The Power to Live

by Thomas Porter

  “My clothes will never fit you,” James Southerland said, concentrating on restraining the smile that could, at any moment, blossom on his face despite himself. He unconsciously glanced around for cameras and found a security camera above the store entrance.

  Bowery looked at James Southerland's skinny frame and realized his mistake, committed through desperation. There's no way he's squeezing into this skinny guy's jeans, he thought.

  “That your wife?” Bowery asked.

  “Why do you want to know?”

  “Give me her clothes.”

  “Now wait a minute,” James Southerland protested, realizing fully and with clarity that this was, in fact, no TV show. “There's no way she's taking her clothes off out here, for you or anyone.”

  While he angrily protested, Jennifer Southerland said quietly to her daughter, “Run inside and get some of mommy's clothes. Pants and a shirt. Hurry up, now, honey.” Julia, followed closely by Jeremy Southerland, both giggling, disappeared into the RV.

  “We're getting you some clothes, mister. Just leave us alone, okay?” Jennifer Southerland said to Bowery.

  “Make it quick.”

  “They're hurrying,” she said then added, louder and in the direction of the RV, “Hurry it up, honey. Any clothes will do.”

  “Here you go, mister,” Julia Southerland said as she reappeared at the RV door. She extended her arm out the RV, letting the pink sweat pants and flowered polyester front-button shirt hang loosely from her hand. Her older brother stood behind her.

  The fat man with bleach blond hair slapped his thigh a couple times, for no apparent reason, which set daughter Julia Southerland, 10, and son Jeremy Southerland, 12, off on another giggling fit. The shirt and sweats bounced up and down at the end of Julia Southerland's arm.

  “Throw them here,” Bowery said, igoring them.

  Julia Southerland replied, with a grin, “You can come get them, can't you?” When Jennifer Southerland heard Jeremy Southerland giggle even more loudly at this, she angrily told her daughter, “Just throw them, Julia. Now.”

  “Ok, mom,” Julia Southerland said and she underhand tossed the sweat pants and flowered shirt toward Bowery. Bowery plucked the pink sweats from the air but the flowered shirt didn't make it, landing instead on James Southerland's head. He was blinded until he pulled the shirt down and tossed it to Bowery, who was by then pulling the sweat pants on with his left hand, revealing the word “Love” printed vertically down the left leg and “Pink” down the right. Bowery carefully pulled the shirt over his injured right arm, then slipped his left arm in the other sleeve. Even if his right arm worked and he could work buttons, he couldn't close the front of the shirt over his girth. Good enough for Bowery.

  “Much obliged. Didn't catch your name.”

  “James Southerland.”

  “Much obliged, James Southerland,” Bowery said as he stepped back to the VW, stood sideways in the door, and sat back onto the driver's seat. The vehicle sank several inches and the springs squeeked in protest.

  “Can I get you anything else?” James Southerland said.

  From behind him, in a scolding tone James Southerland was all too accustomed to interpreting, accurately, as “Shut up!” Jennifer Southerland said, “James!”

  “How about you get me your cash,” Bowery said, still sitting sideways on the driver's seat.

  From inside the RV he heard giggles and, again from his wife, even more severely, “James!”

  James Southerland, who had not yet put his wallet away, pulled several bills out, walked to Bowery, and handed them to him while holding the wallet open to prove it was now empty.

  Silently, except for the groaning of the VW springs, Bowery spun fully into the car, closed the door, put it in reverse, and backed out. He jammed it into drive and drove off.

  My rolling recreational vehicle, my extra large rolling home away from home, James Southerland thought as he watched the VW drive off. Satellite radio, central heat & air, washer/dryer combo, plus built in bedroom dressers filled with extra large wife's clothes, huge enough to fit any 300-pound naked man you may meet while filling a ravenous extra large gas tank.

  From inside the door, he heard Jeremy Southerland say to his sister Julia Southerland, “That was cool!”

  Chapter 15

  Lozen's eyes shot open and she cried out. "Elizabeth!"

  Napolita stirred underneath the clothes in the backseat of the Datsun. "What is it?"

  "Elizabeth is here."

  "Here?"

