DETOUR
Joyce Carol Oates
Too early for spring, you couldn’t trust such blinding-white sunshine in mid-March. And the smell of damp earth thawing, reviving—too soon.
The result was, Abigail was feeling light-headed. Unreal.
A seismic sensation, as if the very earth were shifting beneath the wheels of her car on the familiar drive home.
Staring ahead, dismayed—blocking the road was a barrier with a jarring yellow sign: DETOUR.
“Damn.”
Rarely elsewhere than in her car did Abigail address herself and usually in an exclamatory/exasperated tone. If anyone had overheard, she’d have been mortified.
“God
damn.”
. . .
