The Escape Diaries: Life and Love on the Lam

by Juliet Rosetti

  “Well . . .” The confidence was leaking out of Betty’s voice. “Maybe . . . just keep it between you and your mom for now.”

  We were out of the strip mall zone now, and I could see that Fond du Lac was a pretty little city. Neat houses, wide lawns, tree-lined streets—although half the trees now appeared to be in the streets.

  Trees. Tornado.

  “Wow—look at those trees,” I said. “The storm did a lot of damage.”

  “Terrible.”

  “Do you think the storm hit your house?” I asked.

  “Oh, I don’t think so. My husband would have called me.”

  “Sure, probably.”

  I let a couple of beats pass. “Unless he couldn’t get to the phone for some reason.”

  “Bert’s got a pacemaker,” Betty said, her voice tightening. “Sometimes it goes wonky when there’s lightning.”

  “That must be scary.”

  “But I’m sure he’s all right.” She didn’t sound very convinced. Betty was a lot like my mom. Give her a tiny seed of worry and she could grow it into a towering beanstalk of anxiety.

  She stopped at an intersection, and I edged toward the door, preparing to jump out. “Maybe I will drop you at your dorm after all, Dorothy,” Betty suddenly said. “If you’re sure there’s someone there to help you—”

  “My housemother.” I took my sweaty hand off the handle and let out my breath, hoping Betty didn’t realize that housemothers had disappeared around the same time as curfews, panty raids, and bell-bottom jeans.

  Betty zigged and zagged around streets blocked by fallen trees, and at last we arrived in a campus-looking area of sprawling brick buildings.

  “Which dorm is it?” Betty asked.

  I randomly pointed toward a four-story building up ahead. “That one.”

  “Raymond Hall? Isn’t that a boys’ dorm?”

  “It’s . . . coeducational.”

  Betty pulled over in front of the building. I opened the door and got out.

  “I’ll walk you there.” Betty turned off the ignition and started to open her door.

  “No! I’m okay. Really. You need to go check Bert and his pacemaker.”

  “I feel so gosh darn guilty, leaving you—oh for goodness’ sake! Look at you, Dorothy—you’re bottomless!” Scrabbling through her purse, Betty came up with a cellphone and thrust it at me. “Call your housemother right this instant and have her bring you some jeans. You can’t go running around like that!”

  “It’s not a big deal,” I assured her. “It’s sorority pledge week. Last year the pledges had to walk around in their bras. This year they have to go around pantless.”

  Betty bit her lips. “I just don’t know what higher education is coming to these days!”

  I started walking backward, thanking her about a million times, blowing her kisses, promising to call the police, call my parents, get the sweatshirt back to her, to never again talk to a guy I didn’t know, buy a chastity belt, and save myself for my wedding night. Before Betty had another guilt attack and tried to drag me back to her car, I whipped around and trotted toward the dorm entrance, hoping this really was a dorm and not a science lab or a heating plant.

  It was a dorm. Its door was locked, but there were lights on inside. I pounded on the door. Come on, damn it!

  Out in the car, Betty was watching, making sure I got inside safely. What a sweet, kind, trusting person! I, on the other hand, had Satan’s hoofprint emblazoned on my skull. When Betty found out how she’d been hoodwinked, she was going to hate me.

  Oh well, take a number and get in line.

  The door opened and a sleepy-looking young guy with a scraggly beard, probably the Residence Assistant, scowled at me. “It’s like, past visiting hours.”

  I brushed past him. Through the glass door I caught a glimpse of Betty, slowly driving away. She’d probably call Bert. He’d tell her the news about the escaped convict. By the time Betty was halfway home she’d start putting A and B together and realize they spelled bullshit. In ten minutes, the Marian campus would be swarming with cops.

  Not a second to lose. Acting as though I came here all the time, I chose a direction at random, and headed down a hallway.

  “Uhh,” said Scraggle Beard, scratching his crotch. “That’s like off-limits?”

  What plausible reason did I have to be here? “Forgot my purse in my boyfriend’s room,” I called back over my shoulder. My cheap, wet Taycheedah sneakers squoodged as I walked, leaving wet footprints on the tile. Squoodge, squoodge, squoodge. I could feel the guy watching me. Live in close quarters with six hundred people long enough and you learn to recognize the centipede crawl of eyes on your back—or in my case, on my naked legs. I turned a corner and walked faster, beelining for the exit sign at the end of the hall. A dorm room door was propped open. Inside, a college kid sat up in bed, munching popcorn and watching a local news station.

