by C. D. Payne
I said that sounded fine, but confessed that my “rambunctious” Deirdre might be reluctant to stay there.
“We can handle her,” Eugenia replied. “In our 23 years we’ve only had two attempted escapes, and both girls were picked up by the sheriff within an hour. There’s just the two highway routes in and out of town, you know.”
“That’s comforting,” I lied. “And when do you permit your charges to leave the grounds?”
“We don’t, except for medical checkups. And we accompany them on those.”
“They don’t even leave to go to church?” I asked.
“No need to. My husband Waldo is an ordained minister. He’s conducting Sunday services right now. They’re compulsory, of course. And we give our girls two hours of nonsectarian religious instruction every day. We like to say we’re strict but loving.”
“I see. If I were to phone ahead and request that my daughter be permitted to meet me downtown, would that be allowed?”
“No, sir. We’d ask you to pick her up here in person. You have to understand we sometimes get boyfriends trying to pull stunts like that.”
“Really? And are you armed for such occurrences?”
“My Waldo’s a Vietnam veteran and a crack shot. But don’t worry, we keep all our handguns and rifles locked up. We’re very security-minded.”
“Yes,” I sighed, “I can see that.”
3:20 p.m. A depressing afternoon in a depressing town. I strolled by Eugenia Home again after lunch, though I realize I can’t continue doing this without raising suspicion. Crescent City is not a town of pedestrians. On its deserted residential streets I stand out like a sore thumb. I did spot some obviously pregnant girls sneaking smokes behind the ramshackle carriage house (now used as a kennel and garage), but my tobacco-eschewing love was not among them. François wanted to call them over to the fence, but I decided they were too far away.
I’m beginning to realize I have very little aptitude for prison breaks. Tunneling under the fence doesn’t seem very practical. Swooping down from the sky has a certain brash appeal, but how do you go about obtaining a helicopter and a sufficiently impetuous pilot? I thought of renting a policeman’s uniform and trying to arrest My Love—perhaps on a morals charge—but decided Eugenia probably is acquainted with all the local law. Besides I doubt if I look old enough to be in possession of a badge.
9:47 p.m. I have a plan. It may not be a great plan, but at least it’s a plan. I cooked it up in consultation with Connie, who I called in desperation on my cellular phone. She was up on the subject because she has spent a lot of idle time lately daydreaming about springing the other Saunders sibling from his prison. I have many things to do tomorrow, the most pressing of which is to buy a car. I’m getting my first set of real wheels! A momentous step in any man’s life, especially as I have to obtain a vehicle with sufficient horsepower to elude the police.
MONDAY, May 3 — God has switched off the tourist-friendly weather. Crescent City was revealing its cold and misty true grim self. It was the kind of weather that makes you want to retreat to your rundown trailer and gulp a few methamphetamines. No doubt some locals were doing exactly that as I bustled around town after breakfast. I got most of what I needed before noon, except for my wheels.
I couldn’t shop at the local used car lots because dealer sales get you involved with the Department of Motor Vehicles (where my mother used to spin red tape before her indictment for attempted homicide). But buying a car from a private party, especially in a rural area, is a challenge if you lack transportation. You almost need to own a vehicle in order to shop for one.
I phoned up about two cars advertised in the paper, but both sellers were located way out in the boonies and neither was willing to drive into town—even when I said I had the cash and was eager to buy. Either they’d already been burned by that ploy or they knew their budget-priced vehicles wouldn’t make it that far. All the other advertised cars were either wimpy subcompacts or out of my price range. I hope I don’t have to unleash François to steal a car.
2:15 p.m. I saw My Love! Or at least I think I did. As I strolled past Eugenia Home on the one daylight perambulation I permit myself, I spotted some inmates hoeing a patch of bare earth near the carriage house. I was pretty far away, but one girl resembled Sheeni—though it’s hard to believe my fashion-conscious darling would tie up her hair in a bandana like that, or be seen in public in such a dowdy dress. I considered heaving a mash note over the fence, but decided I couldn’t risk it falling into the wrong hands.
