by Peter Israel
But he’s so … he’s so …
Oh my God!
Makes me wild. Feel this gaping, this huge hole opened up. I’m having trouble breathing, catching my breath. Can’t think, see. Because he’s gone, into the hole, and he’s so … so helpless! I’m lying on my face, and I can feel the wet, and there’s an ache so great, this enormous welling in my throat …
Jesus God, my little boy!
Sometime later, Larry comes into the bedroom. He talks at me from behind. I stay on my side, my back to him.
“I just talked to the police,” he says. “The St. George cops. They say they’ve had no report of any accident. Nothing involving a Civic, or a young woman and a small boy. I gave them their names and a physical description. The guy I talked to said he’d call around to the nearby towns, the county cops, the state troopers. I’m supposed to call him back later. Is there anything else you want me to do?”
I don’t answer, can’t.
A little later, when I’m sure he’s gone, I glance at the digital clock. It’s after five. Outside, it’s already pitch dark.
25 December
They weren’t back at six, at seven, eight.
They never came back that day, or the next.
The police can’t find a trace of them.
Gone.
Every time I see the Christmas tree downstairs, I start to cry all over again. After the first day, when they made me check to see what, if anything, of Justin’s and Harriet’s was missing, I’ve never gone near the third floor again. But I can’t avoid the tree. It stands like some accusation in the living room, all my ornaments hanging on it, and the blue and silver balls, the colored lights.
It’s Christmas Day. I’m still waiting and there’s still no news. I’ve just demanded that Larry take the tree down.
The numbness has set in. And my breasts have dried up.
Part Two
Rebecca Anne Dalton
22 December
It’s 5:00 A.M.
I haven’t slept.
He said, “You’re to bring him here.” All week I’ve been making up excuses. He knew they were excuses. He likes that usually, but not this time. Finally I said, “You know I’m going to.” “When?” he said. “Tomorrow morning if not before. The minute Larry leaves.” He said, “You know what will happen to you if you don’t.” I said, “Yes, of course I do.”
I tiptoe around, grabbing stuff, my room, his. I’ve got these two canvas Gap bags of Georgia’s, one for him, one for me. When they’re almost full, I lug them downstairs in the darkness. I’m such a wreck I almost start singing. In the kitchen I fill the remaining space with food, whatever comes to hand: Dino cookies, apples, pretzels, a couple of his three-pack juices.
I tap my code into the alarm panel, carry the bags out to the car, my shoulder purse. Pitch-black. My God, I’m going to have to deal with the car first thing. Meanwhile the cold chatters my teeth. I’ll have to dress him for it. Unstrap, restrap his car seat, just to make sure. Then back inside, upstairs, to get him.
“Shhh,” I tell him softly when he comes half-awake. “It’s questing day, sweets. It all starts today. But we have to be very quiet.”
He nods, drowses off again. Heavy noodle in my arms. I hold him while he pees, then while I dress him, stuff him into his snowpants, snow jacket. I carry him downstairs, my hand poised to clap over his mouth. Afraid he’ll wake up Larry. Not a big risk but right now everything is a big risk.
I almost fall with him, going down the front steps. Hang in there, Becca. I get the passenger seat forward, load him into the back. My hands are shaking as I snap his harness shut. He’s awake now, his eyes open like saucers, but not a peep. I keep telling him it’s questing day, that it’s okay but we have to get away very quietly, nobody knowing.
Maybe he’s scared too. Disoriented anyway.
It’s Saturday morning. As far as the Coffeys go, I figure we’ve two hours at worst, and there’s a chance Larry won’t even notice. He has to leave early, get Georgia and the baby. Probably he’ll think we’re still asleep.
Unless he sees that my car’s gone?
But I always park on the other side, away from where they park theirs. There’d be no reason for him to check.
Clotie next. She usually shows up around eight. Probably she will notice—we’re usually in the kitchen by then—but, with Larry gone, will she do anything about it?
A baby nurse is coming too.
