Runaway

by Alice Munro

  But after a while all outings came to be seen as a waste of time and money. They were what people did before they understood the realities of their lives.

  She was crying now, her eyes had filled up without her realizing it. She set herself to thinking about Toronto, the first steps ahead. The taxi, the house she had never seen, the strange bed she would sleep in alone. Looking in the phone book tomorrow for the addresses of riding stables, then getting to wherever they were, asking for a job.

  She could not picture it. Herself riding on the subway or streetcar, caring for new horses, talking to new people, living among hordes of people every day who were not Clark.

  A life, a place, chosen for that specific reason—that it would not contain Clark.

  The strange and terrible thing coming clear to her about that world of the future, as she now pictured it, was that she would not exist there. She would only walk around, and open her mouth and speak, and do this and do that. She would not really be there. And what was strange about it was that she was doing all this, she was riding on this bus in the hope of recovering herself. As Mrs. Jamieson might say—and as she herself might with satisfaction have said—taking charge of her own life. With nobody glowering over her, nobody’s mood infecting her with misery.

  But what would she care about? How would she know that she was alive?

  While she was running away from him—now—Clark still kept his place in her life. But when she was finished running away, when she just went on, what would she put in his place? What else—who else—could ever be so vivid a challenge?

  She had managed to stop crying, but she had started to shake. She was in a bad way and would have to take hold, get a grip on herself. “Get a grip on yourself,” Clark had sometimes told her, passing through a room where she was scrunched up, trying not to weep, and that indeed was what she must do.

  They had stopped in another town. This was the third town away from the one where she had got on the bus, which meant that they had passed through the second town without her even noticing. The bus must have stopped, the driver must have called out the name, and she had not heard or seen anything in her fog of fright. Soon enough they would reach the major highway, they would be tearing along towards Toronto.

  And she would be lost.

  She would be lost. What would be the point of getting into a taxi and giving the new address, of getting up in the morning and brushing her teeth and going into the world? Why should she get a job, put food in her mouth, be carried by public transportation from place to place?

  Her feet seemed now to be at some enormous distance from her body. Her knees, in the unfamiliar crisp pants, were weighted with irons. She was sinking to the ground like a stricken horse who will never get up.

  Already the bus had loaded on the few passengers and the parcels that had been waiting in this town. A woman and a baby in its stroller were waving somebody good-bye. The building behind them, the cafe that served as a bus stop, was also in motion. A liquefying wave passed through the bricks and windows as if they were about to dissolve. In peril of her life, Carla pulled her huge body, her iron limbs, forward. She stumbled, she cried out, “Let me off.”

  The driver braked, he called out irritably, “I thought you were going to Toronto?” People gave her casually curious looks, nobody seemed to understand that she was in anguish.

  “I have to get off here.”

  “There’s a washroom in the back.”

  “No. No. I have to get off.”

  “I’m not waiting. You understand that? You got luggage underneath?”

  “No. Yes. No.”

  “No luggage?”

  A voice in the bus said, “Claustrophobia. That’s what’s the matter with her.”

  “You sick?” said the driver.

  “No. No. I just want off.”

  “Okay. Okay. Fine by me.”

  “Come and get me. Please. Come and get me.”

  “I will.”

  Sylvia had forgotten to lock her door. She realized that she should be locking it now, not opening it, but it was too late, she had it open.

  And nobody there.

  Yet she was sure, sure, the knocking had been real.

  She closed the door and this time she locked it.

  There was a playful sound, a tinkling tapping sound, coming from the wall of windows. She switched the light on, but saw nothing there, and switched it off again. Some animal—maybe a squirrel? The French doors that opened between windows, leading to the patio, had not been locked either. Not even really closed, having been left open an inch or so from her airing of the house. She started to close them and somebody laughed, nearby, near enough to be in the room with her.

  “It’s me,” a man said. “Did I scare you?”

  He was pressed against the glass, he was right beside her.

  “It’s Clark,” he said. “Clark from down the road.”

  She was not going to ask him in, but she was afraid to shut the door in his face. He could grab it before she could manage that. She didn’t want to turn on the light, either. She slept in a long T-shirt. She should have pulled the quilt from the sofa and wrapped it around herself, but it was too late now.

  “Did you want to get dressed?” he said. “What I got in here, it could be the very things you need.”

  He had a shopping bag in his hand. He thrust it at her, but did not try to come with it.

  “What?” she said in a choppy voice.

  “Look and see. It’s not a bomb. There, take it.”

  She felt inside the bag, not looking. Something soft. And then she recognized the buttons of the jacket, the silk of the shirt, the belt on the pants.

  “Just thought you’d better have them back,” he said. “They’re yours, aren’t they?”

  She tightened her jaws so that her teeth wouldn’t chatter. A fearful dryness had attacked her mouth and throat.

  “I understood they were yours,” he said softly.

  Her tongue moved like a wad of wool. She forced herself to say, “Where’s Carla?”

  “You mean my wife Carla?”

  Now she could see his face more clearly. She could see how he was enjoying himself.