8:45 p.m. I was washing my underwear and newly purchased wardrobe in a laundromat when I spotted this handwritten notice on the bulletin board: “Body man’s dream! 1983 Ford Escort. Big V-8 motor, Hurst shifter. Rad stereo. Won’t smog. $800 obo. Call Cass.”
Cass turned out to be a lanky guy a few years older than me with long stringy hair, bad skin, and worse teeth. He boom-boomed into the laundromat parking lot ten minutes after I phoned him—the thumping bass of the “rad stereo” heralding his arrival from several blocks away.
“Cool stereo, huh?” he said, easing himself out of what had once been an orange-colored Escort, now rapidly fizzing away from the corrosive sea air. It looked more like a body man’s nightmare. The worst cancerous patches had been bandaged over with duct tape and then spray-painted with gray primer.
“What’s that giant lump in the hood?” I shouted.
Cass thankfully killed the noise. “That’s your air scoop for the motor,” he replied, proudly raising the hood. “My cousin dropped it in. It’s a big-block 390.”
“390, huh?” I said, trying to sound knowledgeable. “Is that the compression ratio?”
I could tell this question had cost me some status with Cass.
“390 is the cubic inches,” he grunted. “It’s got a hot cam too.”
“Good. I was hoping for a hot cam,” I said, inspecting the muscular engine. I didn’t know much about cars, but even I could tell something was missing. One could gaze right down into the bore of the carburetor. “Uh, Cass, shouldn’t there be an air cleaner?”
“Don’t need one with a motor this big. The crap just blows right on through. It runs like a top, Rick. I’m only sellin’ it ’cause I want to get a dirt bike.”
Agreeing to a test drive, Cass drove down the highway like a lunatic to demonstrate his car’s performance features. That ratty little Escort could fly all right, but I was leery of its non-automatic transmission. I confessed that I had never driven a stick shift.
“No problem,” Cass assured me. “Your motor’s got so much torque, you could start out in fourth if you want. Plus, you got your genuine Hurst shifter. Four on the floor, man! The babes go for that.”
Cass could tell I was ready to buy, though he was severely offended when I offered only $400.
“Man, Rick, the stereo alone’s worth more than that!”
“I suppose,” I conceded, “but I’m not that interested in damaging my hearing. The interior’s a wreck, the tires are balding, and, as you admit, it won’t pass a smog test. How about $450?”
We settled on $550, I counted out the cash, and Cass handed me the greasy keys.
“Do you have the pink slip?” I asked.
“Not really, man. You want one, huh?”
“Oh, I suppose not.”
Cass gave me a quick lesson in shifting, then showed me how to spray starter fluid down the naked carburetor to assist with engine starting on “damp mornings.” As a goodwill gesture, he tossed in the three cans of fluid rattling around on the floor behind the front seats.
“You want the tape too?” he asked, pointing a grimy finger at the stereo. “It’s the Young Dickheads.”
“OK,” I replied. “I’m supposed to like them.”
We shook hands, Cass loped off into the mists, I piled in my clean laundry, and drove back to my motel in my new car. I only stalled three times trying to start out in diverse mystery gears. And you really do need to remember to push in the clutch if t
he aging brakes are to have any hope of halting your rapid progress toward the wall of your motel. But what a feeling of raw power. I’ve got wheels!
TUESDAY, May 4 — I spent the morning becoming acclimated to my new car. I pulled out the dipstick and discovered my engine was full of a brown foamy goo. Oh well, it ran “like a top” once three blasts of the ether-like fluid got it started. And the battery at least looks fairly new. I drove around town and practiced my shifting. Not too hard, but I can’t imagine why anyone would want to bother. This is not the era of the Model T, after all. Face it, guys, the automatic transmission is here to stay.
I found a pair of woman’s panties in the damp, moldy trunk (in lieu of a spare tire), and a long machete-like knife stuck under the front seat. Cass must have kept it in reserve for road-rage confrontations and to defend his right to subject large areas of the countryside to his musical tastes. Nothing in the glove box except a few empty food-stamp booklets and some soiled tampons (unused). The radio doesn’t work (Cass neglected to mention that), so I’m limited to the Young Dickheads. Perhaps I can employ them to keep the police at bay should I find myself surrounded.