  "Yes, here."

  "How can she be here?" Napolita asked.

  "She is."

  "Okay, Lozen. Your sister is here. But be quiet."

  Lozen's eyes were wide open and her pupils formed large black circles. She uncovered her head and looked over the seat back, through the windshield, to the full moon. Her pupils contracted slightly as the light hit them. A glint of reflected light formed a line on the roof of the old car and Lozen followed it to it's source. A key on the dashboard.

  Lozen, now in a whisper, said, "Hey. There's a key. Think it's for the car?"

  "Doubt it. What idiot would leave the key right on the dashboard like that?"

  "Maybe anybody. It's not like we're in a city or anything. I bet they don't even lock their doors out here," Lozen said.

  "Doubt it."

  "Did you even try the door before you smashed the window? I don't even think it was even locked," Lozen said.

  "Maybe not. Didn't even think about it," Napolita answered as Lozen shook the loose clothes that covered her onto the seat and floor. She slipped over the back of the bench front seat and let herself drop. After she landed she pulled herself up to a sitting position.

  "Wanna bet this key fits?" she said to Napolita.

  "Not really," Napolita said before letting loose a loud scream. Lozen's heart jumped and she reflexively covered her head with her arms.

  "What are you girls doing in my car?" Steve, from the restaurant, said through the smashed window.

  Napolita, propelled by her furiously-kicking legs, slid on her back to the opposite side of the car. When her upper back was stopped by the door, her legs kept pushing until she sat upright.

  "We just..."

  "Don't be afraid. It's not really my car."

  "Not really your car?" Lozen asked from the front seat.

  "Not really. My dad bought it for me."

  "Your dad?" Lozen asked.

  "Yeah, you know. My dad."

  "That guy with the beard? That's your dad?"

  "Yeah. We just finished fixing the engine. Are you in trouble or something?"

  "Trouble?" Lozen repeated.

  "Yeah, you know, trouble. Are you guys in trouble or something? That other girl came back with that guy. They got a ride to Salt Lake City. Left a couple hours ago. Not sure she looked like she really wanted to go."

  "Samantha." Napolita finally spoke. "That's Samantha. What do you mean, not sure she looked like she wanted to go?"

  "I don't know," Steve said. "Just funny. Like something wasn't, I don't know."

  "Yeah, we're in trouble," Lozen said.

  "Figured. What kind of trouble?"

  "We're sold to some guys. Probably in in Denver."

  "Sold? What do you mean 'sold'?"

  "Sold. Like, Marcos owned us and now he sold us," Lozen said.

  "That's impossible," Steve said. "Nobody's 'sold'."

  "Yeah, well, we were."

  "And that other girl. Samantha?"

  "Going to work for some people. Maybe even the people who bought us."

  "Wow," Steve said, standing straight up. "Never heard of that before."

  Napolita screamed again. She spun around and looked out the window at a bearded face, about 6 inches outside the glass. She pushed herself away from the door, toward the smashed window on the opposite side. She didn't hear the loud metallic click as the bearded man pumped the shotgun in his hands.


  "Whoa, dad. What's with the shotgun?" Steve said over the roof of the car.

  "Get the hell out of my car," Steve's dad said. Napolita scrambled into the front seat and grabbed Lozen's right arm.

  "Dad, they're in trouble."

  "Don't care," he said to Steve. He bent over until his face was about a foot away from Lozen in the front seat. As he grabbed the door handle and pushed the old-style thumb button on the door handle, Lozen pushed down on the lock button.

  "Open this damn door!" he said, his voice rising.

  Lozen reached into the back and pushed the lock button on the back door. She swung to face front and grabbed the key from the dashboard. Steve's dad then raised the shotgun up to shoulder level and aimed the butt at the window. He pulled the shotgun up and away from the window and stopped. Thinking better of smashing a second window, he shifted the shotgun into his left hand and ran around the front of the car. While he ran, Lozen put the key into the ignition.

  "Chill, dad. Didn't you hear me?" Steve said.

