by Karen Hesse
It rolls onto its back and whines.
Even I can see the dog is submitting to me. But it is the girl’s dog. At least it looks exactly like the girl’s dog, the girl I’d been following.
The dog rolls back over, rises slowly, bows to me. It whines. Climbs off the porch, looks back at me, waits for me to follow.
I don’t know why I decide to go with it. Except, that girl. There is something about that girl.
Checking first to make certain no one is watching, with my blanket still wrapped around my shoulders, I grab my pack and step down from the protection of the porch, into the torrential rain.
The dog trots a few steps ahead, then turns to note my progress.
I had almost dried out on the porch. Now I’m instantly soaked again. I consider going back, but I don’t think I have that option anymore.
I think the dog is determined to retrieve me.
I’m led behind an abandoned silo where the girl is nearly hidden in the undergrowth. She’s deathly pale except for a blaze of red on each cheek. I touch her forehead. Fever ravages her.
Speaking gently, I cover the girl with my blanket, though it is already soaked and offers her no protection from the rain. I lift her head slightly and put my thermos of water to her lips. Her eyes flutter open, register my presence, then close again.
I have the money I collected from my parents’ drawers. I’ve been saving it. But I don’t hesitate to spend it now. Just as I used my money in Haiti to feed the children when they told me their stomachs hurt, now I must use what I have to save this girl’s life.
“My name is Radley,” I tell her. “Your dog brought me here. I think you need food. And water. I’m going to get something to help you feel better. I’ll be right back.” I don’t know how much she’s heard but she nods and groans. The dog lies down beside her, its head on its paws.
I remember passing a market in Norwich. I walk back to it, buy some Gatorade. I stop in at a little café and ask for some plain cooked rice, waiting while they fix it for me. When I ask how much I owe, the owner waves me away, tells me to feel better. I head back to the girl, almost expecting her to have vanished but she’s still there, shivering under my sodden blanket.
I give her sips of the Gatorade.
With each ounce of fluid, she claws her way out from the pit.
We are exposed in a way that makes me nervous. We have only the leaves overhead as protection from the rain. But I don’t dare move her.
The dog never leaves us for more than a few minutes and I realize I feel safe and useful in a way I have not felt since Haiti.
Within twenty-four hours the girl seems much better. “My name’s Celia,” she croaks. “My dog is Jerry Lee.”
“You heading north?” I ask.
Celia shrugs and says nothing more.
When she’s well enough to travel again we begin walking together. Celia makes it clear she doesn’t want to talk.
I think she’s too depleted, too exhausted to do anything but put one foot in front of the other.
I try to hold my tongue but there are so many questions I want to ask.
As it is, we don’t cover much ground our first day walking together.
After we’ve settled down in the woods for the night, I try again to question her. Rudely, she turns her back to me and goes to sleep.
I yearn to hear the sound of my own voice, to hear the sound of hers. I’ve been alone for so long. After the intimacy of the children at the orphanage, I ache for someone beside me.
At the end of our second day of silence Celia tersely thanks me for nursing her back to health.
I use the small opening she’s given me to ask where she started her journey.
But she doesn’t respond.
What if she decides to flag down a cop? What if she turns me over to one of the convoys of soldiers passing on the road? I don’t know anything about her.
But I hate the idea of being alone again. I decide to keep trying with her, at least a little longer.
“Are you still in school?” I ask.
She glares at me for a moment. Doesn’t answer.
I decide to ignore her rudeness. I imagine, instead, an orphan at my side, holding my hand, singing in a high, sweet voice.
It doesn’t help.
Celia prefers to sleep in the woods. I prefer sheds and barns.
Grudgingly, after a brief exchange, she agrees to decide at the end of each day whether we can slip, undetected, into some sort of shelter or whether we are better off under the trees.
When no shelter presents itself at the close of day, we have little choice but to stay in the woods. Jerry Lee is the most agreeable of the three of us. He sleeps wherever Celia sleeps, no protests, no questions asked.
One evening, behind a condemned house, in a sagging barn hidden from the road, Celia gazes out at the rain slamming down through the darkness and admits the night’s accommodation, under a roof, leaky as it is, has some advantage. Water runs down the walls and collects in puddles, but we are able to find a dry stall to share with the mice and the mosquitoes and the ghosts of horses past.
Once we’re beyond Lyndon, areas of settlement thin out even more. We are about two-thirds of the way now. I’ve spent most of my money on food … Celia is much fussier about Dumpster diving, though once I get her started, she can’t resist raiding the trash bins behind Dunkin’ Donuts.
The power supply is so erratic. One night we’ll see lights in farmhouses as evening approaches but the next evening everything is dark again. Gas must still be scarce, too, judging by the lack of cars on the road. There are fewer walkers this far north. But enough that we don’t stand out.
Following a brief discussion, we agree to spend the night in an old barn in an overgrown field. The sun has been down for a couple of hours when we hear the sound of feet approaching. Jerry Lee is up instantly, making a noise in his throat I’ve never heard before.