Fuel-efficient my big engine is not. I drove 38 miles and burned through more than a quarter-tank of expensive premium gas. Every time I accelerated I could sense a Saudi Arabian somewhere was smiling. I topped off the tank after lunch and drove slowly back to my motel to get ready. Operation Baby Bust Out begins tonight.
I pushed the intercom button on the front gate of the Eugenia Home at 7:45 p.m.—about 15 minutes before the dogs customarily were released. Clutching a small overnight bag, I was outfitted in teen polyester fashions gleaned from the ladies’ departments of several Crescent City thrift shops, augmented with the necessary brown bouffant wig, budget cosmetics, flashy dime-store earrings, and excessively feminine glasses. Carlotta, or at least her ghost, had returned.
“Who is it?” Eugenia’s voice inquired over the crackly intercom speaker.
“It’s me. Deirdre,” I replied, chewing my gum. “I’m here!”
Eugenia emerged from the house, sauntered down to the gate, and inspected me through the grillwork. Dressed in a baggy sweatshirt, jeans, and leather house slippers, she was a stocky 45 or so, with short graying hair, mannish features, and hard gray eyes.
“I’m here,” I repeated. “I walked all the way from the bus station and do I have to pee!”
“Where are your parents, Deirdre?” she demanded.
“My mom’s in heaven and my dad had to work. He sent me here by myself.”
“He shouldn’t have done that, Deirdre. He hasn’t signed any paperwork. What’s his phone number?”
“Dad’s workin’ now. He works nights. They don’t have a phone out at the fireworks factory on account of the possible sparks. But Dad’s comin’ here tomorrow.”
“I can’t let you in, Deirdre. I can’t accept the responsibility.”
“You can’t?” I gasped, shifting from foot to foot. “But I got to pee!”
“I’m sorry, Deirdre. You’ll have to come back tomorrow with your father.”
“Boy, is that a bummer. Dad will be so pissed. Oh well, some nice man down at the pool hall offered to buy me a motel room. I guess I’ll go back to him.”
“Wait, Deirdre. Did your father give you any money?”
“Yeah, $65, but I gave all but $3 of it to this cute boy I met on the bus.”
“Oh dear. I can’t believe he let you out by yourself. I don’t suppose, Deirdre, that you do very well in school?”
“Well, I got a C once in geography, but I had to do something nasty to Mr. Grelsome’s private parts. Gee, I gotta pee bad.”
Eugenia reluctantly drew a chained key from the large ring jangling on her belt and unlocked the gate. She said I could stay the night, but warned if my father didn’t arrive by 10 a.m. with a check for $1,800, she would turn me over to the county.
Inside, the Eugenia Home was just as funereally dismal as the outside. After I paid a quick pretend visit to the downstairs bathroom, Eugenia took me into a cramped untidy office, where I was grilled mercilessly by her and Waldo. Tall and grizzled, the Reverend Mr. Fairchild had shifty dead eyes and an even shiftier Adam’s apple. He clearly was dismayed at the prospect of extending Christian charity to a girl in distress. He and his wife asked lots of prying questions about my family, my background, my pregnancy, and my father’s income. This they especially zeroed in on. Deirdre, however, was somewhat vague in her replies.
“Well, what kind of car does your father drive?” demanded Waldo in exasperation.
“Dad drives a brand new Cadillac,” I replied. “All big-time fireworks men drive Cadillacs on account of the dangerous occupation.”
“Then your father owns the business?” asked Eugenia hopefully.
“Uh-huh,” I confirmed. “With Uncle Harry. Dad works nights and Uncle Harry works days. That’s why I’m lacking supervision and got in the family way. But Randy’s mom made him join the Navy, so here I am. Do you have TV?”
They had no TV, but I had arrived in time for evening prayer service. My interrogation concluded, I followed my hosts into the back parlor, where the assembled inmates were lounging on metal folding chairs and wondering what the holdup was. Most of the two dozen girls were obviously expecting and a few appeared as grossly overdue as my sister. I scanned the bored and bloated faces and felt a surge of panic. MY LOVE WAS NOT IN THE ROOM!
