Follow Me

by Joanna Scott

  All in all, Sally thought Helena a dingy place. Gladdy had moved there years ago with her second husband, a land speculator who had bought up property and, failing to sell it, had fled, leaving his wife with a slew of foreclosures. Why, Sally wondered, had Gladdy stayed in Helena? Why didn’t she go back to Amity, where she’d been born and raised, or go forward to the nearest lively city? Why didn’t everybody keep going and going until they found a better home?

  Even at the beginning, Sally sensed that Gladdy wasn’t exactly the worldly woman she’d pretended to be back at her sister’s beauty parlor. She’d given the impression that she had more money than she knew what to do with. But she wasn’t close to rich. She lived in a small, asphalt-shingled cottage along Route 36, with just two bedrooms and a porch closed in with dusty, torn screens. It was true she didn’t want for basics. She had enough money to cover her bills and buy food and plenty of liquor. But she didn’t live the splendorous life that Sally had been envying for months.

  On the other hand, Sally wasn’t the same young woman she’d been back in Fishkill Notch. Gladdy seemed to have forgotten Sally’s surname, or else she’d never known it, so she didn’t ask her why she’d changed it. Nor did she ask about the paper bag that Sally had brought with her — her only possession besides the yellow dress. She’d probably been too drunk even to notice the bag that first night. For a short time she didn’t seem inclined to care much about what Sally was hiding. But as the days passed, she began to look at her guest with a sharper eye, and Sally sensed distrust in the air, as if Gladdy Toffit were just waiting for her to fess up to her guilt.

  Finally, later in the week, Gladdy came right out and asked her why she had left Fishkill Notch in such a hurry. Sally didn’t have a good answer for her. She didn’t have any answer at all, in fact, other than a shrug. And when Gladdy offered to drive Sally back to Mason Jackson’s house so she could pick up the clothes she might have left behind, Sally had to say that she never wanted to go back there, though she didn’t want to talk about why. She added that the outfits Gladdy had slated for the rummage sale, along with the sandals she’d bought off the rack outside the convenience store in Helena, would do just fine for the summer.

  Gladdy said she understood that there were some things too painful to revisit. But it was clear that she didn’t like being so mystified. Later that same day, she announced she was driving to Erna’s to have her hair done — not unusual in itself, since she had her hair done once a week. But Sally guessed that it was Gladdy’s way of getting at the truth. Inevitably she’d ask lots of questions at the parlor and try to find out what Sally was hiding.

  Go ahead, Sally didn’t say, do all the prying you want. She wasn’t worried about being caught red-handed with Mason Jackson’s money. She knew she’d never have to answer for the theft or ever have to return the money. Anyway, theft was the wrong word. She didn’t believe that she’d stolen Mason Jackson’s money because she knew he didn’t believe it. And he wasn’t going around Fishkill Notch accusing Sally of doing anything wrong.

  What worried her most was that her good friend Georgie was back there thinking poorly of her for running off without a word. Someday, she told herself, she’d write her a letter and explain everything. But she wasn’t ready for that. The best she could do was extract a promise from Gladdy that she’d keep Sally’s whereabouts a secret. And this was one promise guaranteed to be kept. Gladdy loved being in charge of secrets, and she was ready to guard this one. When she set off for Fishkill Notch that day, she looked smug and purposeful, proud of being privy to part of the mystery and keen on finding out the rest of it.

  But since Mason Jackson wasn’t wasting his time spreading slander, there wouldn’t be much to learn. Indeed, when Gladdy came back from Erna’s that day, she was in a huffy mood. She even hinted that Sally couldn’t stay around for long, there wasn’t enough space in the house, and anyway, she said, she was thinking about boarding up the house for the winter and moving to Florida.