Chances are it’ll be when they get home from the hospital. That can’t be any sooner than nine-thirty. Maybe ten, maybe later.
Four hours to get rid of the car.
Unless he’s watching me now?
But I can’t think about that. I’m not going to think about that.
I drive west, out of St. George, to the interstate. Pitch dark, surreal. Still, I drive with my neck on a swivel, and once, when a pair of headlights roars up behind us, I almost lose it.
I sing. I sing Madonna, Whitney Houston, Elton John. Cole Porter. The speedometer at sixty. I don’t dare go any faster because of the cops, even though the cops wouldn’t know anything about us yet. In between songs I feed him Dino cookies and fruit juice in a box over the backrest. And tell him our plan. Beginning with our quest names.
He already knows most of it, our names included. He knows all about knights and ladies, witches, warlocks, quests and dragons and the Holy Grail. It started almost the day I met him. I’d say, “You don’t have to sleep, but if you just lie down for a little while, I’ll tell you the next part.” And he would, and I did, with a little help from Tolkien, The Wizard of Oz, The Once and Future King.
It always freaked Georgia, that I could get him to nap.
“This isn’t the quest,” he says from the backseat.
“Why not?”
“’Cause it’s winter.”
I say, “That doesn’t make any difference. It’s still a quest. It’s our quest.”
“But you said quests aren’t for winter. ’Cause of snow.”
“Did I?” Damn. I know I did, and why.
“Uh-huh. Not in winter.”
“But is there any snow? Look out the window, do you see any snow?”
“No. But it’s winter. You said—”
“I know what I said, and it’s true, most quests aren’t in winter. In the old days, it was too cold. People stayed in their castles, otherwise they’d have frozen into ice. But now we have heaters. Even cars have heaters. Do you feel cold right now?”
“No.”
“Well, can you think of any reason why people shouldn’t go on quests in winter?”
But he’s not convinced, I can tell. Just once, one time, I mentioned to him that someday maybe we’d go on a quest, he and I, and he’s never stopped asking since. When? When will we go?
“Look, Danny,” I say, “do you want to know the truth? The whole truth? I had a dream last night. It’s what woke me up so early. I was scared. I know you’ll say: it was just a dream, but sometimes I think dreams are more than just dreams. This one, anyway. In it, the warlocks were coming to get us. I think I actually saw one of them, through the trees. He looked terrible. I thought: how can they be coming to get us, it’s winter, aren’t they supposed to be asleep? But they weren’t asleep, not this one anyway.”
“How many was there?”
“I couldn’t tell, sweets. But it only takes one, really. You know that. One bad warlock, and if you’re not ready, you end up in the dungeon. And then there’s no quest, nothing. It’s over before it’s started.” I glance in the rearview, but the angle is wrong, I can’t see him. “Anyway, that’s what woke me up, and I realized: If we’re ever going to do it, it’s got to be now, right now. Before the warlocks get here. And that’s why we’re on our way.”
He doesn’t say anything for a minute. Then: “Are any oarlocks behind us? Chasing us?”
“Warlocks,” I correct automatically. “I wouldn’t be surprised.”
“And ’itches?”
�
�Witches. Wherever there are warlocks, there are bound to be witches. At least one.”
“Why?”
“You know that. Because warlocks work for witches. Anyway, that’s why we’ve got to change cars. That’s why we have our new quest names. What’s my name again?”
“Us really going to change cars?”
“Yes, of course we are.”
“When?”
“Soon.”
“Oh. Can us get a rocket car?”
“I don’t know about that. We’ll probably have to take whatever they give us.”
“Why?”
“Because that’s the way it works.”
“Oh please, can’t us get a rocket car?”
“We can try, but I doubt it. But I just asked you a question. You haven’t answered it yet.”
He falls silent again.
“Becca,” he says finally.
“Good!” I say. “And what’s it stand for?” He can’t get it. “Ruh-becca,” I say. “Try it.” He does. “And what’s our last name?”
“Dalting,” he manages.
“Not bad. But it’s Dal-ton, not Dal-ting. Try it.”
