Author's Note: Out of the frying pan, into the fire.
Disclaimer: If I owned any of this, I wouldn't hardly be writing fanfiction about it.
On the sixty mile drive from Emporia to the regional airport in Manhattan, Kansas, neither Ray nor Donna seemed inclined for conversation.
Mickey had never flown before, but he remembered his favorite supervisor at the packing plant telling the story of how a plane he'd been on had lost one of its wheels immediately after takeoff, with the result that they'd had to circle for ninety minutes to burn off their fuel before landing in a shower of sparks on the self-same runaway they'd departed from. Mickey hoped none of the wheels would come off this plane.
Not that he was afraid of flying. Thousands of morons flew every day without incident. To distract himself from uncomfortable thoughts of every air disaster he'd ever heard of, he tried passing a remark about how odd it seemed to drive north and west to get to an ultimate destination 450 miles due south of where they'd been.
"Yes, well, I'm afraid that's where they put the airport, Mickey," Donna said. It was the first time she'd addressed him since they'd gotten in the car.
Pleased that she'd thrown off her gloom enough to actually speak, Mickey momentarily lost his head. "Well, at least you're getting to see a bit of the 'Little Apple,'" he joked. As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he wished he could recall them.
Donna had turned around to stare at him from the front seat. The two frown lines deepened between her brows. He had a feeling he was going to be seeing a lot of those lines from now on. "Just what is that supposed to mean?" she snapped.
Mickey blinked. "Ray said—" Was it a secret? How could it be? Regardless, there was nothing to do but brazen it out. "Ray mentioned you'd cancelled your trip to New York to come to the funeral," He explained awkwardly.
"When was this?" the woman demanded.
"Last night, when I was packing."
Dead silence in the car, save for road noises.
Ray had sat on Mickey's bed, watching his young cousin stuffing odds and ends into his big blue dufflebag, talking about Southfork and about how it had been for Ray himself to make the journey from Emporia to Dallas. Mickey didn't remember exactly how Ray and Donna's aborted New York trip had come up. It just had.
Mickey checked the rearview mirror for Ray's reaction, and saw in his cousin's reflection that Ray wished he hadn't mentioned it, but Mickey was committed now. "And of course, Manhattan in New York is the 'Big' Apple, so little ole Manhattan, Kansas is the 'Little'—" Donna had turned away to face forward again, presumably so she wouldn't have to look at him. "—Apple," Mickey finished, perversely addressing the back of the woman's golden head.
Not that Mickey blamed her. He'd have been madder than a hornet if he'd been her. To miss out on what Ray had described as a sort of delayed honeymoon like that? On account of Amos Krebbs? No wonder she was mad.
Amos Krebbs. That old man had caused more trouble – Mickey tried to think of some way to let her know he understood. "I appreciate what you did, coming out for the funeral," he began.
It wasn't coming out he way he'd intended, but his mouth ran on anyway, seemingly of its own accord. "The turnout was pathetic enough as it was, without the two of you, it would have been—"
"Mickey!" Ray interrupted.
"Yes, cousin?"
"Shut up."
Mickey turned to look out the window. 'Yes, sir,' he thought. He snuck another look at the rearview mirror. Ray's face was set in a grim expression.
Mickey sighed quietly. What had he done?