  My own face appeared on the screen. It was one of our wedding photos, taken at the club where we’d had our reception. Kip is in a tux, looking like Prince Charming, and I’m in a long silk dress, veil blowing in the breeze, looking like Princess Didn’t-Sleep-a-Wink-the-Night-Before. We’re holding hands, but Kip is pulling in one direction and I’m pulling in the other, so we look as though we’re trying to escape from each other. And there’s Kip’s mother in the background, taking aim at my back with a twenty-gauge shotgun.

  Just kidding. Vanessa would never have shot me with all those witnesses around.

  “. . . earlier this evening,” the reporter was saying. “Maguire is believed to be hiding in a wooded area south of the prison. Anyone having knowledge of her whereabouts is asked to call the following number . . .”

  I didn’t wait to check out the number. I found the exit and fled into the rainy night.

  Escape tip #4:

  Don’t stop to grab the octo-dog.

  The snarl of chain saws jolted me awake. A caterpillar was crawling on my neck, roots were gouging into my back, and clots of dirt were sifting into my hair.

  I was wearing a skateboarder hoodie and men’s extra-large red plaid boxer shorts. It was like that sophomore spring break in San Juan when I’d woken up on the beach with cornrowed hair and a missing purse. But my current situation was worse. I was penniless, starving, and so thirsty I was forced to lick raindrops off leaves.

  Cellblock 23 is starting to look pretty good now, huh? sneered the little voice in the back of my head, the commonsense voice that always sounds a lot like Mrs. Borg, my high-school Home Economics teacher.

  Skulking away from the campus last night, I’d walked for hours, keeping to side streets. Ordinarily a female ambling around at two in the morning wearing only a sweatshirt would have attracted attention, but everyone was too busy boarding up their broken windows or calling their insurance agents to pay any attention to me. I’d found the men’s boxers in a storm sewer grating, probably blown off a clothesline. They were mud-streaked, clammy, and came down to my knees. Pulling them on felt like stepping into a bucket of worms, but I forced myself to do it, hoping they’d help camouflage my prison-pale legs.

  Finally I’d stumbled across this little playground park strewn with giant willow trees, the earth heaved up where the tornado had ripped them out by the roots. I’d burrowed into the shallow cave beneath one of the trees, feeling every inch the hunted animal, knowing I was boxing myself into a trap, but too exhausted to go on walking.

  Back when my life was still normal, there were nights when I couldn’t drop off to sleep. My bed was comfortable, the sheets were cool, the room was quiet, but Mr. Sandman refused to sprinkle his sands and I’d kick the covers all night. Next day at the faculty meeting, sitting bolt upright in an uncomfortable chair and surrounded by school administrators, I would fall into a sound slumber. Last night, wet, cold, hunched against tree roots and pinching myself to stay awake, I’d instantly dropped into a beatific sleep.

  Now it was full daylight and time to get moving. Peering out of my
root cave, I saw guys in hardhats swarming around the fallen trees, lopping off branches. A couple of workmen were striding purposefully toward my tree, revving up their saws. I scrabbled out of my cave, patting the tree in sympathy for its impending cruel fate. Hidden from view by the massed branches, I scuttled out of the park, emerging onto a street called Apple Blossom Lane.

  Now what? What would Doctor Richard Kimble do? Having survived the train-bus crash, he’d ditched his ankle shackles, stolen a razor, and shaved off his beard. That’s what I needed to do, I decided—change my appearance. The Gravity Sucks logo on my sweatshirt stood out in neon green and the satin boxers shone with a fiery glow. I might as well have sported a flashing sign on my rear: Come and get me, coppers!

  I stepped up my pace, hurrying past large suburban ranch houses with large decks. Large yards with large dogs. Large SUVs and large motorboats parked in large driveways. It was hard to believe that I’d once lived in a neighborhood like this, back when I’d been married to Kip Vonnerjohn, the philandering prick.

  A bright orange sign in front of a colonial split-level stopped me in my tracks.