“Dal-ton.”
“That’s good. Now say it together, quickly. Dalton.”
“Dalton,” he says.
“Perfect! And what did you say your name was?”
“Danny.”
“Danny who?”
“Danny Dalton.”
“Oh that’s terrific! Sir Danny Dalton, if you like. And who am I? I mean, how are we related?”
“Big ’ister.”
“Great! Well, Danny Dalton, why don’t you just sit back and chill out and let’s get it rolling!”
The sun has risen behind us. We cross the Delaware River and on into Pennsylvania. It’s still too early, the first town we come to. We drive on. Danny Dalton, I must say, is a trouper. He’s hungry, but I don’t want to stop yet. I feed him cookies and juice till he doesn’t want any more. Then I bite the skin off an apple and feed him the inside. He’s hanging in there. Finally, we get to another good-sized town, where I drive around until I spot a car rental sign on a side street, part of a local garage. It’s open. I circle the block, stop on the next street, and try to figure out what to do next.
Because I can’t take him with me. On the other hand, how can I leave him alone in the car, on a strange street in a strange town? And, if it all works, what am I going to do with the Civic?
I take a deep breath, turn around in the driver’s seat, face him.
“Here we go, Danny. This is it, our first big test. Switching cars. It’s part of our disguises. I’m going to go get us the new car, and it’s something I’ve got to do by myself. If the warlocks see me alone, I don’t think they’ll pay any attention. That means I’ve got to leave you all by yourself for a little while. I’m going to take you out of the car seat and lock the doors. I’ll leave the windows open a little for air. You’re not to talk to anybody while I’m gone, no matter what. Don’t worry, I’ll be back soon with the new car and then we’ll do the switch. Meanwhile, Danny, you’ve got to be very brave. That’s a big part of quests, remember?”
He nods. He has that squeezed, serious look he always gets when he’s concentrating hard, or trying not to be afraid. I drive us back near the car-rental place and park, catty-cornered across, as close as I dare. Then I undo his harness, tell him to hunker down on the backseat. I hand him an open bag of pretzels. I kiss my palm and blow it to him. He catches it on his cheek, the way he always does.
Our first big test.
I walk across the street and into the garage. It’s a local place, a working garage from the look of it, which rents cars on the side. That’s what I want. Some of the places like Hertz won’t rent to people under twenty-five. Plus that’s where they’ll look first, the national renters.
The man in the garage takes my MasterCard and driver’s license, eyes me suspiciously. I expect that. He looks from me to my driver’s license and back again.
“What’s a pretty girl like you doing renting a car way out here?” he says, studying me.
I’m ready for that too. I tell him my story. It’s about the man I’m in love with, or have been in love with, maybe still am—actually he’s a professor at the college—and how we were supposed to go to Florida for the holidays. But last night we had this tremendous fight, and he’s just brought me into town and dumped me. And how I’ve taken the week off from my job to go to Florida with him, and I’m still determined to go, all the reservations have been made and paid for, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to wreck my life because of him.
Sad story. I tell it straight, and he takes it in. On the other hand, he’s still suspicious.
“You driving to Florida all by yourself?”
“That’s right.”
“That’s a long haul.”
“Actually, I’ve driven it before. I have family down there—near Jacksonville?—and it’s not too bad. Plus I’ll need a car, once I’m there.”
I could kick myself for not having said Washington, D.C. Don’t people go to Washington, D.C., for the holidays? But I said Florida.
He asks me if I don’t have a car of my own, at home. A lot of questions, I think, but I explain, calmly enough, that from where I live in New Jersey, my job—I work in New York City—is a bus commute, and though I can use my stepfather’s car sometimes—I live with my stepfather—I certainly couldn’t take it for all that time.
He nods. “How do I know you’ll bring the car back, Rebecca?”
“Well,” I say, smiling at him, “I guess you never do know, do you? In your business? But you’ll have my MasterCard number. And to be honest with you, I’ve got enough hassles in my life right now without another one.”
