Stairway to Heaven - Anne Wright

He drove his long burgundy Lincoln down interstate 5 to Bakersfield, his short sleeve shirts hanging from a rod in the back seat. The air conditioning didn’t work, but that was fine with him because he liked to drive with one hand, his other arm resting out the open window, feeling the dry heat ruffling the hair on his arm. On the seat beside him Blanche sat asleep, her head wrapped in a scarf to keep her hair flying all over the place, drowsing and snoring. They were on the way to a family reunion of Jack’s relatives. There had never been a reunion before, but his great-aunt Eunice had decided to invite everybody because the oldest member of the clan, old Great-Pa, was ready to kick the bucket. Actually he had one foot in the grave, great-aunt Eunice had put it in the letter, and we better not wait because he won’t be here next time. She couldn’t have picked a hotter summer, and Jack was happy. In a way he wished he still lived in Bakersfield but he had ended up in Livermore when the company decided to give him the northern territory. He put thousands of miles on the old Lincoln, selling milking equipment to the dairy farmers, though Jack had retired five years ago which was a good thing because gasoline was taking a big bite out of his commission. So now he was here on the I-5 and he liked nothing better than that smell of cattle. The fat black cows standing on top of the hills of fertilizer, looking at him and Blanche, as they drove past in the slow lane on their way to Bakersfield.