  “My wife Carla is home in bed. Asleep in bed. Where she belongs.”

  He was both a handsome man and a silly-looking man. Tall, lean, well built, but with a slouch that seemed artificial. A contrived, self-conscious air of menace. A lock of dark hair falling over his forehead, a vain little moustache, eyes that appeared both hopeful and mocking, a boyish smile perpetually on the verge of a sulk.

  She had always disliked the sight of him—she had mentioned her dislike to Leon, who said that the man was just unsure of himself, just a bit too friendly.

  The fact that he was unsure of himself would not make her any safer now.

  “Pretty worn out,” he said. “After her little adventure. You should’ve seen your face—you should’ve seen the look on you when you recognized those clothes. What did you think? Did you think I’d murdered her?”

  “I was surprised,” said Sylvia.

  “I bet you were. After you were such a big help to her running away.”

  “I helped her—,” Sylvia said with considerable effort, “I helped her because she seemed to be in distress.”

  “Distress,” he said, as if examining the word. “I guess she was. She was in very big distress when she jumped off that bus and got on the phone to me to come and get her. She was crying so hard I could hardly make out what it was she was saying.”

  “She wanted to come back?”

  “Oh yeah. You bet she wanted to come back. She was in real hysterics to come back. She is a girl who is very up and down in her emotions. But I guess you don’t know her as well as I do.”

  “She seemed quite happy to be going.”

  “Did she really? Well, I have to take your word for it. I didn’t come here to argue with you.”

  Sylvia said nothing.

  “I came here to tell you
I don’t appreciate you interfering in my life with my wife.”

  “She is a human being,” said Sylvia, though she knew it would be better if she could keep quiet. “Besides being your wife.”

  “My goodness, is that so? My wife is a human being? Really? Thank you for the information. But don’t try getting smart with me. Sylvia.”

  “I wasn’t trying to get smart.”

  “Good. I’m glad you weren’t. I don’t want to get mad. I just have a couple of important things to say to you. One thing, that I don’t want you sticking your nose in anywhere, anytime, in my and my wife’s life. Another, that I’m not going to want her coming around here anymore. Not that she is going to particularly want to come, I’m pretty sure of that. She doesn’t have too good an opinion of you at the moment. And it’s time you learned how to clean your own house.

  “Now,” he said. “Now. Has that sunk in?”

  “Quite sufficiently.”

  “Oh, I really hope it has. I hope so.”

  Sylvia said, “Yes.”

  “And you know what else I think?”

  “What?”

  “I think you owe me something.”

  “What?”

  “I think you owe me—maybe—you owe me an apology.”

  Sylvia said, “All right. If you think so. I’m sorry.”

  He shifted, perhaps just to put out his hand, and with the movement of his body she shrieked.

  He laughed. He put his hand on the doorframe to make sure she didn’t close it.

  “Wheat’s that?”

  “What’s what?” he said, as if she was trying out a trick and it would not work. But then he caught sight of something reflected in the window, and he snapped around to look.

  Not far from the house was a wide shallow patch of land that often filled up with night fog at this time of year. The fog was there tonight, had been there all this while. But now at one point there was a change. The fog had thickened, taken on a separate shape, transformed itself into something spiky and radiant. First a live dandelion ball, tumbling forward, then condensing itself into an unearthly sort of animal, pure white, hell-bent, something like a giant unicorn, rushing at them.

  “Jesus Christ,” Clark said softly and devoutly. And grabbed hold of Sylvia’s shoulder. This touch did not alarm her at all—she accepted it with the knowledge that he did it either to protect her or to reassure himself.

  Then the vision exploded. Out of the fog, and out of the magnifying light—now seen to be that of a car travelling along this back road, probably in search of a place to park—out of this appeared a white goat. A little dancing white goat, hardly bigger than a sheepdog.

  Clark let go. He said, “Where the Christ did you come from?”

  “It’s your goat,” said Sylvia. “Isn’t it your goat?”

  “Flora,” he said. “Flora.”

  The goat had stopped a yard or so away from them, had turned shy and hung her head.

  “Flora,” Clark said. “Where the hell did you come from? You scared the shit out of us.”

  Us.

  Flora came closer but still did not look up. She butted against Clark’s legs.

  “Goddamn stupid animal,” he said shakily. “Where’d you come from?”

  “She was lost,” said Sylvia.

  “Yeah. She was. Never thought we’d see her again, actually.”

  Flora looked up. The moonlight caught a glitter in her eyes.

  “Scared the shit out of us,” Clark said to her. “Were you off looking for a boyfriend? Scared the shit. Didn’t you? We thought you were a ghost.”

  “It was the effect of the fog,” Sylvia said. She stepped out of the door now, onto the patio. Quite safe.

  “Yeah.”

  “Then the lights of that car.”

  “Like an apparition,” he said, recovering. And pleased that he had thought of this description.

  “Yes.”