  Garage Sale 10–3 today

  Come hell, high water, or tornadoes, garage sales go on as scheduled in Wisconsin. The split-level’s garage door was rolled up and the sale merchandise spilled out onto the driveway. Toys, bikes, abandoned knitting projects, romance novels, popcorn poppers, salad shooters, tater twisters, home woodworking projects, and rack upon rack of clothes. Everything looked fabulous to my fashion-starved eyes, even the polyester pants and the gypsy skirts that were so hot for about a microsecond and now seemed as dated as disco suits.

  It wasn’t ten o’clock yet, but the buzzer-beaters were already scavenging for bargains. The women running the sale sat on lawn chairs behind a card table, drinking coffee and scarfing down blueberry muffins, still steamy warm from the oven, slathered with butter.

  My stomach was making little oinking noises. The muffin fumes wrapped themselves around me, sucking me into their gravitational field. I wanted to rip the muffins out of the women’s butter-smeared hands and stuff them in my mouth, but I figured that might possibly attract attention. Slinking to the rear of the garage, I began pawing through the junk, hoping no one would notice my mosquito-bitten legs, bramble-scratched arms, and hair that looked as though it’d been styled with a wood chipper.

  The garage sale women were watching a portable TV tuned to the local news. A female reporter wearing a fabulous low-cut top (I’d wear that) and too much makeup was doing a standup report with the walls of the prison as a backdrop.

  “. . . believed to have escaped during the tornado that touched down in the Taycheedah area last night,” she gabbled. “A passing motorist picked her up and dropped her off at Marian College, but a search of the college grounds revealed no trace of the fugitive. Maguire, who was convicted of murdering her husband, is believed to be unarmed, but should be approached with caution. A massive manhunt is under way. Anyone sighting the fugitive is asked to contact law enforcement officials.”

  I kept my back turned to the customers as I rummaged through the clothing table.

  Assigned to laundry detail at Taycheedah, I’d worked with Victoria Jean Otto—aka Vicki Jean the Boosting Queen. Vicki Jean had explained the trick to filching merchandise. “You got to dress up for the job. You don’t look up to check if the spy cameras are watching you because that makes you look sneaky. You leave your regular clothes in the dressing room and walk out wearing the new stuff and a Miss Fuckin’ America expression on your face.”

  I’d have been a complete failure as a shoplifter. I’d never taken anything that didn’t belong to me in my life. I was the type who went back to the grocery store and pointed out the error on a receipt if they’d undercharged me. Then I’d apologize and pay the difference.

  You can see what an insufferable goody-goody I was. I deserved to be in prison for being so damn stupid and trusting. I couldn’t even lie—my ears would turn red and give me away, so I’d blundered through life telling the truth and getting myself in trouble.

  Prison had straightened that out. In the Big House, it’s lie or die.

  I held a pair of black sweatpants against my waist and decided they might fit. I skulked behind a purple-flocked Christmas tree—a bargain at nineteen bucks—stripped off the hideous boxers, kicked them under a table, and pulled on the sweats. Too snug—I looked like I was smuggling hassocks—but the meter was ticking away here. Someone might have recognized me on the street and already have phoned the police. No time to try for a better fit. Bypassing the fuschia silk Donna Karan blouse shrieking pick me, I chose a boring-as-rice-pudding white long-sleeved T-shirt, zipped out of the hoodie, and zapped on the T-shirt in twenty seconds flat. The other bargain hunters, arms loaded with Barbie dollhouses, board games, and the other kids’ stuff that always gets scooped up right away, were too intent on their shopping to notice me. I snatched up a pink baseball cap, pulled my twig-strewn hair into a ponytail, and yanked it out through the oval at the back. Rolling the hoodie into a lumpy tube, I tied it around my waist, figuring it might come in handy sooner or later. The days were still hot, but September nights could be cool, and I might wind up sleeping outside again. Assuming I lasted that long.

  What else did I need? I found myself drawn to the appliance table, crammed with the kind of dreck kids give their mothers for Christmas, tossed in the junk drawer by New Year’s Day. A plastic gadget caught my eye. It was called The Octo-dog, and it was shaped like an octopus, with bladed tentacles designed to slice a single wiener into eight skinny segments. Tempting, I had to admit. It was kind of cute. And if I had to take a hostage I could use it as a weapon. Throw down your guns or the kid’s finger gets sliced into eight exactly equal pieces!