  "These guys are trouble. I could tell the minute they sat down," he nearly yelled to his son. He grabbed the front passenger door handle with his left hand to slow his momentum, then pushed the button to open the door. As if that action started the engine, it simultaneously jumped to life. And as he pulled on the door, Lozen pulled the gear shifter into drive and pressed on the gas.

  The handle jerked violently from dad's hand. "DAMN!" he yelled, dropped the shotgun and grabbed his left elbow.

  "Go Lozen!" Napolita shouted.

  The car sprayed dirt and stones backward as the wheels caught on the driveway. It jerked violently as it left the driveway and jumped through the rough yard, pocked with small mounds of dirt built up around clumps of desert grass and scrub bushes. Lozen aimed the car between two posts on the weathered picket fence and smashed through it. The car jerked and bounced as the wheels collided with more mounds of desert grass in the adjoining yard. Lozen swerved the car toward the driveway that led out of that yard and into the gravel road to its front.

  As the wheels sprayed dirt and stones against a swing set, Steve's dad picked up the shotgun with his right hand and awkwardly balanced it against his hip. His left arm hung limp on his side. He pulled the trigger and the shotgun kicked out of his hand and landed in the dry dirt. The pellets spread out as they flew. Some lodged in the pickets and some flew over the car and bounced off the roof of the other house. Some struck the car but didn't have the momentum necessary to penetrate through the glass. Some passed through the smashed window, flew invisibly over the seat back, and struck the inside of the windshield. Three pellets richocheted downward and struck Napolita on top of her left thigh but didn't break the skin.

  "Go, Lozen! Go!" she screamed in pain as the car's violent jerking stopped and Lozen steered it down the other driveway.

  Chapter 16

  When Lozen could see the main paved road off to the left, she yanked the steering wheel and the car swerved violently into the gravel side road. Inertia pulled Napolita onto the passenger window and she screamed again.

  "Slow down! They're not shooting anymore!"

  Lozen heard but did not slow. The Datsun, old but with a newly rebuilt engine, pulled the girls into the seat backs. Then the wheels locked up and Napolita bounced forward.

  "Take it easy, Lozen! Really!"

  With the car idling at the intersection, Lozen turned her head to the right. Her chin was tilted down and her bangs covered her eyes. If not for the engine noise, Napolita would have heard Lozen's teeth grinding. Her hands gripped the top of the wheel tightly, her red shirt sleeves bunched up around her elbows, and her chest heaved from her breathing.

  "Wow. Didn't know you could drive like that! What's gotten in to you?"

  "Don't know," Lozen answered.

  "Shouldn't we just go to the police or something? I mean, are we chasing after your sister? Is that what we're doing?” Lozen remained silent so Napolita continued, more quietly than before, “Anyway, we should get out of here." With her left arm, she pulled herself toward the center of the car until she could look out the back. No sign of Steve. No sign of his father. No sign of the shotgun.

  "Yeah, get out of here. Which way?" Lozen asked. She looked down the paved road to the right, toward the ditch that swallowed up the van, and answered her own question. She pressed the gas, the wheels kicked up dirt, and she turned the wheel to the right.

  "Help me find the van," she said to Napolita.

  "It's on your side of the car," Napolita replied.

  "I know, but we've got to find it. We're gonna need money."

  "For what?"

  "To find Elizabeth."

  "You really think she's here?"

  "She's someplace close. I know it. Help me look." As Lozen spoke, she cranked her window down and looked along the left side of the road for the van. Napolita moved to climb into the back seat, kicking Lozen's head with her right foot as she dropped over the seatback.

  "Watch it," Lozen said, swatting at air next to her right ear but still watching the roadside.

  Napolita sat upright in the backseat, slid over behind Lozen, and cranked her window down. She reached through the window with both arms and pulled herself out so her upper torso was completely outside the car. In a few seconds she reached through the front window and placed her right hand on Lozen's left shoulder. "I think that's it. Stop."

  Lozen stopped the car. They both got out and crossed the road, which was dark but shimmering in the moonlight. At the bottom of the ditch, unmoved, was the van and the girls clumsily slid down to it. The front passenger door was still open but Serio was gone.

  "Where is he!" Napolita said in alarm.

