The Forgotten Girl

by Rio Youers

  “Damn me?”

  “For making me fall in love with you.”

  “Yeah,” you say, and kiss the tip of her nose. “I’m a son of a bitch like that.”

  She smiles, then makes some order from the sheets and draws them mid-waist. You fold your arms around her and stay there for the next five minutes or so, caught in the afterglow, watching the many thoughts pass across her face. Eventually, she sits up, takes a deep breath, and shares one with you.

  “Would you run away with me … if I needed you to?”

  It’s the sort of frivolous question people ask when they are recently in love. Perhaps to test the waters, or to indulge in fantasy. But two things stand out: first, the use of the word needed. For you, it gives the question a solemn edge. Second, that her expression is entirely serious.

  “Run away?”

  “Sure.” She tries to smile but her lips only tremble. “Something you should know about me: I’ve moved around a lot in my life. I’m always looking for that one place to settle down, but when it feels like the walls are closing in, I hit the road.”

  “Walls? What do—?”

  “It’s complicated,” she says.

  You look at her blankly, sit up, draw your knees to your chest. Sally rests her head on your shoulder.

  “Are you going to leave me?” you ask.

  “No,” she replies. “I’d want you to come, too.”

  “Where?”

  Sally pulls the sheets higher. Her upper lip twitches. Body language you can’t quite read. And yes, you love her, too—no doubt about that—but there is mystery here. There are secrets.

  “Somewhere no one will find us,” she says.

  * * *

  No hunt dogs in my rearview, which didn’t surprise me; I’d spent much of the previous day scoping the perimeter of Dad’s land, but saw no sign of them. To be absolutely sure, Dad and I went on a recon mission through the woods. We dressed in camouflage and smeared our faces with burnt cork. Dad was in his element. He commando-crawled with a KA-BAR knife between his teeth and communicated through tactical hand signals. I didn’t know what the fuck he was motioning about, I just nodded and gave him the occasional thumbs-up.

  We climbed trees and looked down on Ribbon Road like birds. We even approached Clover Hill from the north, which offered an elevated view of Dad’s property, but there was no sign that anybody had been there.

  “When do you leave?” Dad asked later that day. I was on the rear deck, glassing the forest line with one of his military telescopes.

  “Tomorrow morning,” I said. “I’ll catch the early bus to Newark. Hop on a Greyhound from there.”

  I’d considered flying, but the idea of being locked in an airplane made me uncomfortable. I could hop off a bus whenever I wanted to. That wasn’t possible at thirty thousand feet. Being on the ground gave me more options. More control.

  “Where are you going?” Dad asked.

  “That’s classified information.”

  He sneered and his eye flashed impatiently, but he caught up with me an hour or so later—tossed me his truck keys.

  “Take her,” Dad said. “She’s old but reliable. That three-fifty engine is one of GM’s finer moments. Wherever you’re going, she’ll get you there.”

  Dad’s truck: an ’88 Silverado with as much rust as original paint. I wasn’t going to decline the offer, though; I’d make better time on my own schedule, and detour if I needed to.

  “Are you sure?” I said. “This is your truck, Dad. It’s your link to the outside world.”

  “To hell with the outside world,” Dad said. “Besides, the DMV pulled my license last year. Something about no longer meeting the minimum requirements.”

  He gestured at his eye and shrugged; I knew his monocle prescription had been changed in recent years, but didn’t know how bad his vision was.

  “I’m an accident waiting to happen,” he said. “Take the truck, son.”

  Later that day, after I’d planned my route and packed my bag, I became convinced the hunt dogs were one step ahead of me—that they’d planted some kind of tracking device on the truck and would follow from a distance. So Dad and I checked the truck over. Dad took this very seriously. He popped the door panels and bed liner, shone a flashlight under the wheel arches, and looked under the hood.

  “This is all because of Sally, huh?” he asked.

  I ran an invisible zipper across my lips.

  “You know, I learned some effective interrogation techniques in Vietnam.” A half smile touched his lips, but there was no mirth in his voice. “I could just make you talk.”

  “Waterboarding. Tiger cages. Electrocution.” I puffed out my chest and thought of the spider. “I’ve had worse.”

