Circle of Three

by Patricia Gaffney

  “Carrie, there are weirdos all over the place. I’m not trying to scare you, honey, but that boy she spends too much time with, that vampire person—”

  “He’s in Richmond with his father, I know that for a fact.”

  She waved that away. “They’re plenty more weirdos where he came from, the high school’s crawling with them. They ought to have a dress code, they ought to wear uniforms. But that’s not the point—”

  “No, it’s not.”

  “The point is, she wouldn’t have walked out and stolen the car for no reason. That’s what the police need to focus on.”

  “She didn’t walk out for nothing. You’re right, she didn’t.”

  “There had to be a reason, she wouldn’t have just—”She looked at me sharply. “What?”

  No going back now. But no going forward, either: when I opened my mouth to finish it, no brilliant explanation came out.

  “You had a fight,” my mother realized. “Oh, Carrie!” She whacked the flat of her hand against the sofa arm. “For Pete’s sake, why didn’t you just say so? Lord, Carrie, damn it, if you knew what I’ve been thinking, what I’ve been through. Well? What happened, what did you fight about?”

  Telling her would be as bad as Ruth finding Jess and me in bed. Worse, because she’d zapped me back into my childhood again—as easy as that. I took a deep breath. And jumped when the phone rang.

  I hurried around my chair, but Mama was closer and got to it first. “Hello. Yes—no, but this is her mother.”

  “Mama, give it to me.”

  “Who?”

  “Mama!”

  “It’s the police,” she snapped, shoving the receiver at me.

  I turned my back on her. “Hello?”

  “Mrs. Van Allen?”

  “Yes?”

  “It’s Officer Springer. Got some news for you this morning.”

  “You found her.” Everything went gray and grainy, little dots of static in front of my eyes. Mama’s sharp fingers squeezing the back of my arm kept me upright. “Where is she?”

  “Uh, no, ma’am, we haven’t exactly found her, but at least we know where she spent the night last night.”

  “Wait. Mama, stop.” She was trying to hug me from behind. I twisted away. She saw my face and froze. “Sorry,” I said into the phone. “What were you saying?”

  “Ma’am, we interviewed your daughter’s friends from the list you gave us, and we also talked to Ms. Bukowski there at the, uh, the Mother Earth Palace and Natural Healing Salon, and Ms. Bukowski was suddenly able to recollect that Ruth stayed with her last night.”

  “Ruth stayed at Krystal’s?”

  “Yes, ma’am, looks like it. Officer Fitz said she was evasive until he reminded her that hiding or harboring a minor’s against the law, after which she recalled your daughter sleeping there overnight but leaving the residence early this morning.”

  “Where did she go?”

  “Well, we don’t know yet. Officer Fitz said Ms. Bukowski was evasive on that point also.”

  “Evasive?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Could be she doesn’t know, like she’s saying, or could be she’s keeping it to herself. Some kind of loyalty.”

  “Loyalty!” My mother kept dragging at my arm and hissing, “What? What’s he saying?” “Can’t you make her tell? Can’t you arrest her?”

  “We’ll certainly be talking to her again, yes, ma’am. But chances are your daughter will turn up soon, either way. That’s how it usually is—they stay out one night just to get your attention, then they go home. You be sure and give us a call when that happens. Some people forget, and that wastes our time because we keep looking.”

  I said I would, and we hung up.

  “Who’s evasive?” Mama demanded, finally letting go of me.

  “Ruth stayed at Krystal’s last night—”

  “I got that.”

  “And she’s telling the police she doesn’t know where Ruth went, but they think she might be lying.”

  “Where’s the car?”

  “I don’t know. Not there, I guess, or he’d have said.”

  “So she took it and she went somewhere. Where?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What’s her number?”

  “Whose number? Krystal’s? I don’t know, it’s on the—speed dial thing, you press—”

  “I know how speed dial works.”

  She took the phone from me, checked the name printed on the receiver, and dialed. She stood with her feet apart, head up and bust out, the hand not holding the phone clenched in a fist on her hip. Not a trace of fatigue showed on her firm, sturdy body. The Clayborne Women’s Club had made a grave error.