Following her husband’s lugubrious prayer service, Eugenia introduced me to Peggy, who was to be my roommate for the night. She was so big I was surprised she didn’t require a forklift under her abdomen. We said “hi” and trailed after the other girls filing through the rear of the house into the attached cinder-block dormitory. Peggy and I were to occupy a small second-floor cubicle just big enough to hold two narrow beds and a particleboard dresser. I looked around the prison-like cell and pretended to settle in.
“Better get your clothes off, Deirdre,” said Peggy, shedding her maternity top. “Lights out in five minutes.”
I quickly turned away, but not before glimpsing a stark white brassiere and something truly frightening below it. Was she expecting quintuplets?
“Uh, which way’s the bathroom?” I asked, keeping my gaze fixed on the ceiling.
“End of the hall. But you better make it snappy. Eugenia does a bed check before lights out.”
I found the bathroom, took a fast whiz, and tossed my nightgown on over my dress. Peggy was a blanket-surmounted volcano in her bed when I returned. I slipped into the other bed and switched out the light. Thirty seconds later Eugenia opened the door, shined a flashlight in our faces, said “Good night,” and closed the door.
“Peggy,” I whispered, “is there a girl here named Sheeni?”
“Nope. And we’re not allowed to talk after lights out.”
“Did any girls arrive in the last week?”
“Just Sherry. She’s totally stuck-up.”
“What’s her last name?”
“We’re not allowed to tell each other our last names. I guess we’re supposed to feel ashamed, but I don’t.”
“Is Sherry pretty with chestnut hair?”
“I don’t think she’s so pretty. Eugenia paddles us if we’re caught talking.”
“Why wasn’t Sherry at the prayer service?”
“She’s disobedient, Deirdre, like you. She’s confined to her quarters. She called Waldo a pious degenerate.”
That sounded like My Love all right.
“Where’s her room?”
“Ground floor, in the front, on the right.”
“Thanks, Peggy. Now let’s go to sleep. We don’t want to get in trouble.”
“Too late,” she sighed. “I got in trouble about eight and a half months ago. Big trouble.”
You can say that again.
WEDNESDAY, May 5 — I didn’t think I would be able to sleep a wink, but Peggy’s sonorous breathing soothed my flayed nerves and I soon dropped off. Fortunately, the electr
onic chirpings of my tiny alarm clock roused me at 3:45 a.m. without waking the slumbering volcano. I rose in the darkness, removed my nightie, extracted a miniature flashlight from my purse, and slipped stealthily down the stairs. The house was as still as a tomb. Creeping along the narrow corridor, I came to the room I guessed was My Love’s and opened the door. I could just make out two beds, both occupied.
“Oh, excuse me,” Deirdre announced. “I was looking for Sheeni Saunders.”
I closed the door and waited in the hall. Twenty seconds later my own precious darling emerged wearing extremely unbecoming pajamas.
“Who are you?” she whispered. “What do you want?”
“It’s me, Sheeni. Rick.”
“Rick! What the …?”
“Shhhh. We haven’t much time. Let’s go.”
We slipped into the downstairs bathroom, closed the door, and switched on the light. No lock on the door, naturally, and not even a mirror on the wall.
“Don’t kiss me, Rick,” protested My Love, “I haven’t brushed my teeth. And don’t look at me either. I don’t have any makeup on and I know I look terrible. Why are you dressed like that?”
“You look great, darling. It’s a long story. We don’t have much time.”
I took two red felt-tip pens from my purse and handed one to her. “You do me, Sheeni, and I’ll do you. The idea is to apply a fine red rash extending down the face from the hairline.”
“Accomplishing exactly what?” she demanded.
“We’re attempting to simulate German measles,” I said, setting to work disfiguring My Love.
“That’s brilliant, Rick,” she said, going to work on me with equal enthusiasm. “The highly contagious Rubella virus can wreak havoc on a developing fetus. But will this fool anyone?”
“All we can do is try, darling.”
We spoke in low tones as we dotted away.
“Oh, Rick darling, I’m so glad to see you. However did you find me?”
“It required some enterprising investigative work.”
“You should have finished off my father, Rick. He betrayed me! He only pretended to be on my side so I wouldn’t run away before they could stick me in this fascistic hell-hole.”
