A grain truck came up from the east. It slowed way down passing us. The driver had his elbow out the window and his mouth hanging open, staring at an old woman in a church dress standing behind her car in that heat.
My mother lifted two fingers off her handbag. Just barely. The way you wave somebody through at a four-way stop.
Go on.
The truck went on.
At thirty minutes, she asked him a question. He had cracked his window by then, maybe two inches. She walked three steps toward his truck and stopped a polite distance away.
“Deputy, may I wait in my car while you finish? I don’t mind waiting. I’d just like to sit.”
“You can sit when I tell you you can sit.”