  And then, toward evening — that same evening after she came back from Fishkill Notch and then every other evening Sally spent with her — Gladdy poured herself a hefty bourbon, poured one for Sally, and they sat out on the porch looking through the torn wire mesh at the cars speeding by on the street, one passing every minute or so. Most nights, Gladdy drank three glasses to Sally’s half. And then they’d get up and go have their supper of barbecued ribs and drinks at the Barge. When she’d drunk enough to forget that she’d ever cared about the opinions of others, Gladdy would make it a point to stir up some fun, dropping change in the jukebox and sashaying from one man to another.

  You gave me

  a cotton tree,

  a bristle belt,

  a piece of felt,

  but not what I want most.

  What I want most,

  I’ll tell you,

  ain’t no bristle belt,

  no piece of felt,

  no cotton tree.

  What I want most,

  oh, honey bear,

  what I want most,

  is a skyful of love,

  that’s what I want most.

  Starry love,

  skyful of love,

  that’s what I want most.

  Gladdy spun out of the arms of the man she’d been dancing with and back to the bar. She pounded twice with her fist, signaling to the bartender where she wanted him to set her drink, which she proceeded to empty in a gulp. She slung her arm over Sally’s shoulder, rocked her to the rhythm of the song’s last chords, and then, once the music was over, said, “Now, don’t be shy, Sally. These boys, they’re starving for company. You can have your pick of the crop. But I don’t blame you for sitting it out today. Lordy, the heat. There’s no escaping it. Gee, those fellas on the road crew, they’re something. Sure, hit me again, Bill. Bottoms up. Skyful of love. Mmm-hmm. Cheers, honey bear. Sally here, won’t you look at her. She’s our little lost wallflower. Oh, starry love, skyful of love. Uh-huh. Doesn’t she remind you of my Lil? I used to tell my Lil, I used to say, whatever you do, beware of a gentleman’s promises. That’s the mistake I kept making. Never again, ha, now that it’s too late. Life flies so fast, by the time you remember to notice it, it’s out of reach. That’s fine, just as long as you have money for jam and don’t get mixed up with those mud kickers in Amity. Oh, yeah. A cotton tree, a piece of felt. I’ll tell you, honey bear, what I want most, mmm, yeah, what I want most. Soft breeze blowing. Song in my heart. Why won’t you get up and dance, Sally? Mmm-hmmm. Here we go again, Bill, bottoms up. Cheers, mountain girl. Another day, another year. If you pay attention, you might learn something, I’ll show you how to get a good thing going. Mick, sweetheart, Mick, why don’t you ask Sally to dance? Sally? Where’s Sally? Has anyone seen Sally? She was here a moment ago…”

  Gone out for a breath of air, that was all. Sweet, fresh night air after the suffocating closeness of the Barge, touch of the coming autumn’s cold raising bumps on her uncovered arms as she followed the path behind the building, drawn there by the mumbling of the river, yearning to escape the din of the tavern and find a little peace and quiet where she could sit and think.

  She ended up following the sound of the flowing water to the riverbank. She wandered along the well-worn path that led past the willows, beneath the intact part of the trestle, and to the old mill. There was enough moonlight to give the river a surface sheen but not enough to illuminate the path clearly. Sally stepped carefully in her sandals, avoiding the dark bulges of roots and stones, using a long stick she’d found to stake out her steps. She sat for a while on a flat-topped rock, bobbing the stick like a fishing pole, touching the end of it against the water as she thought about what she might do with herself next. She’d had enough of Gladdy Toffit. She had to make a plan and start living a life that would rush like this river toward happiness, rushing away from the dingy world of Helena, where there was nothing to do but get drunk and dance to stupid songs about love.

  “Nothing to do,” she war
bled, making up a tune. “Nothing to do…” The tip of her stick dented the water. The cool air was even cooler here by the river, and she folded her legs up under her skirt. Feeling some sort of debris catch on the stick, she raised it from the river, pulling from the water soggy brown weeds that clung to the stick, their weight bending it, drawing the tip back toward the surface. The stick made a creaking sound. Pushing it away from her, she tried to lift it again and succeeded in drawing the weeds a few inches farther out of the water, revealing, just for a second or two, their slender forms, separate shapes sleeker than she would have expected, looking more like frogs than weeds, yes, like little frogs dangling from the stick, startled by the air, wriggling to free themselves. Frog weeds, Sally decided, whatever that meant, just as the stick went…

  Snap, half of it disappearing into the rushing water and the other half springing back, loosening from Sally’s grip and flipping free, disappearing into the darkness of the brush behind her.