Outside, it sounds like a mob on the move. The ground shakes with their approach.
I think, now we are going to die. Why didn’t I listen to Celia about not sheltering in barns?
Jerry Lee seems to be considering our options. He puts his nose under Celia’s hand, and indicates his intention to leave. Silently we gather our things, silently we begin to move toward the back of the barn. Making his way in the dark, Jerry Lee guides us through a low door. We crawl out into an overgrown yard while a mass of boys push on the side of the barn, intent on collapsing it. Slithering across the weedy expanse, we slowly make our way to the woods beyond.
The weary barn groans in protest as the boys continue pushing on it. They grow louder with their effort and their excitement.
I tremble with fear in our hiding place inside a thicket of trees. Jerry Lee leans against me, comfortingly.
As part of the barn tilts impossibly, sighs, and collapses, headlights come down the road, shining on the young mob. The boys scatter.
One runs into the woods not far from where we are hiding. He passes so close we can hear his breath.
He exits again at a distance, never seeing us.
The rest of the barn lets go on its own and the dust makes us sneeze, though we make no sound. Our eyes burn and tear.
The police search through the rubble for hours, and then, satisfied there’s no more to be done, they leave.
Their headlights disappear around the bend. The sound of their tires trails off into the distance.
Celia whispers, “About a month ago kids started setting fire to barns, but one of the fires spread and took out two cornfields and a house. Now the little thugs just push stuff over. They’re trying to scare anyone hiding inside.”
“It worked,” I say. “I thought we were going to die. I’m sorry, Celia. I didn’t know about any of this.”
“It’s not your fault,” Celia says, thawing a bit. “I should have told you why I didn’t want to spend the night in a barn.”
I kneel in the underbrush and wrap my arms around Jerry Lee. “Thank yo
u,” I whisper into his fur. He suffers my embrace.
When I let him go, he moves away, sits beside Celia, gazing into what’s left of the night.
We say no more about it. But from then on, Celia decides where we stop to sleep.
Route 5 has pulled away from the Connecticut River and I miss it. The river had been my steady companion for so many miles of this journey. It provided a place of rest and welcome.
Now acres of farmland alternate with miles and miles of woods.
Having Jerry Lee along makes us look almost normal, like a couple of girls out walking the dog.
I travel the slow swing of Jerry Lee’s and Celia’s gait, my eyes always scanning the horizon for my parents. If only Jerry Lee could find them somewhere along this road …
But how many miracles is one dog allowed?
Celia begins to relax with me. When a girl comes tearing past in a red convertible, Celia looks at me and says, “Sweet.”
I tell Celia, “My friend Chloe had a convertible. Well, it was her father’s really. A Corvette. It was his pride and joy. He didn’t let anyone touch it. But once Chloe picked me up in it and we cruised down to Massachusetts and back. Her father tried to punish her when she brought the ’Vette home, but it was hard to punish Chloe.”
Celia doesn’t make a comment, but she doesn’t turn away either.
Having Celia turn to me and say “sweet,” it’s like she’s given me a gift.
Telling her about Chloe, I am giving her one, too, whether she knows it or not.
Celia grumbles about the endless miles, but for me they begin to fall away.
I’ve hit some sort of stride. My body no longer minds the endless foot pounding, the discomfort of nights spent on hard ground or inside abandoned barns. I no longer expect every car to hit me, I no longer expect every cop to arrest me. Having Celia and Jerry Lee at my side gives me something to think about.
In Barton a man pulls up alongside us. He smiles at us through his open car window. He’s got a nice face. A warm smile. He warns us to be careful, that there are people around looking to hurt us. He says if we want we can spend the night at his place; that tomorrow he’ll give us a ride wherever we need to go. Meanwhile we can have a hot shower, eat some real food, sleep in a soft bed.
It’s the first time anyone has approached this way in all the weeks I’ve been walking. I never thought there might be safe houses, but that’s what he’s offering. I wonder whether Celia and Jerry Lee and I look so obviously out of place here, or whether this guy is particularly perceptive.
I tell him thanks and start to move toward his car when Celia grabs my hand and stops me. Her eyes flit over to Jerry Lee.
His hackles are up.
Celia, squeezing my hand, tells the man our aunt is waiting for us, that we’re staying with her for the summer, that we have to get back soon or we’ll be in big trouble.
It’s the most I’ve heard Celia say since we started walking together.
“I could drive you there,” he offers. “To your aunt’s…”
I don’t understand why Celia and Jerry Lee have taken against him. He’s so accommodating. And what he offers is so tempting. Surely he’s someone we could trust. Wouldn’t I sense it if he weren’t?
But I decide to remain with Celia and Jerry Lee anyway.
“Sorry,” I apologize to the guy, genuinely embarrassed. “But thanks anyway.”
Suddenly the guy transforms. His expression turns ugly. He spits at us.
“Stupid bitches,” he snarls. Then he peels away.
I stare after him, totally shocked. “What a jerk! What a freakin’ jerk! How did you know?” I asked. “How did Jerry Lee know?”