  “Hello? Krystal Bukowski? This is Dana Danziger, I’m Ruth Van Allen’s grandmother. Where is she? What? I think you do. Oh, I doubt that. Listen very carefully, if anything happens to my granddaughter, if she gets a hangnail this morning and I find out you know where she is—Pardon? I don’t care about that, the police can do whatever they like, I’m telling you what I’ll do. I’ll sue you. No, in civil court. For violating my grandchild’s civil rights. Yes, I can. Oh, yes, I can. Before I get through with you, you won’t have two soybeans to rub together. You think that’s funny? I’m perfectly serious—you won’t have a vitamin left, you won’t have a pinch of wheat germ—”

  “Mama—”

  “What’s that? Call it anything you like, I’m telling you what I am going to do. I’ll ask you one more time: Where did Ruth go?” Her eyes blazed into mine. Suddenly she grabbed my hand, her knees flexed, and stood up on her toes. Her voice went up an octave. “And you let her? You idiot! You silly—fruitcake! Yes, you could’ve! You could’ve called her mother, you could’ve called the police—”

  “Where’s Ruth? What’s she saying?”

  “I’m too angry to talk to you, you moronic woman, but this is not the end of it, I promise you. I beg your pardon? What did you say to me?” She took the phone from her ear and stared at it, bug-eyed. Then she slammed it down hard enough to break it.

  “What?”

  “Do you know what she just said to me?”

  “What?”

  “‘Have a nice day.’”

  “Mama, where’s Ruth?”

  “She’s gone to Georgetown.”

  “Georgetown! In Washington? Oh, my God! By herself? Why?”

  “So she could get a tattoo.” She wilted. She flopped down on the couch, slack jawed, shaking her head from side to side. “A tattoo.” She closed her eyes. “My God, how unbelievably tacky.”

  23

  Flash

  THE HITCHHIKER LOOKED like Billy Zane. The girl was no fool; she wouldn’t have picked him up if it hadn’t been pouring rain. And bitter cold. He had a dangerous look, something wild and careless in his steel blue eyes, but his mouth was kind. Rainwater dripped from his slick black hair into the collar of his Tommy Hilfiger shirt. No, his worn, creased, black leather jacket. They rode for a long time without talking, nothing but the slap of the windshield wipers and the hiss of the tires on the wet pavement breaking the sex-charged silence. Finally, outside Tulsa—no—at the beginning of the Badlands, in the middle of nowhere, he turned to her and said in a low, warm, rough voice, “You’re going to help me, I know it.” Because he was on the run from the law. But he didn’t even have to say it—she knew. And they both knew that she knew.

  They kept driving. She played Lauryn Hill on the car stereo, and he knew then how cool she was and how perfect they were for each other. They rented two rooms that night in a sleazy motel, the kind Mulder and Scully stay in. He came in her room when she was in her underwear, cream-colored bikini bottoms and a matching tank top, like Nikita in La Femme Nikita. He couldn’t take his eyes off her. He told her the truth—he worked for Operations and he was on a job pretending to be running from the law, and she had to start working for him. She had stick-straight blonde hair and she always wore black. She could do karate. She was beautiful and feminine, but she could thr
ow men around like stuffed animals. Her name was Jade. Jada. Her name was Kara. Her name was…Ally. Never mess with Ally because she will kill you. Ally has long legs and she slouches in chairs, and when she gets up it’s like watching a cat stretch after a nap. She wears tight black leather pants. Wherever she goes, people stare at her. Which makes it harder to work undercover, but…she’s a master of disguise, so…

  Three guys in a red Pontiac wouldn’t pass, they just drove at exactly the same speed I was going (sixty-five exactly) and stayed next to me in the left lane. I didn’t look at them after the first time, because they were scruffy and stupid-looking, probably locals, probably farm boys from Fredericksburg or Stafford. I was driving to D.C. on I-95 instead of the back way because I wanted to go fast, and yet everybody but me was going around ninety. I would’ve gone ninety, but I was keeping a low profile. If I got stopped—disaster.

