by Rio Youers
“I don’t remember that conversation,” I said. “For obvious reasons. But it must have had some effect on me because I wrote it down. And from what I read, you were a little sketchy. So you’ll excuse me for not dropping everything and running off into the sunset with you.”
We’d done a good job of keeping our voices down, but mine rose during this last sentence, an impatient blip that earned stares from the folks passing on Main. I took a deep breath and listened to the leaves chatter. Two flags—American and Oklahoma state—rippled from a nearby pole, and I found their colors, set against the deepening sky, quite tranquil.
“Since you left,” I began in a perfectly level voice, “I have been beaten up, my mind has been violated, and my apartment has been flipped upside down. I’ve been tormented, threatened, terrorized, spied on, and pursued. I got into a high-speed vehicle chase that may have resulted in the deaths of two men. Oh yeah, and I did something with a shovel on the night you disappeared. I don’t know what, but I have a feeling I wasn’t planting azaleas. As a result of this unexplained activity, I find myself on Chief Newirth’s very short list of suspects in the unsolved Green Ridge murders.”
“Jesus,” Sally said, and dropped her face into her hands.
“So this life of danger you’re talking about … guess what, sugarbean: I’m already living it.”
“What a goddamn mess,” Sally said. She looked at me. There were tears in her eyes. “I’m sorry, Harvey.”
“Everything that has happened,” I said. “Everything I’ve done … I can’t go back, Sally. This is my life now. You understand that, right?”
“Yeah, and we’re safer apart,” Sally said. “Trust me, it’s hard enough to make one person disappear, let alone two.”
“Two sets of eyes are better than one,” I insisted. “We can look out for each other.”
“They’d find us twice as fast.”
“We’re good together.”
“Romantic and true, but it doesn’t matter.”
“It does,” I said firmly. “Don’t you get it, Sally? You stole my memories, but you couldn’t steal what I feel for you. I fucking love you, and I want to help protect you.”
“Protect me?” Sally said, and now it was her turn to win a few curious stares. “You led the seekers right to me. I was happy in Abilene. I had a job, a place to live. I was making myself invisible, and you led them right to my fucking feet.”
“Yeah, well,” I mumbled. “The truck had some kind of tracking device on it. That won’t happen again.”
Sally rolled her eyes, and in that second looked nothing like the girl in the Health Nut employee-of-the-month photograph, and even less like the pretty girl in the Led Zeppelin T-shirt and green bandanna. I wondered if this was closer to the real Sally.
“The girl I fell in love with,” I said gently. “The girl in here.” I placed a hand on my chest. “Was she real, or just one of your characters?”
Sally’s tears were real. I knew that.
“What do you believe?” she said.
I recalled UFO-watching on Spirit Lake, where the lapping of the water was as clear and sweet as my old man’s voice. Really, son, he’d said, it’s a matter of belief, and how it defines us. I looked at the sky, just as he had, not full of stars but darkening toward evening. I’m more afraid of not believing than I am of not finding what I’m looking for.
I wiped Sally’s tears away.
“She was real,” I said.
Sally smiled and nodded.
“And did she love me?” I asked.
“Very much.”
“Does she still?”
“Very much.”
I was still adjusting to the fact that I had found her, and to every vibrant emotion running through me, not least the incongruity of both loving her and knowing nothing about her. I trusted my heart, though. Even if it was punched with holes.
“I should know better than to fall in love,” Sally said, and wiped a grimy sleeve across her cheeks. “I just couldn’t help myself, you’re the best person I’ve ever known.”
And with that she got to her feet and started to walk away.
“Sally.”
She kept walking.
“Sally!”
She stopped but didn’t turn around.
“I’m worth fighting for.” My voice was strong, but when I stood up my legs were trembling. I took two shaky steps toward her. “We’re worth fighting for.”
“But I’m scared for myself,” she said, still with her back to me. “Every second of every day. I can’t live being scared for you, too.”
“We can do this,” I said.
She whirled, suddenly brimming with energy, and strode—ran—toward me, threw herself into my arms with such passion that I was knocked backward into the bench. I buckled at the knees, sat down hard. Sally straddled me.
“You say you can’t go back,” she said. Her forehead was pressed to mine, her lips brushed my lips and she had her hands clasped at the back of my neck. “Do you know what that means, Harvey? Do you really? You’ll never see your father again. You’ll never place another flower on your mother’s grave. You’ll have to change your name. Change your appearance—your personality. The life you knew is over. Are you ready for that?”
She didn’t wait for a response; I felt her then, in my mind, just like I had felt the spider. But she didn’t crawl or squirm. She lay herself on my brain, as soft and red as the feather in my pocket. My eyes trickled back into my skull and I groaned. I felt a momentary heat, uncomfortable but not entirely unpleasant, then she was gone, as if that feather had been blown away by the wind.
