The Old Billboard
The story of a misguided apology
“I’m sorry,” Richard said. “But not yet. We’re close.”
He double-checked his mirrors. Bernette groaned and shifted like a fish in the passenger seat. She hated the blindfold that snuggled against her face—Richard had bought one with faux padding on the inside. He insisted she be comfortable. He insisted that she be surprised.
He pulled off the state highway and turned onto historic Route 92. A minute later, a lone billboard spindled up on the right. He steered towards the sign and parked in front of it.
He had no idea how old it was. However, he was confident it wasn’t made in the past fifty-some years. The whole thing was forged from rusted white metal, and the sign barely rose above the neighboring pines; it circled at the top, forming a space for fifty words in an oval—no picture.
What pricked Richard’s brain were its legs. They sprouted from the same place but shot in two different angles. It reminded Richard of the plastic flamingos Bernette stuck around their backyard.
“Can I take this fucking blindfold off!” Bernette spat.
Richard reached over and squeezed her shoulder. “Yes.”
Bernette flicked the blindfold across the dash. She squinted, looked over at Richard, pulled off his sunglasses, and put them on.
After Bernette composed herself, she stared at the sign. At that moment, a black tarp draped over it. Something underneath the tarp made it lumpy.
“What’s behind the tarp, Richy?”
She did not sound amused.
Richard forced a cough. “A surprise.”
Bernette drew in a hard breath and popped out of the car. She strode towards a rope that attached to the tarp. Richard leaped after her.
He shouted, “Well, hey, wait a minute!” “Shit!”
Bernette came upon the rope and grabbed it.
“Bernette!”
She paused, whirled on her heels, and glared at Richard.
“What? What do you have to say, Richard? I swear if this is some,” Bernette bit her lip.
Richard slowed his sprint and rolled to a stop. He stood five feet away from her. Few cars passed by, and the air smelled like sour pine.
“Look, I know you’re mad I wrecked your car yesterday. You’re mad I drove your car to win a street race.”
Richard took a step forward and opened his arms. “But Babe, I swear I was so close. I think I needed to rewatch the sixth Fast & Furious movie instead of the fifth one.”
He crinkled his eyes and nodded. “Yea…, that would’ve done it.”
“Richard,” Bernette cut in.
Richard looked up. Bernette shoved a finger toward the tarp. With her other hand, she let go of the rope and closed the distance to Richard.
“Richy,” Bernette whispered. “I know you have your best intentions at heart.”
Bernette hesitated and started to fiddle with Richard’s fingers.
She continued. “But, please, don’t tell me you altered the sign in some attempt at forgiveness. You know what this sign means to me.”
Two months ago, they had a picnic under the sign. That time, Bernette drove them in her blue Mustang. She’d woven the car into a parking spot that sat in the sign’s corked angle of shade. Among the heat, the shade felt like a cold mole on the face of sunshine.
Later, after they had eaten, Bernette told him about the sign. Some number of years ago Bernette and her mom spread her dad’s ashes in that spot. Richard couldn’t remember why. He’d never admit it to her, but he was half asleep from the turkey sandwich and shade when she told him those things. He meant to clarify, but she asked him to leave the conversation at the sign on the drive home.
He had never forgotten that moment. For him, this spot was one of those big squares on the quilt of their relationship. He couldn’t think of a better place to ask for forgiveness.
He looked at Bernette as she twirled his fingers. He didn’t understand the problem with his idea.
“Remind me again, what does the sign mean?” Richard eased out.
Bernette squeezed his fingers and blew out a huge breath.
“Richard, this was where my parents farm used to be. The one that had been in the family for generations.”
Bernette grew emboldened as she talked. She looked Richard in the eye. “I told you, two months ago, that my father was price gouged and had to sell the farm. He couldn’t live with the idea of failing a family legacy.”
Bernette let go of Richard’s hands. “I told you that because you deserved to know that part of me. But I asked you to leave it in the past. You can know me, but I can also set boundaries.”
Bernette made her way to the tarp. Richard grabbed for her hand, but she slapped it away. Bernette snatched the rope and yanked it. The tarp slid off, and a few colored balloons floated away.
The sign read: HAPPY BIRTHDAY BERNETTE!
At the bottom, in lower caps, it said: p.s. I am sorry about the car?
Richard chuckled nervously, “they didn’t have a second exclamation point. Oh, and happy birthday.”
Dude you absolutely killed it this is a cool, unique story and really fun to read