  Out of the corner of my left eye, I could see the Pontiac guys waving or something, gesturing. They had to think I was at least sixteen, probably older, they had to. I had on, from yesterday, my new long-sleeved black and white striped pullover, and I’d pushed my hair behind my left ear so my gold hoop earrings and one silver stud were visible. My watch was dumb, I should put it on my right hand for driving, but my extremely cool silver and onyx ring made up for it. What I couldn’t make up my mind about was my baseball cap. There were two ways you could look at ball caps: one, that they were totally out and had always, in retrospect, looked lame, especially when worn backward, and two, they were a fashion basic like T-shirts and would never go out, and wearing them backward if you looked cool in every other respect—that was key—made you cute and sassy, like Cameron Diaz, and sort of like you didn’t care. Which was, of course, the ultimate.

  A huge truck came up behind the Pontiac and flashed its lights. I let my foot off the gas a little. The Pontiac guys did something I didn’t look at, either waved or flipped me off, and roared away. Good riddance. Now everything was perfect. I turned the radio up and tried to find a noncountry station. I stuck my elbow out the window. I rested my temple on my fingertips. A woman with interesting, serious thoughts on her mind. After a while, the mist coming down turned into droplets, I had to close the window. Shit, was it going to rain? Mom’s umbrella was in the backseat, but it was so incredibly queer, one of those tiny pastel Totes only old ladies or insane people carried.

  Maybe I should stop at a gas station and buy cigarettes. Except I didn’t have any I.D. Caitlin got cigarettes sometimes, Marlboros, but she didn’t really smoke and neither did Jamie, so I didn’t either. So far. But if I was ever going to take up smoking, now was the time, today was the day. I couldn’t figure out why I wasn’t more worried. I should be, like, a nervous wreck. But it was like I had a shield around me. Mom was the one who’d broken the rules, not me. If I got caught—so what? Nobody could touch me. I was immune.

  The radio was full of static, but I could hear “Take It Easy,” the old Eagles song. “I’m runnin’ down the road,” I sang along, and slipped into my second favorite daydream. I was driving by myself in a convertible on a long, straight highway in the midwest with Tracer beside me on the front seat. A girl and her dog. Men fell in love with me, but I never stayed anywhere for long, I was always leaving them, it was just me and my dog. Sometimes I’d take odd jobs for the hell of it, but then I was gone, and the people left behind in the small town said, “Who was she, where did she come from? Do you think she’ll ever come back?”

  Wow, it was really raining. Stupid car, the windshield wipers only had two speeds, regular and maniac. Maniac went so fast you couldn’t see anything but the wiper blades, plus the whack whack whack made you nuts after about two minutes. This was going to make it harder to see the turnoff. Especially since I wasn’t quite sure where the turnoff was. Maybe I should’ve gone the back way. I sort of knew that way—you hit 66, and then somehow you were in D.C. But there were bound to be signs, right, when I got close, and if I just stayed in the slow lane, nothing could happen. Theoretically. Driving on a superhighway was much easier than driving in town or on windy two-lane roads, because all you had to do was steer.

  There was a gas station exit with fast-food signs, Burger King, McDonald’s. I’d left Krystal’s at eight and hadn’t bothered with breakfast. Should I stop? Nah, I’d wait. I was hungry, but it would be more fun to eat in Georgetown.

  There was a lot more traffic all of a sudden. Where were all these people going on a Sunday morning? Not church. Now a lot of signs were preparing me to do something. Backlick Road. Franconia or Old Keene Mill Road. I was still in Virginia, I didn’t have to do anything yet. But the Beltway was coming up. Gram hated the Beltway, she wouldn’t get on it for anything. “Killers, nuts, they’d rather murder you than slow down.” Yikes, here it was! Now what? I was on 95, and 95 turned into the Beltway! Ninety-five turned into 495 if you went to Alexandria, and 495 was the Beltway. Did I want Alexandria? Baltimore? No, but I was in the wrong lane, I had to get one lane over to the left.

  God. They wouldn’t let me! I put on my turn signal, but a million cars roared past, bumper to bumper, not a single one would let me in. I stepped on the gas, but the exit was coming, coming—I slowed and hit the brakes, and the guy behind honked and almost hit me. “Shit, shit, shit,” I yelled, and then I did it—jerked the Chevy into the next lane over, knowing there wasn’t enough room. But it worked and I got in and the Beltway exit flew by and I was safe.

