hated that thing. As the old saying goes, 'So fast, it passes everything but a repair shop'.)

Did I mention that I'm not a big material possessions guy? Besides my golf clubs and my clothes, the only other possession I had after our divorce was the 2003 Gulf Stream Touring Cruiser RV with 72,000 miles on it that I'd inherited from my parents after their passing. It was a real land yacht; 24 feet long, seating for 9 people, with a Ford V-10 motor. So, what does a newly divorced guy who hasn't taken a vacation for three years do? ROAD TRIP, of course!

As I was currently 'on the bench' between consulting assignments, my boss gave me his blessing to take a month off. The next day I fired up the Gulf Stream and headed to the intersection of Adams Street and Michigan Avenue in Chicago; it was here I began my westward journey on what's been called the Main Street of America, the Will Rogers Highway, and Glory Road, but I liked what John Steinbeck called it best: The Mother Road. I was on the adventure of a lifetime, driving Route 66 from Chicago to the Santa Monica Pier!

Starting in 1926, Route 66 was the main artery through the heart of the US. Chicago to LA, 2450 miles passing through 8 states - Illinois, Missouri, Kansas, Oklahoma, Texas, New Mexico, Arizona, and California. Officially decommissioned in 1977 and replaced by the US Interstate system, enough of it remains that a man can still drive on a lot of the original pavement. That's exactly what I was going to do!

I had passed through Illinois, Missouri, and Kansas and so far it was a great trip, seeing all the old tourist traps, eating at roadside diners that had been serving good food to people for over half a century - I probably added 10 pounds to my weight. I slept in RV campgrounds and saw what most people miss - the real America. This was the way to travel! Sure, the Interstate highways get you where you want to go quickly and smoothly, but by driving that way you missed so damned much, blasting through at 70 mph.

It was late morning on a Friday when I crossed the Oklahoma state line near Joplin, Missouri; little did I know that my life was about to change significantly.

I'd stopped to get fuel in Sapulpa, Oklahoma, at an old-fashioned two-pump station. A grizzled old man was sitting in on a lawn chair out front, watching as I filled the Gulf Stream's tank. Finished fueling up, I replaced the nozzle in the pump and went in to pay; when I came out, he waved me over. He looked to be in his eighties, missing a few of his teeth.

"Name's Baxter Carlson," he said, holding out his hand.

"Tom McFarland," I replied, and we shook.

"You goin' west on 66?" I nodded. "Mind you stay on the main route. If the bridge at Deep Fork Creek is flooded out, you turn yourself right around and find a hotel. Whatever you do, don't take the Goodlin Road shortcut. They's a widow that lives on that stretch. Her name's Laura. Not sure what her last name is now, she's been through seven or eight husbands, killed 'em all. Mark my words, boy, she's a siren just like in the story 'bout that Ulysses feller. If you come across her, don't never look her in the eyes - if'n you do you'll be bewitched - she'll gitcha fer sure!"

I thanked him for his advice. We shook hands, and I was on my way again.

As I left Sapulpa, approaching Kellyville I saw ominous dark clouds on the horizon. Twenty minutes later the clouds opened up; it began to rain like the hammers of hell. The sun had set; it was really dark now. As my visibility was seriously hampered, I slowed the motorhome down and drove at about 20mph for the next hour. A short while later I saw an Oklahoma Highway Patrol car with its lights flashing, blocking the road. I stopped, and an OKHP Trooper dressed in raingear walked up to my window.

"The Deep Fork Creek Bridge is flooded," he shouted over the noise of the deluge. "It'll be out until the rain stops and the water recedes, could be a couple of days." Gesturing down a side road, he continued, "If you want to keep going, Goodlin Road is a safe detour, it doesn't flood, just gets a little muddy." That name rang a bell, and it occurred to me this was the same road old man Carlson had warned me about.

I figured I could deal with a little mud, so I thanked the trooper and turned up Goodlin Road, still crawling at 20 mph. 'This should be fun', I thought to myself. There were no shoulders on this road. Too far to the right or the left, I'd be in a ditch, so I took it plenty easy. About 8 miles further, in the beam of my headlights I spotted a dark shape moving in the ditch to the right, which was half filled with fast-moving runoff. Stopping the Gulf Stream in the middle of the road, I got out to see what it was.

The shape was a very wet and muddy kid wearing overalls. He was a skinny boy, I was amazed the wind hadn't blown him away yet. "What in Sam Hill are you doing in the ditch?" I called out.

"I got caught in the rain; the road got muddy and it's stuck to my bike tires so they won't turn," he yelled back, "then I slid off the road. Now I can't ride it home!"

"Well, get in the motorhome, I'll take you home," I told him. As the boy got in, I waded into the ditch. With the mud already holding it fast and additional silt being dumped on it from the fast-moving ditch runoff the bike was really stuck, but I eventually got it out. The motorhome had a rack on the back, so I quickly threw the bike on it. Then, soaked to the bone, I opened the rear door and got back in the Gulf Stream.