  He shook his head and disappeared beneath the hood. Moments later, his voice floated out to me:

  “Don’t get yourself killed for this girl.”

  “That’s not in the game plan,” I said.

  Dad finished checking the engine compartment, then flicked off the flashlight and closed the hood decisively.

  “Truck’s clean,” he said. “Rumble on, my son. And Godspeed.”

  * * *

  I was reluctant to use my credit card on the road in case my activity was being tracked. Paranoia, maybe, but I had to play it smart. I wrote Dad a check for fifteen hundred dollars, which he exchanged for cash he kept in a shoebox under the bed. I also had my own cash, which brought the grand total to $1,986. If I stayed at cheap motels and avoided costly food bills, the money would last until I had a better idea what the future had in store.

  Because I didn’t know how long I’d be gone, or if I’d ever return, I mailed my landlord a check to cover two months’ rent. I also made another call to Chief Newirth.

  “I think I know where Sally is,” I told him. “It may be a dead end, but I’m going to check it out.”

  “Where?” he asked.

  “Rhode Island,” I lied. “She has a cousin there.”

  “What about the shovel?”

  “Still can’t remember,” I said. “Listen, I find Sally and the shovel becomes a nonissue. That may be the best I can do.”

  Silence at the end of the line. I don’t know if Chief Newirth was contemplating stopping or assisting me, or if he was gauging where this ranked in terms of suspicious activity.

  “One more thing, Chief…”

  “I’m listening.”

  There was every possibility the hunt dogs would pay Dad another visit, and although he wouldn’t be able to give them any information, that wouldn’t stop them from doing to him what they’d done to me.

  “Will you check on my dad while I’m gone?” I plucked a reason out of the air, something—I thought—entirely plausible. “He seems a little crazier than usual.”

  A pause. I heard him scribble something in a notepad.

  “I’ll stop by on my rounds,” he said.

  “Thank you.”

  “Good luck, Harvey,” he said, and ended the call.

  * * *

  With the cash situation sorted and the truck checked for tracking devices, only one thing—one heartbreaking thing—remained to keep from drawing undue attention on the road.

  “Do it,” I said to Dad, handing him the scissors and clippers.

  Dad cut his own hair all the time, and did a clean enough job despite only having one eye. I guess he was familiar with the shape of his head, and the way his hair grew. Even so, you’d think he’d never seen a pair of scissors before, the way he looked from them to my dreads and then back again.

  “You sure?” he asked.

  “Yeah.”

  He shook his head, turned his mouth down, circled me like a sculptor assessing a chunk of granite.

  “Jesus, Harvey,” he said. “Where do I even begin?”

  Using both hands, I lifted my dreads into a tangled heap.

  “Just take it all off,” I said.

  * * *

  Six years to grow—to develop, nurture, and main
tain. Forty-five minutes to remove, first severing the dreads close to my scalp with scissors, then running a number one across my skull, leaving me with a tight, velvetlike fuzz. Despite his initial reluctance, Dad soon relaxed—shit, he outright enjoyed himself. He put an old Dean Martin record on the turntable and spoke in a bad Italian accent (I have no idea why). He flourished the scissors, and used his monocle for detailed work. When he’d finished with my head, he trimmed my sideburns and neck hair, then shaved me with a warm, fragrant foam and a disposable razor. The end result was not barbershop perfect—there were a few nicks and patches—but it was good enough for me.

  I looked in the mirror afterward and saw a different man. Smoother. Handsomer. And, with the curved scar beneath my left eye, tougher. Most importantly, I wouldn’t be so goddamn conspicuous. Like Jackhammer and the rest of his happy pals, I could blend into the periphery.

  “Severe,” Dad said, examining his handiwork via the mirror.

  “Had to be done,” I said.

  “You look good, though.” He smiled and squeezed my shoulder. “You look like I did when they shipped me off to ’Nam.”

  I raised one eyebrow. “Like a soldier?”

  “Yeah,” he said. “Like you could win a fight.”

