The light turned green. The truck began to move.
“It’s still a creepy name,” Rebecca muttered as the truck started to veer towards the freeway entrance ramp. “Perhaps it’s some sort of secret government program masquerading as a furniture company. I’ve never driven by one of their locations. And you believe everything they put on the Internet? I taught you better than that.”
“It’s just a furniture company, Mom.” Clare was looking for closure. “Stop being so extra.” Rebecca smiled and glanced at Clare, giving her a wink. “I bet it sells a lot of mysteriously shaped vases.”
“Mom, sometimes you’re impossible.”
The truck sped up as it entered the entrance ramp, then, seemed to slow down. Clare saw (or Rebecca saw) the driver’s head reflected in the side-mirror of the truck, as if he was looking back and assessing the two women. Then he sped up and merged onto the freeway.
Had the driver been assessing them? Noting their car and license plate number? Clare watched the truck disappear, curious what was inside.
‘Internment’ was a weird name for a furniture company. She found herself wondering if they really might sell a lot of purposefully shaped urns.
Clare erased her search history from her phone, feeling oddly exposed for researching the company name.
The next moment, another truck pulled beside them on the freeway, bearing another single word on the side: “Fish”.
“Nothing fishy about that one,” Rebecca offered. “I bet its sole purpose is delivering seafood. Get it? Sole… like the fish.”
“Your humor is a little orange roughy tonight,” Clare replied. She was feigning lightness; in the back of her mind the clean box truck disconcerted her.
“Are my bad puns krilling you?” Rebecca asked playfully.
“Uggg. If you can think of any better fish puns, just let minnow. Emphasis on ‘better.’”
Far in the distance, Clare could still see the white truck, now speeding away.
The Fish truck passed them and Clare noted it was dirty and smelled like a long day at the beach. It also displayed a telephone number and a company street address, along with numerous Department of Transportation permit numbers. And the purpose of the truck was clearly labeled.
“Its purported porpoise,” Mom would say, continuing the fish theme.
Clare was relieved that the driver of the Fish truck did not check his side-view mirror as he passed. But her mind was filled with unresolved questions. Her curiosity got the better of her and she re-entered the word ‘Internment’ on her phone.