Whatever the reason, Marjorie surprised herself by beginning to speak about her “yesterday”

July 1964

From Chicago, Marjorie turned off the Lincoln Highway and onto Route 66. It was a little out of the way, but worth it — a quirky road famous for roadside diners and fun adventures.

Three hundred miles to St. Louis, 400 to Oklahoma, another 400 to reach Texas. Nights in shabby motels, sleeping on sagging mattresses, inhaling the scent of cigarette smoke combined with the faint smell of industrial-strength cleaning supplies. Bored gas jockeys in overalls quenching the endless thirst of the Mustang at forlorn Esso or Texaco one-pump gas stations. Oatmeal for breakfast, potato chips and Coke for lunch, dinner in greasy diners with the jukebox blaring the latest Beatles and Beach Boys hits.

Unadulterated freedom.

Pure joy.

IT

was in the lonely Texas Panhandle that the magic began to diminish, melting away in the brutal sunlight. In scorching mile after mile, with large stretches of flat terrain interrupted only by the occasional mesquite tree, Mama Mumu’s silence, so welcome until now, began to grate on Marjorie’s nerves.

“Why don’t you say something already?” she asked abruptly.

Mama Mumu gave her a lazy smile. “Babe, if you ain’t got nuthin’ to say, say nuthin’.”

Strange, Marjorie had never noticed that slight drawl. It’s like she left New York behind, even in the way she talks.

“Are you from these parts, Mama?”

“Was.”

“When did you live here?”

“Yesterday.”

Is she nuts? “Yesterday?”

“This here is today, babe. Everything that happened, happened yesterday. And everything that will happen is tomorrow. You dig?”

Yes, she’s nuts. But nice nuts.

“So tell me, babe, about your yesterday.”