"Hey, kid, there's towels in the bathroom, grab a couple so we can dry off," I told him. He got them and handed one to me. Pretty soon we weren't soaking any more, but manageably damp. Removing my wet t-shirt, I grabbed a clean white short-sleeve shirt (standard uniform for a field consultant) from the tiny closet and slipped it on. "OK, all set. How much farther do I have to go?"

"Not too much farther, it's about 3 miles," he answered, sitting down at the table.

"I'm Tom McFarland," I said, offering my hand. "What's your name?"

"Liam Carlson," he answered, as he shook it. "Thanks for picking me up, Mister McFarland."

"Nice to meet you, Liam, I'm glad to help," I answered.

Driving even more slowly in the driving rain, I spied a farmhouse off to the left. "This here's where I live," Liam said.

I turned in to the driveway, pulling up a few yards from the house; an old 70's-era Plymouth Fury wagon sat parked in the drive. Liam jumped out of the motorhome and ran in. There was a flash of lightning, followed a second later by a crack of thunder; if it had been raining hard before, it was a gentle prelude to the gully washer coming down now. I hope they didn't mind me parking overnight, because there was no way I was going any further in the big bulky Gulf Stream until the rain let up.

Liam ran up to the driver's side door and opened it. "Momma says you shouldn't be drivin' no more today, and she wants you to come in and join us for supper."

That sounded good to me, and I followed the boy through the rain.

As I went from the motorhome to the farmhouse, my architect's eye spotted a small cabin off to the side of the yard about 20 yards from the main house, its windows dark. 'Must be a mother-in-law unit or something' I thought to myself.

We entered the main house through the back door and into a vestibule. On one side there was a wall-mounted coat rack with 8 hooks and five compartments above. The hooks held an assortment of small jackets, coats, hoodies, sweaters. The compartments were chock-full of children's woolen hats, plastic toys, caps, gloves, and mittens. On the floor beneath the hooks, kid-sized boots and shoes were piled haphazardly.

"Leave your shoes in the mud room," a woman's voice called, "You best not be tracking up my clean floor, boy!" Liam looked at me and grinned, then took off his worn and muddy Red Wing lace-up boots. I followed suit, removing my now thoroughly soaked sneakers.

I followed Liam into the kitchen, the smell of beef stew filled my nostrils and made my stomach rumble. It had been a long time since lunch. A woman, presumably Liam's mother, was seated at the table trying to spoon food into the mouth of an uncooperative toddler in a highchair. Based on the orange splatter pattern around the child and on his mother, it appeared to be a doomed effort. Liam took a seat next to his baby brother; taking the baby spoon from his mom, he attempted to feed his brother with not much more success.

The woman's light red hair was up in a bun, with a few loose strands hanging down; since she was seated, I couldn't tell exactly how tall she was but it appeared she was somewhat short.

She turned and looked at me. Her face had a slightly round shape to it. I was struck by how cute her freckled nose was, but I was truly stunned by her incredible green eyes. Not to be too cliché about it, but they looked like deep green pools I could swim in. Sitting there with her glasses propped up on her forehead, hair in a disheveled bun and orange baby food splattered on her face, she was in fact quite stunning.

I also noticed there appeared to be a rather formidable pair of breasts filling her modest blouse. Unlike my ex-wife, whose expensive high-fashion garments purchased on Chicago's Magnificent Mile were always pristine with never a stain, this woman looked to be a real woman who got things done, all while wearing clothes from J.C. Penney. My first impression was that Liam's mom was sexy as hell.

She greeted me. "Hello, Tom. I'm Laura Palermo. Thanks for bringing Liam home. He's as sweet a kid as can be, but he got the personality while his twin brother James inherited all the brains. Honestly, I told him not to go too far with the storm coming, but he never listens." She waved her hand, the one with the baby food splattered on it. "I'd shake hands, but I don't want to get mashed sweet potato on you." She pointed her chin at the toddler in the chair. "Little Lucas here is a year and a half old, and I think God gave him to me just to test my patience. He's such a little dickens, now that he's started solid foods."

There was a tall thin girl with long dark hair stirring a pot on the stove. Laura nodded at her. "That's Olivia, my firstborn, cooking dinner. She's 16. Don't be rude, Olly, say hello to Mr. McFarland. He's our guest."

The girl turned towards me, gave me a tiny wave and said "Hi," in a quiet voice.

"Hello, Olivia, nice meeting you," I replied. She smiled, then then went back to her cooking.

Laura chimed in, "Olly is my rock. Poor thing, since she's been momma's little helper with the younger ones since she was 4 years old."

"Dinner will be ready in a minute, Momma," Olivia said, opening the door to the oven. The scent of fresh-baked biscuits filled the kitchen.

I mentally counted, then asked, "So you have four, Olivia, Liam, James, and Lucas? I think that's great! I always wanted a big family, but my ex wasn't interested at all."

Laura laughed. "Oh, there's a few more than four. I've been married three times, Mr. McFarland. Married my first husband Reverend Watkins when I was seventeen, mostly to get out of little Rankin, Texas, and I've had two more husbands since.