  Lozen ignored the question. She silently flipped the glove compartment open and reached in. Still there, bound with two rubber bands, was the stack of $50 bills. "Let's go," she whispered.

  They helped each other up the steep wall of the ditch, holding hands on the way up when they weren't using them to crawl.

  Lozen sat behind the steering wheel again while Napolita ran to the passenger side and sat down. Lozen put the car in drive and pulled it into a U turn, driving back the way they just came.

  "Isn't the highway the other way?" Napolita asked.

  "Yeah, but..."

  They passed the side road down which they had made their escape, then passed The Chuckwagon, dark except the forgotten neon "OPEN" sign in the window. The car rolled slowly past and the girls remained silent as they watched the sign pass them by.

  "We should really get out of here," Napolita said.

  Lozen increased pressure on the gas pedal and the Datsun complied. For several minutes they drove until Lozen asked, "Do you have any idea how to turn the headlights on?" Hearing no reply, she blindly rolled the car onto the right side of the road until it tilted uncomfortably, then pressed on the brake. It jerked to a stop and Lozen turned the key off. About 50 yards away, disembodied headlights floated down I-80. The highway paralleled the main road and the low hum of trucks washed over the Datsun.

  As she searched the steering wheel column for anything that looked like a switch, she spoke.

  "I'm not crazy, you know. Elizabeth is here. And getting closer."

  "I believe you, Lozen."

  "Really? Cause I don't know if I believe myself. Just somehow I know."

  "Like in your chest? Don't you have to move your arms like before?"

  "I guess not. I can tell you she was drifting away but..." She trailed off in thought.

  "Now she's getting closer?"

  "A lot closer. Like really close."

  They sat in silence again, watching the headlights and letting the hum of I-80 calm them. Slowly they slumped in the seat and Lozen's jaw relaxed. She tilted her head back until it rested on the seat back. After a few minutes, she sat up and resumed her search for the headlight switch. She pressed a rocker switch near her left knee, on the
lower dashboard, and the headlights turned on.

  "Finally," she said.

  "We're gonna need a map or something. I have no idea where we are. Or where we're supposed to go. I mean where we're gonna go," Napolita said, still looking out her window at the apparitions on I-80.

  At that moment, Lozen turned the key and stomped on the gas pedal. The Datsun's rebuilt engine responded admirably and Napolita was pulled violently against the cushioned seat back.

  "Whoa! What are you doing?!"

  Lozen didn't answer but aimed the car into the ditch. Somehow it stayed upright as it angled toward the bottom. The front bumper slammed into the ground before momentum and igniting fuel pushed the car up the other side. Napolita was too shaken to speak. Instead she tried to grip the dashboard, too large to grab, and bounced in the seat. Her head occasionally struck the car roof and she held her hand over her head, palm up. The low, dry scrub crunched and scraped under the car, and the screeching noise frightened Napolita more than the sudden violence of Lozen's lurch off the road.

  "What...are...you...doing!?!"

  Lozen didn't answer. The driver of the truck traveling west on I-80 thought he'd seen everything during his 12 years of long haul trucking, but then he saw the pair of headlights angling toward him across the desert floor. Lozen pushed the car forward until it crashed through the barbed wire fence that ran along the side of the highway. They passed just behind the truck but the driver kept it rolling at a steady 75, glancing once in the rear view mirror before resuming his overnight push toward California.

  Lozen and Napolita crossed the westbound lanes at a 45 degree angle before hitting the median. It was about 50 feet wide, also clustered with clumps of desert grass, scrub bushes and small mounds of dirt.

  Screeeeech! They scraped the underside of the car and Napolita reflexively raised her feet off the car floor.

  In a few seconds the car tires caught on the solid pavement of I-80 going east toward Salt Lake City. Lozen lined the car up between the unearthly moonlight reflecting off the white stripes. She pressed down even harder on the gas pedal but the old Datsun was maxed out. The rear of a truck, lit up with red and yellow lights mounted around its circumference, blocked her path so she tugged the steering wheel slightly to the right. The Datsun drifted onto the shoulder and in a few seconds the truck was behind. Again she aimed the car between the white stripes and closed the gap between herself and the Greyhound bus directly in front.