His Timex had staggered to a halt about ten, as it did every once in a while, particularly when it might have been nice to know the time. He had to live with his intuition that it was about three a.m., at least until he caught sight of a roadside clock. Strangely, a cortege of big American cars roared past on the 10, honking and bedecked with black pom-poms and streamers of black crepe. On the rear window of the last car, a low-riding Oldsmobile, someone had scrawled Just Divorced in poster paint; blink and its gone. He had to smile. Celebrating social breakdown had reached the point where it was probably time to invest in bitter herbs and small arms. “So what are we going to tell your mom?” he asked, coming round to it again. Maeve was still so wired she looked wide awake. They’d dropped off David Phelps, and then roused the Learys, where they fetched Maeve’s tiny suitcase, mollifying the cousins as best they could. Poor Beth had found herself grounded for a month. Maeve gave an exaggerated wince.