  * * *

  The haircut was good, but the breakfast Dad cooked before I set out was even better. It was the greasiest, unhealthiest meal I’d had in a long time, and I loved every delicious mouthful. He kept shoveling food onto my plate, and I kept eating it. When I’d had enough, he replaced my empty plate with an egg carton.

  “Take them with you,” he said.

  “Eggs for the road,” I said. “What a great idea. If it’s all the same to you, I think—”

  “They’re not eggs,” Dad said.

  I opened the carton and saw the ninja smoke bombs we’d made. A dozen tear-shaped pellets wrapped in duct tape, sitting on beds of cotton wool.

  “Just in case,” Dad said.

  I nodded. My breakfast stirred uncomfortably. Despite looking like a soldier I hadn’t planned for confrontation, simply because—should Lang and his hunt dogs appear—I had zero chance of victory.

  “I don’t think I’ll need them,” I said.

  “Keep them in the glove compartment,” Dad said, ignoring me. “The cotton wool will stop them from activating, even on the bumpiest road. Keep one in your pocket, though. A loose pocket. Away from keys and coins.”

  It was pointless arguing with him. I picked up the carton.

  “Now, how about a firearm?” Dad said.

  “No,” I said. “Absolutely not.”

  “Just a little extra insurance.”

  “No.”

  Now Dad backed off, or so I thought. When it came time to leave, he followed me out to the truck. I threw my backpack onto the bench seat, popped the glove compartment to slide the smoke bombs in, and that was when I noticed the revolver.

  “I’m not taking it back,” Dad said. “It goes with the truck. That’s the deal.”

  “Jesus Christ, Dad,” I said, stepping around the hood toward him. “I’ve never fired a gun in my life. You’re making this trip more dangerous.”

  “Smith & Wesson thirty-eight special,” Dad said. “The two-inch barrel makes it small enough to conceal just about anywhere. There are five rounds in the cylinder. Note the internal hammer; it’s double action. You want to fire it, you aim and pull the trigger. That simple.”

  “I open windows for houseflies,” I said. “What makes you think I could shoot a human being?”

  “What if your life—Sally’s life—depends on it?” Dad asked. “Anyway, you’ll find a warning shot is very effective, either in the air or, better, at the assailant’s feet. And you may not have to fire it at all; just having a heater in your hand will make most people think twice.”

  “Christ, Dad.”

  “You won’t tell me what’s going on? Fine. Okay. But this may be my only way to protect you.” His nostrils flared and he said again, “I’m not taking it back.”

  I shook my head, thinking I would drop the gun out the window as I pulled away, then realizing I could use it as a bargaining chip.

  “Okay,” I said. “I’ll take the gun, but you have to promise me that—should those heavy dudes return—you won’t confront them, you won’t even speak to them. Just lock yourself away. In your bunker, if possible. And don’t come out until they’ve gone.”

  “You think they’ll come back?”

  “They might come looking for me,” I said. “And they won’t be in the mood for polite conversation.”

  “I can look after myself.”

  “Promise me, Dad. I’ll feel a lot better about trekking halfway across the country if I know you’re safe.”

  He pursed his lips and glanced away from me.

  “Don’t take these guys lightly,” I warned him. “Tell me you’ll lay low, or I’ll dump the gun before I’m out of your driveway.”

  “Fine,” he said, putting his hands up. “I’ll keep an eye out. If I see them, I’ll hit the bunker.”

  “Good. Thank you.” I nodded, then exhaled. I hadn’t been aware how quickly my heart was beating until I heard the flutter on my breath. I looked from the truck to the pale blue sky in the west—the direction I was heading—and then back at Dad.

  “I should get going,” I said.

  Dad nodded, and I heard a flutter in his breath, too. Then he grabbed me and pulled me into a rigorous embrace. I felt the old muscle in his arms and chest tighten, then he whispered in my ear, “Be careful, son,” and kissed me high on the cheek.

  We separated. His eye was moist and he wiped it with the back of one hand.

  “I love you, Harvey,” he said.

  “Love you, too, Dad.”

  Michael Jackson curled between his legs and meowed. Taking this as my cue, I climbed into the truck and cranked the ignition. The engine wheezed, coughed, and rumbled to life. Dad wiped his eye again, raised one hand. I gave him a peace sign and drove away.