Olivia put down potholders on the table, then placed the large stew pot on them, with the steaming biscuits next to it.

"Liam, can you help Olly set the table?" Laura asked. Liam gave up trying to feed his baby brother and pulled up several more chairs to the table, adding booster seats to two of them.

Laura continued with her explanation, "Anyway, just before Olivia was born, Reverend Watkins passed from heart failure in the middle of one of his scorching hellfire sermons. I knew my husband was older, like in his 40s, but it turns out he was actually 57. Olly was born a month later, my little angel." Laura pulled her daughter's face down and kissed her cheek.

Just then a boy walked in who looked just like Liam, fair-haired and slim. "Three years after the Reverend passed, I met and married my second husband, Glen Carlson. Glen was James and Liam's daddy." A cute little girl with red hair and a button nose bounced into the room wearing torn jeans and a unicorn rainbow t-shirt; her face was almost a duplicate of Laura's. Her expression was clearly not a happy one.

"Mom! James hid Sarah June again!" she howled, pointing at her smirking older brother now seated at the table.

Laura snapped, "James! Give Ava back her doll or it's off to bed without supper!" James looked down and mumbled, but got up and went to retrieve the missing doll.

"Glen was Ava's daddy, too. She's 11, a year younger than the twins. Liam loves her, treats her like a princess, but as you can see James has the devil in him and teases her constantly. Glen was working as a derrickhand on the oil rigs over at the Big Bend Oil Field in Osage County. James and Liam were 7, Ava was 6 when he died. He was high up on a rig when he slipped; somehow the lifeline connector on his body harness broke loose, and he was killed."

James had returned, handing the missing doll to Ava. Laura turned to him and instructed him to go get Elijah and Amelia and strap them in their booster chairs. Liam, meanwhile, was putting silverware on the table place settings.

She explained, "I married Chris Palermo 5 years ago, and we had Elijah, Amelia, and Lucas in short order. He worked as a distribution manager at a local wholesaler." She leaned closer to me and spoke in a low voice, "He loved his kids, but not as much as he loved a tramp homewrecker in the order processing department. He left me and the kids and ran away with her one night."

She leaned back in her chair as James led Elijah and Amelia in. The pair of them were adorable, looking like two oversized Kewpie dolls. Once they were buckled into their booster seats, Laura asked Olivia to say grace, then we all dug in, except of course for Lucas, who was more interested in decorating the tray of his highchair by squishing cooked sweet potatoes. 'Jackson Pollock would have been impressed', I thought to myself.

I have to admit this was the most fun dinner I'd had in the last several years. Dinners out with Barbara were cold, brief and efficient. When we ate at home, I did the cooking (which I enjoyed) but there was very little conversation. She'd help me clean up after, but like the meal it was a fast and quickly executed process.

Dinner with the seven kids was controlled, well-fed chaos. Elijah, the four-year-old, was trying to tell everyone about a cartoon he'd watched that day but the story lasted so long he forgot what he was talking about. James teased Liam about liking a girl in their class, but Liam turned it right around and teased James about being all moon-eyed at a 17-year-old volunteer he'd seen shelving books at the library. Ava explained to me in specific detail the doll hierarchy in her collection; which was the oldest, which was the newest, which was her favorite, and even offered me a small stuffed bear to take on my trip as a co-pilot.

Olivia was fairly quiet the whole meal. I made repeated attempts to engage her in conversation about her school, her future plans, and so on. She smiled when I tried, but gave me mostly one-and-two words answers. When I complimented her on her cooking and told her I liked to cook myself, however, she perked up. She asked me about my favorite recipe to make (osso bucco) and told me hers (chicken fried steak), I told her about my favorite 6" and 12" chef's knives, and asked her about what cooking tools she couldn't live without (potato masher and garlic peeler); we ended up having a nice chat. At one point I saw Laura looking at the two of us, a pleased look on her face.

Laura finally announced said her family had done enough talking, that they wanted to hear all about me now.

I thought for a second, trying to think of the words to keep my story short. "OK, I'm 29, working as an architectural consultant who travels around the US helping people build good buildings. I was married, but after a year we agreed we weren't right for each other, so we divorced. I don't have a lot of stuff, except for that RV out there, so I figured I'd take a vacation and drive the old Route 66 to see America. And here I am."

Ava jumped right in. "Your wife, was she pretty?" Wow, that was a high smoking fastball of a question.

"Well, yes, she had a pretty face. After we were married, I found out she was kind of mean, though." I made a horrified face and gasped "She didn't like kids!" 'Whew, good answer, Tom', I thought to myself.

Ava hit me with her follow-up question. "Why'd you marry her?" In my mind, the odds of this kid growing up to be a lawyer or a journalist seemed fairly high.

"I've often asked myself the same question, believe me. We met at an art gallery in Chicago, both of us liked the same picture. We dated for a while, and then decided to get married. But it turned out we both wanted different things out of life, I guess."