  Then I remembered Vicki Jean’s warning: you take what you need, but you don’t get greedy. You don’t stop to grab the shoes on the way out of the store. In forty years of shoplifting, Vicki Jean had never been busted for boosting. What had landed her in prison was assault and battery on her cheating boyfriend. She’d tied him to his bed while he was drunk and super-glued his magic wand to his stomach. This had earned her a three-year prison term, but Vicki Jean said it was worth it. Sure, she was in the slammer, doing time with a bunch of criminals, but her ex-boyfriend had to pee toward his belly button.

  Now, how did I get out of the garage without paying for the goods? Time for another Academy Award performance. Heart slamming against my ribs, I casually sauntered toward the door. “Back in a sec,” I chirped. “Left my purse in my car.”

  Nobody stopped me. The garage sale women were dickering with a customer over the price stickered on a Fry Daddy. As soon as I was out of sight of the garage I broke into a trot. Ms. Suburbia goes jogging. It was nine thirty on a Saturday and people were out in their yards, mowing their lawns or cleaning up storm damage. A sweating, red-faced man was washing his car in his driveway, listening to the boom box he’d set out on his lawn. The radio was tuned to a news station.

  “ . . . believed to be in the Fond du Lac area,” the radio announced. “Maguire, serving a life term at Taycheedah for the murder of her husband, is the object of a massive manhunt. She is described as being five feet three inches tall, brown-haired and blue-eyed, with no known scars or tattoos . . .”

  A whapping noise made me look up. A helicopter was approaching, flying low and lazy across the sky. Either the governor, taking a gander at the tornado damage, or a spy chopper, hunting the escaped felon. I voted for the spy chopper. I could feel someone up there, scanning the ground with binoculars powerful enough to pick out individual wads of chewing gum on the sidewalk. Were they looking for a woman in a skateboarder sweatshirt? Would the cap brim conceal my face?

  Maybe jogging looked too much like running away. Slowing to a walk, I detoured onto the lawn of the nearest house, picked a downed tree branch off the grass, and hauled it to the curb. Just another homeowner, devastated at the loss of her prize gingko. The chopper made tw
o more passes, then whump-whump-whumped off south and began flying a grid pattern over another section of town. I ambled along for a few more blocks, stopping here and there to haul tree branches off the sidewalk. Little Miss Civic Pride.

  Before long I could see the interstate just a few blocks away, the traffic already audible. On the other side of the highway, the city petered out into scruffy subdivisions and beyond that, into farm fields where I’d stick out like the prize in a box of Cracker Jack.

  I spotted it then, just a block away: the enormous gray box, the acres of asphalt, the neon letters large as semi-trailers. The bag of marbles I’d been hunting for.

  Walmart.

  Angling between parked cars, I scuttled through the parking lot, heading for the store’s entrance. A maroon van suddenly shot out of the traffic lane, zipped across my path and screeched to a halt, its frame rocking on its shocks. The driver’s door flew open, nearly knocking me down, and a woman heaved herself out of the van.

  Not even a muttered Sorry. No, that would have required her to take time away from her cellphone conversation. Without looking at me or ungluing her phone from her ear, she wrenched open the van’s rear door. Three kids tumbled out—two little girls and a toddler boy. Still yapping on her cell, the woman yanked the little boy by his arm and swatted the girls ahead, interrupting her phone conversation only long enough to scream at them. “You don’t behave this time, we ain’t stopping at the freakin’ snack bar.”

  I stuck close to them as they headed into the store, hoping that anyone watching would take me for the Dysfunctional Family’s auntie. Inside, a white-haired woman in a vest spangled with medals shoved a shopping cart at me.

  I began wheeling around in a shopaholic stupor, overwhelmed by the staggering overabundance of stuff. Eventually I broke out of my trance, recalling what Vicki Jean had told me about surveillance cameras: the big boxes had spy cams everywhere, watching their customers’ every move. Some sharp-eyed security troll could be zeroing in on my face this very second. I tugged my cap brim farther down until I could barely see, reminding myself that I was supposed to be running for my life, not scoping out the toaster ovens.