  Moonlight rippling. River flowing. Thready, sodden weeds rooted in the mud. Fish gliding, invisible in the dark water. Crickets chirping. Frog head poking from the glassy surface of a little inlet behind the rock where Sally sat, frog eyes watching her, but Sally didn’t notice because she was too busy feeling sorry for herself. A young girl in good health, not unattractive or unmannered… how was it possible that she would end up in such a dismal place, in a dull mill town beside a dull river, having fled Gladdy Toffit’s foolishness, only to while away the time fishing weeds from the Tuskee? She felt as lonely as she’d ever felt. If someone would just give her permission to act on the only desire she had left, which was to go back to Tauntonville. But then she remembered that they didn’t want her back in Tauntonville.

  Slut, they called her. Mother of a bastard.

  Shut up!

  What did you say, Sally?

  “Take me to my home away from home…,” she sang softly. It would have been the beginning of a fine song. But she’d promised herself at Georgie’s wedding that she’d never sing aloud again. “Walk with Me” had been her last song.

  Darlin’, won’t you walk with me,

  Left and right, day and night,

  No stoppin’ once we start.

  She would learn to hate singing; her own voice would make her shudder.

  Step by step went Sally, pushing away the brambles that had grown across the path just as she’d pushed away the men that first night at the Barge, not quite as balanced as she would have been if she hadn’t drunk a couple of cocktails. Damn that Gladdy Toffit, leading Sally so far astray that she had to stumble through the dark to get back to where she’d begun, or at least to reach the nearest light, which at that moment happened to be beyond the trestle, shining through the lower windows of the ruined mill and reflecting off the river. She headed toward the mill for no other reason than that she needed more light to see accurately: to see for sure that weeds were weeds, to see the difference between water and land, to see the path in front of her.

  The path eventually became easier to navigate, widening into dirt for a stretch and then flattening into a brick-paved drive that led to a rear entrance. Sally approached the building, but instead of heading toward this door, which was tightly sealed with planks and crisscrossed boards, she climbed the crumbling stone steps up the slope.

  With each step she took, another set of crickets in the brush on either side stopped chirping, their hushes meeting her in intervals. She stood on the top step for a few minutes and with her stillness encouraged the crickets to chirp again. While she waited, she became aware of a distant crackling music — it was coming through the open window, along with the light. She approached the window slowly, moving to the side of the frame so she could look in from an angle.

  The light came from a propane lantern set on a stool near a pile of shingles. The music was issuing from a transistor radio beside the lantern. The roof of the mill had long since collapsed, and the floor of this main room was dirt and weeds; the ceiling was the open night sky. Blankets were spread out on the ground, and a few couples lay off in the shadows, absorbed in their embraces, while the rest of the group enjoyed their cigarettes and a game of cards. Sally couldn’t tell what they were playing, but she felt a bitter sense that she would be forever on the outside, looking in at the fun. She felt too worn out to have fun; as Georgie liked to say, she’d been through it. Yet she wasn’t too old to feel regret for what she’d missed. She’d never had a proper youth of her own, never had a chance to hang around on a summer night with kids her own age, acting up in ways that didn’t matter and playing games that had no consequence.

  She kept watching as a girl in the center of the half circle laid out cards one by one, faceup, Sally guessed, for no one reached to turn them over. The girl continued distributing the cards. And then she laid a card in front of one of the boys and stopped, leaning back with a motion that indicated her job was finished. The group made a noise in unison that reminded Sally of the murmur of the Tuskee. It was an expression that combined calm with wariness and expectation.