I keep my eyes on him the whole time, a steady, level gaze.
He buys it, I think. Finally, he goes inside a little office with a window looking out into the garage. From where I stand, I can see him at the telephone. As casually as I can, I walk the few steps to the entrance, the street, where I can see the Civic across the way but no Danny. There’s no one else around. And back inside, where, through the window, the man is holding my driver’s license and MasterCard up near his face and talking into the phone.
I hold my breath. I haven’t used the card in ages. The expiration date is still a few months away, but there’s a chance the Witch has canceled it. Now the man is either waiting or listening. Either way, I think, it’s taking a long time. I clutch the keys to the Civic in my pocket. If he does anything funny, I’m going to run for it.
He puts down the phone. No expression on his face. Now he’s rummaging through his desk, at the same time beckoning to me through the window.
Well, Becca, here goes nothing.
I go in.
He’s bending over the desk, filling out the paperwork. There’s the car rental form and two MasterCard forms, one for a deposit, he explains, which he’ll give me back when I bring the car in, one for the rental itself. A deposit? I say. That’s right, a deposit, take it or leave it. Then he goes over the insurance options.
I take everything, sign everything.
The car he gives me is a small blue Chevy. Automatic shift, which I hate, and over 30,000 miles on the odometer, but he says it’s the last one he’s got.
Once free, I drive quickly around the neighborhood until I find a semi-abandoned street. Vacant lots on either side, a warehouse building, a couple of dilapidated houses. Few cars. I park the Chevy. Then I half-run, half-walk, back to the Civic, trying to keep out of sight. Danny is right where I left him, only the top of his head visible, though he sits straight up as soon as he sees me. He’s still holding the bag of pretzels.
“We did it!” I tell him excitedly. “Now back in the car seat, dude, we’re on our way!”
I drive us back to the block where I left the Chevy. I glance back and forth—not a soul. Then I transfer Danny and the car seat, and clean out the Civic. I’ve had it in mind to take the license pl
ates too, but decide against it. Maybe they’ll find the car sooner or later, but it will be sooner, I guess, if I leave it without plates.
So long, Honda. Hello, Chevrolet.
So long, Justin, so long, Harriet.
24 December
That first night, at our first motel, I do my own disguise. I bought all the stuff I need in a drugstore, complete with curling iron and Dark Auburn coloring, but it comes out a total mess. When I take the turbaned towel off my head, I look like I’m wearing a magenta mop. Finally I venture out of the bathroom, and Danny laughs his head off. He thinks it’s a joke-joke, an absolute hoot.
Ah well, too bad.
I’ve gotten better at it since. Now, I guess, I just look like some cheapo tootsie who snaps her gum at high school dances, and that’s not bad.
Danny is both harder and easier. There’s not much you can do to change a three-and-a-half-year-old knight. Don’t tell anybody, but he’s the one in the Pittsburgh Steelers outfit, with the padded jacket and the cap and the high-tops with the orange-and-black laces.
I think he looks awfully cute.
Georgia would have a fit, I imagine, over what he eats. It’s only been two days, but already I’m having trouble with quest food. Bologna, American cheese (white, please, not yellow), peanut butter, Pepperidge Farm white (he likes the crusts trimmed off). I force him to drink milk, with some success. Juice. Fruit’s no good, except for a few bites of bananas.
Oreos.
Sir Oreo, in his underpants and a Pittsburgh Steelers cap.
But what am I supposed to do, Georgia? You can’t cook in motels, it’s too dangerous to eat out on a quest, and still we’ve got to eat.
And TV. I know you’d say he’s watching too much TV—I’ve always been careful about that—but he’s the guardian of the lair when I have to go out scouting for food, and guardians of lairs always have TV to help them pass the time.
Cartoons.
Look, if there weren’t cartoons on TV, we’d be in major trouble. Turtles, Looney Tunes, Heathcliff, with the clicker in his hand. Wiley Coyote. He cracks up every time Wiley Coyote falls off a cliff.