“It’s a skill we’ve developed,” Celia says.
“Thanks,” I say. “I would have gone with him.”
She nods. “Good thing you didn’t. Guess we’re even now.”
“Even?” I ask.
“You saved my life. I’ve just saved yours.”
We are close to the border. I worry about that creep coming back for us. I worry about crossing into Canada. So we switch our waking and sleeping, waiting for full darkness before starting out.
Used to be I fretted most about the curves in the road and someone coming around the corner too fast and hitting me. Now the scariest sections are the ones where we can see for a distance in every direction. If we can see that far, everyone can see us, too.
But up here, as we approach the Canadian border, there’s almost no traffic and very few walkers.
Each night the natural light has lingered a little longer, the darkness closing in a bit later. I’m not sure of the exact date though I wonder if we’re near the solstice. That would make sense.
When I left Brattleboro, I walked out of town under a waxing moon. Tonight the dark is nearly impenetrable.
Celia and I walk haltingly, each of us with a hand in contact with Jerry Lee, moving blindly, closer and closer to the Canadian border. When a car approaches we drop down. There’s almost always a place to get off the road.
But there are almost never any cars.
“I wonder how long the power will be out this time,” I whisper.
Celia shrugs. “It’s been like this for a long time now. On one night, off three. Hackers, probably.”
“There’ve got to be people clever enough to counter the hackers,” I say.
Celia laughs quietly. “Sure there are. But they were some of the first to be picked up and hauled off to jail.”
Finally we make it to Newport.
After all of this walking at last we’ve reached the border. We move silently through the sleeping town.
“Tonight we cross,” I whisper.
Celia nods. I feel it more than see it.
“I never asked if you had a passport,” I say.
Celia is silent for a few moments. “Do I look like I have a passport?” she answers.
I shake my head no, which, of course, she can’t see.
“You do, don’t you?” Celia says.
“Yes,” I say. “Yes, I have a passport.”
“Why the hell don’t you just go through a legal crossing then?” she snaps.
“I can’t.”
All this time I’ve wanted to share stories with her but now …
“It better not be because you feel sorry for me,” Celia says in a low growl.
“It’s got nothing to do with you, Celia,” I say. “The police are after me.”
“Oh,” she says finally.
By now it’s past midnight. Everything is still but for a night bird out on the lake.
I walk close to Celia as if we’re old friends on a lark, as if she’s Chloe and we’re in the middle of another crazy adventure. Jerry Lee looks up at us, surprised.
“We are just two friends from Newport, out after curfew. Two restless girls and a dog,” I say, and Celia leans into me.
We follow the narrow road along the western shore of Lake Memphremagog. But before we get to where the road ends I stop, the hairs rising on my neck. There’s a white car about a quarter mile ahead of us, parked in the road.
I take Celia’s hand and guide her down a hill, behind a shed. “I think there’s someone in that car.”
“It’s just parked there,” Celia whispers.
“Humor me,” I urge.
“For how long? We’re so close, Radley.”
“How much would it suck if we get picked up now, Celia, within sight of Canada?”
Celia sighs, sits down with her back against the shed, and pats the ground for Jerry Lee. But Jerry Lee remains standing at attention beside me.
We watch for only a minute or two, and then, slowly, silently, the white car begins moving. An industrial-strength flashlight pans across the fields on either side of the road, as if the driver thinks he’s seen something. The beam probes the perimeters of the shed, but we are well hidden. Still my heart thunders. The car moves particularly slowly as it comes parallel with us.
But it keeps go
ing, heading away from the border, back in the direction of town.
As soon as the tail lights vanish, we tear up onto the road and this time we are running.
In moments we arrive at a metal guardrail.
It’s clear we’re meant to stop.
But we don’t stop. We keep going.
Climbing over the rail on the American side, we blaze through a swath of underbrush to another rail thirty feet away.
And just like that, we’re over the border.
We are exhilarated, continuing on pure adrenaline. We pass a farm occasionally as we move deeper and deeper into Canada. Mostly, we are flanked by dense trees.
“We should get some sleep,” I say at last, stumbling over my own feet.
Celia nods and a few minutes later she and Jerry Lee lead the way into the woods. Her instincts are good. She finds us a comfortable patch of ground to spend the rest of the night.
We begin traveling by day again.
I’ve been wondering what would happen once we crossed but I’ve been afraid to ask. Not that Celia would have answered.
But I try now. “Do you want to stay together now that we’re over?”
She nods. It’s the closest we’ve come to friendship. But I’m afraid to push her. I’m learning to be quiet.
Stopping at a brook, we kneel and drink.
“Why are the police after you?” she asks.
“I don’t know. Something to do with my parents, I think. They’ve been really public about their opposition to the American People’s Party from the start.”
Celia nods.
“What about you?” I ask. “Why are you running?”
Celia shrugs.
And that’s all I get.
We have no plan.
We simply move together for another week, heading west and north.
All the signs are in French. Celia relies entirely on my translations.
When the road we’re following ends, we begin to blaze a path through dense forest.