  The card must have been significant. The group waited for the boy to do something. He was supposed to stand up and dance a stupid jig — was that it? Or he had to kiss a girl he didn’t like. As his penalty for receiving whatever card had been dealt him, he was supposed to do something ridiculous or dangerous. He had to make a fool of himself. He had to pull down his pants or eat dirt or leave the game altogether and go home for the night.

  Sally considered all these notions while she stared at the boy. He sat close to the light, facing the window, but he was too absorbed in his predicament to notice Sally there. She could see that he was pale, slighter than the other boys, though tall, with dark welts of acne on his cheeks and blond bangs that he should have had trimmed weeks before. Sally thought he might have been older than the others, maybe sixteen or seventeen, and yet he seemed weaker, more vulnerable, maybe because of the card he’d just been dealt or maybe because that’s just the way he was.

  “Go on,” one of the girls urged.

  “We’re waiting,” a boy said.

  “We don’t have all night.”

  “Chicken.”

  “Bawk, bawk.”

  The couples had stopped their smooching and were sitting up, watching the game along with the rest of the group, waiting for the boy to do whatever he was supposed to do. The song playing on the radio had a sorrowful melody, Sally thought, though she couldn’t make out the words. She felt sure that whatever the boy did would have an awful finality to it. Though she wanted to look away, she went on staring. As he reached to retrieve something on the ground, she wanted to shout out a warning, yet she kept quiet. And when she saw the pistol in his hand, she wasn’t more surprised than she would have been if she’d been dreaming the whole scene.

  It was similar to a dream, inevitable and natural and illogical. A slanting light shone from the lantern; the radio crackled its song; the river splashed; the crickets chirped; the tension made breathing impossible; the air was so thick that the boy could hardly lift his arm, raising the gun to his head in an attenuated motion, the effort exhausting him, drenching him in sweat, the heat of fear turning his pale skin into melting wax.

  Far away, a dog barked, the sound urging duty, like snapping fingers — do it, do it! Slowly, slowly. As gradual as the light of the rising sun stretching across the ground toward the halfway point where fate was waiting.

  Strength of life. Set me upon a rock of stone. Mark what is done amiss. The awful stupidity of man. A girl dealing cards. A boy pressing his finger against a trigger. Do it, do it! Click. Silence.

  Um, what just happened?

  Nothing. Nothing ever happened in this dingy backwater. The chamber of the gun was always empty. Life was always unremarkable. One day after the next, nothing worth remembering, not even this stupid game played by boys and girls so bored that they didn’t care whether they woke up the next morning. Yawn.

  Sally couldn’t contain her outrage. “If that’s no
t the dumbest thing I’ve ever seen!” she cried out. “You are all a bunch of lunatics.” She liked that word: lunatics. “Crazy lunatics! You all should be locked up. Every last one of you. Get out of here, go on home,” she ordered, shaking her fist as she leaned across the sill.

  The kids stared at her with frozen expressions that mixed shock and dismay and humiliation. The boy with the pistol was the first to move, raising his arms as though in surrender. And the girl who had dealt the cards jumped to her feet and grabbed the gun, pointing it at Sally.

  “Put that down,” Sally ordered.

  “Aw, Belle, sure, it’s all in fun,” said another one of the girls enigmatically. “But still —”

  Ding. That was the sound the bullet made as it glanced off a beam near the window before it crackled into a brick in the wall opposite. Sally was too startled to duck. She stood there numbly, wondering if she was understanding correctly: Did the girl named Belle nearly kill her?

  “Oh my God,” Belle exclaimed, shaking the pistol before she dropped it, as though it had burned her hand. “Oh, my God. Oh, no. I didn’t… I thought… I thought… I thought it wasn’t loaded!”

  Sure, was the unsaid response from the group. Yeah, right. Like we believe you.

  “Mole!” cried another girl.

  Mole was the idiot who’d pointed the pistol at his head and pulled the trigger. Mole was the poor sucker who’d been dealt the fateful card; Mole, pale, sweat-drenched Mole, had folded forward from the position he’d been sitting in and was sprawled over his bent legs, lying facedown on the grassy floor of the mill, looking as if he’d been dead for a week.