  “The goat from outer space. That’s what you are. You are a goddamn goat from outer space,” he said, patting Flora. But when Sylvia put out her free hand to do the same—her other hand still held the bag of clothes that Carla had worn—Flora immediately lowered her head as if to prepare for some serious butting.

  “Goats are unpredictable,” Clark said. “They can seem tame but they’re not really. Not after they grow up.”

  “Is she grown-up? She looks so small.”

  “She’s big as she’s ever going to get.”

  They stood looking down at the goat, as if expecting she would provide them with more conversation. But this was apparently not going to happen. From this moment they could go neither forward nor back. Sylvia believed that she might have seen a shadow of regret cross his face that this was so.

  But he acknowledged it. He said, “It’s late.”

  “I guess it is,” said Sylvia, just as if this had been an ordinary visit.

  “Okay, Flora. Time for us to go home.”

  “I’ll make other arrangements for help if I need it,” she said. “I probably won’t need it now, anyway.” She added almost laughingly, “I’ll stay out of your hair.”

  “Sure,” he said. “You better get inside. You’ll get cold.”

  “People used to think night fogs were dangerous.”

  “That’s a new one on me.”

  “So good night,” she said. “Good night, Flora.”

  The phone rang then.

  “Excuse me.”

  He raised a hand and turned away. “Good night.”

  It was Ruth on the phone.

  “Ah,” Sylvia said. “A change in plans.”

  She did not sleep, thinking of the little goat, whose appearance out of the fog seemed to her more and more magical. She even wondered if, possibly, Leon could have had something to do with it. If she was a poet she would write a poem about something like this. But in her experience the subjects that she thought a poet could write about did not appeal to Leon.

  Carla had not heard Clark go out but she woke when he came in. He told her that he had just been out checking around the barn.

  “A car went along the road a while ago and I wondered what they were doing here. I couldn’t get back to sleep till I went out and checked whether everything was okay.”

  “So was it?”

  “Far as I could see.”

  “And then while I was up,” he said, “I thought I might as well pay a visit up the road. I took the clothes back.”

  Carla sat up in bed.

  “You didn’t wake her up?”

  “She woke up. It was okay. We had a little talk.”

  “Oh.”

  “It was okay.”

  “You didn’t mention any of that stuff, did you?”

  “I didn’t mention it.”

  “It really was all made-up. It really was. You have to believe me. It was all a lie.”

  “Okay.”

  “You have to believe me.”

  “Then I believe you.”

  “I made it all up.”

  “Okay.”

  He got into bed.

  “Your feet are cold,” she said. “Like they got wet.”

  “Heavy dew.

  “Come here,” he said. “When I read your note, it was just like I went hollow inside. It’s true. If you ever went away, I’d feel like I didn’t have anything left in me.”

  The bright weather had continued. On the streets, in the stores, in the Post Office, people greeted each other by saying that summer had finally arrived. The pasture grass and even the poor beaten crops lifted up their heads. The puddles dried up, the mud turned to dust. A light warm wind blew and everybody felt like doing things again. The phone rang. Inquiries about trail rides, about riding lessons. Summer camps were interested now, having cancelled their trips to museums. Minivans drew up, with their loads of restless children. The horses pranced along the fences, freed from their blankets.

  Clark had managed to get hold of a large enough piece of roofing at a good price. He had spent the wh
ole first day after Runaway Day (that was how they referred to Carla’s bus trip) fixing the roof of the exercise ring.

  For a couple of days, as they went about their chores, he and Carla would wave at each other. If she happened to pass close to him, and there was nobody else around, Carla might kiss his shoulder through the light material of his summer shirt.

  “If you ever try to run away on me again I’ll tan your hide,” he said to her, and she said, “Would you?”

  “What?”

  “Tan my hide?”

  “Damn right.” He was high-spirited now, irresistible as when she had first known him.

  Birds were everywhere. Red-winged blackbirds, robins, a pair of doves that sang at daybreak. Lots of crows, and gulls on reconnoitering missions from the lake, and big turkey vultures that sat in the branches of a dead oak about half a mile away, at the edge of the woods. At first they just sat there, drying out their voluminous wings, lifting themselves occasionally for a trial flight, flapping around a bit, then composing themselves to let the sun and the warm air do their work. In a day or so they were restored, flying high, circling and dropping to earth, disappearing over the woods, coming back to rest in the familiar bare tree.

  Lizzie’s owner—Joy Tucker—showed up again, tanned and friendly. She had just got sick of the rain and gone off on her holidays to hike in the Rocky Mountains. Now she was back.

  “Perfect timing weatherwise,” Clark said. He and Joy Tucker were soon joking as if nothing had happened.

  “Lizzie looks to be in good shape,” she said. “But where’s her little friend? What’s her name—Flora?”

  “Gone,” said Clark. “Maybe she took off to the Rocky Mountains.”

  “Lots of wild goats out there. With fantastic horns.”

  “So I hear.”

  For three or four days they had been just too busy to go down and look in the mailbox. When Carla opened it she found the phone bill, some promise that if they subscribed to a certain magazine they could win a million dollars, and Mrs. Jamieson’s letter.