  I didn’t want to look in the rearview but couldn’t help myself. Dad stood at the top of his driveway with the cat nuzzled to his chest, one fist raised in a gesture of triumph and defiance—an image as beautiful as it was odd.

  It summed him up perfectly.

  “Goodbye, Dad,” I said.

  * * *

  I hit Interstate 80 going westbound and didn’t stop until the gas gauge read just below a quarter of a tank. I would have kept trucking until I hit the red, but didn’t trust a twenty-seven-year-old gauge with a V8 that liked to drink. So I played it safe and gassed up just west of Milton, Pennsylvania. I’d been on the road three hours at that point, so I took the opportunity to stretch my legs.

  Despite obsessively checking the rearview, and my every effort to ensure the hunt dogs were not following, I couldn’t shake the paranoia. I eyed every vehicle that rolled into the gas station behind me. Some meathead threatened to knock me out because he thought I was staring at his girl, but I was just trying to see beyond the sun glare on his windshield. I raised a hand in apology, looked away, and imagined throwing a smoke bomb at his car. Pyrotechnics and gas stations don’t play nicely together, but in my mind, with this douchebag … trust me, it was hilarious.

  I hit traffic an hour or so later. There was an accident in the eastbound lane, so of course everybody heading west had to slow down for a look-see. My paranoia escalated as we inched bumper-to-bumper toward DuBois. I felt locked in, vulnerable. I may as well have been on a plane. I scoped around the truck like an owl, easing between lanes whenever a larger vehicle obscured my view. I told myself there was nothing to fear—that my paranoia was raw because I’d just set out. It would diminish with every mile I covered and I’d be back to my supercool self by the end of the day. Yeah, sure, maybe. But it didn’t stop me from studying every vehicle that crawled beside or behind me.

  And I saw them.

  I think.

  Three cars back in the outside lane. A silver midsize, seen via
the rearview and then over my shoulder. A glimpse of the driver. Brickhead. Then a U-Haul truck eased into that lane and blocked my view. The air rushed from my lungs. An icy sweat broke across my skin. I turned off the stereo, needing to concentrate, but my mind was a whirlwind of dismay. I looked over my shoulder again, then my gaze flicked to the glove compartment. Suddenly, handling a gun didn’t seem such a stretch for me.

  “Make sure,” I said, and stopped moving. The U-Haul truck passed on the outside, followed by a red Mustang and a silver Chevy—a smaller car with a middle-aged lady behind the wheel. I let a few more cars pass until the vehicle behind me let rip with the horn, then I edged into the outside lane, put my foot on the brake, and let the cars I’d been holding up zip past. A silver midsize was among them: a beat-to-shit Buick driven by a tattooed dude in a Steelers cap. This was not the car I’d seen, I was sure of it.

  “Where did you go?”

  It was possible I was seeing things, but I wasn’t about to take any chances. I steered onto the shoulder and put my boot to the floor. The truck belched, groaned, and gradually picked up speed. Fellow road users expressed their disapproval by blasting their horns and maybe some called the cops. I don’t know, didn’t care, and didn’t let it stop me. I checked the rearview to see if I was being followed—I wasn’t—and kept going. A vehicle was parked on the shoulder ahead, hood raised, but even that couldn’t slow me down; I veered around it, rumbled over the verge, tires cutting up grit and turf. A dirty cloud ballooned behind me as I bounced back onto the shoulder, nothing between the pedal and the floor.

  A mile on, still nobody following, more vehicles giving me hell with their horns, and maybe I would have cut in but there was an exit coming up and I took it. The tires lost a little rubber as the road looped south, and I finally had to brake for the intersection. I turned right so I wouldn’t have to wait for the green light, then made random turns, weaving through rural Pennsylvania. After fifteen long minutes of this—hands aching on the wheel, sweat in my eyes—I fishtailed into the parking lot of a country diner and rumbled around back so I couldn’t be seen from the road.

  * * *

  I opened the glove compartment and saw the revolver inside. I thought about grabbing it but left it there. My legs were limp. My chest was full of sound. I settled back in the seat, closed my eyes, and breathed deeply.