  My hands were sweating and my right foot was jerking on the accelerator because my leg was shaking, but I was in the right lane and I was safe and invisible and this was how everybody drove. They just went where they wanted to go, never mind if it was safe or they had enough room or the car behind was going a hundred miles an hour. Drive defensively? Yeah, right! “My ass,” I yelled, and my heart was still beating like a drum.

  Okay. Okay, settle down. Three ninety-five, I was on 395, and here came Pentagon, no, Arlington Cemetery, no, Memorial Bridge, no. Or maybe. I knew that bridge, it went right to the Lincoln Memorial, which was definitely in D.C. But you had to get off 395 if you went that way, and I didn’t want to get off anything. No turns. This went to D.C., too, the sign said so.

  Rosslyn, no, Airport, no, Crystal City, no. Jeez, another Memorial Bridge exit. No, I wasn’t getting off 395—and look, George Mason Bridge, 395 went right over it. Ha! I was crossing the Potomac, there it was, and there was Washington, dead ahead. And the Jefferson Memorial, my second favorite, right there on the left. So cool. I’d be in Georgetown any minute now. I couldn’t wait to park this car and get the hell out. Terra firma.

  Nothing looked familiar, though. Did I want Fourteenth Street? Too late, wrong lane, I was going under another bridge. Yikes, the Southeast Freeway. Freeway, I didn’t want a freeway. Ninth Street? Too late. My hands were, like, frozen on the steering wheel, I could only go straight. Did I want the Capitol? No. Not South Capitol Street, not the Navy Yard. Where the hell was I? This was wrong, this was completely the wrong part of town.

  Okay, Eleventh Street Bridge? What the hell, just get out of here. I was shooting over the river again, but that was okay, even though it was the Anacostia and not even the Potomac. South, okay, that was backward, but now I could start over. Two-ninety-five, and the sign said I could hit the Beltway going this way. So if I went south, or west, I should hit 95 again. No panic. Everything was just going to take a little longer.

  I got a map at the Exxon in Annandale (exit 6), because the guy at the Mobil on Braddock Road (exit 5) was Indian or something and I couldn’t understand his directions, but I was afraid to hurt his feelings, so I just nodded a lot and said, “Uh huh, okay,” and drove to the next exit. Maps were better anyway, you were more in control. You never saw Nikita asking anybody for directions.

  Okay, now I saw my problem. I should’ve come in on 66, which went right into town, you got on Memorial Bridge and turned left or something and there you were in Georgetown. Or was that the Roosevelt Bridge? What I needed was a D.
C. map, but all they had was Virginia. But this was good enough. Sixty-six, that was the ticket. Also, six was my lucky number.

  Okay, the Theodore Roosevelt Bridge, not the Memorial. Now—E Street? That didn’t sound right. Stay in the right lane, that was always safest. This was a pretty street, but what was it? Constitution Avenue. Shit, this was wrong! There was the Washington Monument, tourists crawling all over. Didn’t people have anything to do? At least I had a Virginia license plate. These people came from Minnesota, North Carolina, Oregon. Hah. They had to be even more lost than I was.

  A nice-looking lady in the passenger seat of the car next to me was stopped at the same red light. I rolled down my window. “Excuse me!” The lady heard and rolled down her window. “Do you know how to get to Georgetown?”

  The light changed. The lady turned to the guy driving, probably her husband. The car behind them and the car behind me both honked. “Turn here!” the lady said, and she and her husband drove away.

  Turn here? Twenty-third Street? O-kay.

  Shit! Shit! This was the circle around the Lincoln Memorial, and I couldn’t get out of the right lane. Should I keep going around? Start over? But what if the guy in the car knew something, maybe this was—

  No! Memorial Bridge, and I had to get on it, they wouldn’t let me over. I was going over the river again, back to Virginia.

  “Shit, crap, fuck, bastard—”Staying in the right lane blew. Now what? Arlington Cemetery, no. Route 50, no. George Washington Memorial Parkway? No, but I was on it anyway. “God!” Balls, crap, piss. I tried to read the map and stay in my lane and not speed and not go too slow so the giant SUV in the rearview mirror wouldn’t crawl into my trunk. “I hate tailgaters!” I yelled, beating my fist on the wheel. I could see Georgetown—right there, right there, I recognized the red brick buildings of the university. So close. “And yet so far.” I laughed, but it sounded hysterical.