Chili Powder

A Short Story by Heather Choate
Part Two
If you haven't read part one, scroll down and read that one first.

It’s not that I even particularly like Chili Powder, or Chili, for that matter, I tell myself as I bank onto the freeway on-ramp. I just wanted to change up the menu a bit, I grumble to my dashboard, but it doesn’t seem to respond. Good thing. At least dashboards are safe confidants. For now.

I turn onto the highway and accelerate to approximately 45 mph. I can’t say I’ve gotten use to the turtle speed, but at least it doesn’t bother me quite as bad as it used to. It is for our safety, our protection, I remind myself. The better way, the better way, I repeat again and again in my mind, and soon I find myself relaxing a little more. Or maybe it’s the placid tones of Frank Sinatra coming softly over my speakers.

Two years. Two years it has been like this. Already, I can hardly remember life the way that it was… before. Explosions as bombs went off on buses and governmental building; bullet holes in the walls of my house, my car. Someone’s face covered in red oozing sores. Who was it? My sister? I think so. I think I had a sister.
I shudder and concentrate on the smooth, unbroken pavement and mellow tones from the radio, the perfectly manicured trees and polished information signs. The sky is baby blue above and flocks of geese beat their feather wings in unison. I pass a small town with its rows of neatly lined houses. There is a school and I can imagine the children sitting politely, attentively listening to their teacher. Everything in order. Everything the way it should be. The better way.

But in El Paso they have Chili Powder. Home is waiting for me: the small one car garage where I will park my Saturn, the two steps into the laundry room where I will take out last night’s load, after I put away the few groceries. The same routine. The same consistency. I will work all week trimming the heather shrubs on the south side of the gray building so that I will go to the same grocery store and trade in the credits from a select group of approved foods. I will have to check my recipes more carefully now.

My exit is coming up. Less than half a mile. I should get in the turn lane. I should do it now. My car continues to cruise forward without slowing as if it has a mind of its own. The exit is just 50 yards away. Turn now. I don’t do it. The exit passes by. The freeway is an open road before me. I realize I’m already heading south, south to El Paso.

© Heather Choate