I gasped, looking at her through watery eyes. My heart gibbered and every inch of my skin had tightened with gooseflesh.
“What—?”
She cut me off—kissed me. No small peck on the lips, but a full-mouth smash, tongues touching. I didn’t want it to end but she pulled away, breathless, her hands still clasped behind my neck. I cupped one side of her face and yes, it fit my hand perfectly.
“Do I still have my memories?” I asked.
“I didn’t touch them.” She sighed. “Not this time. I just needed to see what you were thinking.”
“And?”
She grabbed my hands, dragged me to my feet.
“Come on,” she said.
Sixteen
We walked until we found a motel that didn’t require a credit card on file, which took almost an hour. Time enough for Sally to answer a few questions, but neither of us had the stamina for further conversation. All we wanted was a steaming shower and a soft bed. I did mention that I’d be glad when she didn’t feel like a stranger—thinking out loud, more than anything—and Sally wrapped her hand around mine and assured me she’d give everything back, but that this wasn’t the time or place.
“It’ll take time and energy,” she said. “And we’d need to move quickly afterward.”
I wanted to ask why, of course, but I only nodded, squeezed her hand, and we walked with our arms swinging, occasionally bumping shoulders in our weariness.
The sun departed in layers of showy color and the streetlights sizzled around us. Eventually, we saw the sign for the motel in the distance. It was gaudy white neon, its letter M blinking fitfully. Still, it could have been Shangri-La. Sally kissed me again, unexpectedly, and I smiled.
It was my favorite part of the day.
* * *
I asked Sally if she wanted her own room and she told me not to be silly. We shared, and even though there were two beds, we slept in the same one. Pink and clean from our showers, bellies loaded with pizza, we lay in the darkness with a foot of mattress between us. This shrank to six inches, and then three. I felt her body heat and smelled the hotel shampoo in her hair. She reached for me beneath the covers, found my hand. I curled my arm around her and we spooned, nothing more. The way her face molded to my hand was the way her body molded to mine in miniature. We stayed that way until morning.
* * *
“I’d hoped Abilene would be the place I could finally settle down,” Sally said. “I had this fantasy: maybe ten years from now, or whenever the danger had passed, working in a bookstore or coffee shop … just another day. Then the door opens and there you are, maybe with a goatee, a few silver threads in your hair, and some deeply sexy lines around your eyes. You step toward me and … well, you know how the rest of the fantasy goes.”
“I can imagine,” I said.
“I made a list of back-up towns in case Abilene didn’t work out,” Sally continued. “Safe communities. Low crime rate. Unassuming, yet energetic. Towns where I’d feel safe.”
“Right,” I said. “Where the hunt dogs wouldn’t think to look.”
“Hunt dogs?”
“That’s what I call our mutual friends.”
“It’s nasty,” Sally said. “Perfect, too. I like it.”
“Well, ‘seekers’ makes them sound like a sixties folk group,” I said with a dry smile. “And trust me, they ain’t that.”
“Trust me, I know.”
We’d slept until late morning and only woke then because housekeeping knocked (in our tiredness, we’d neglected to hang the DO NOT DISTURB sign on the door). I barked a no thank you, blinked blearily, then propped myself on one elbow to watch Sally as she stirred. Playfully, I tickled the tip of her nose. She smiled from that fuzzy place between awake and asleep and batted my hand away. Then she tugged me close and kissed my bruised cheek. It’s a weird feeling to find yourself falling in love with someone you’re already in love with.
We showered long and hard again, then dressed in clothes that smelled of sweat or straw or both. I suggested finding a store and revitalizing our wardrobe. Sally—the brains of the operation, but who still had Kansas cowshit on her boots—said it could wait until after breakfast.
So there we were, in a diner not so different from Cadillac Jack’s, me with my Brando—which is how I’ll think of an American cheese omelet until the end of my days—and Sally with her fruit cup. Just like Mom.
“There’s a town in Northern California,” Sally said, popping a chunk of cantaloupe into her mouth. She chewed and swallowed and a thread of juice trickled down her chin. “Called Ryder. Ten thousand people, give or take. It’s on the ocean. A cool, cosmopolitan vibe. I’ve heard it described as San Fran’s little sister.”
I nodded approvingly; I’d never been to the west coast, but my inner Jerry Garcia assured me I’d dig it.
“Another town on the shortlist,” Sally continued. “Paisley, Colorado. Insanely picturesque, between the mountains and the lake. Low crime rate. Strong economy. They also have an annual writer’s festival that draws some pretty big names.”
“Sounds great,” I said. And it did. It also made me wonder—with so many perfect little towns sprinkled across the country—why she ever chose Green Ridge. I swilled my eggs back with a mouthful of tepid coffee and asked her.
“An element of subterfuge,” she said. “Whoever would think to look for me in Jersey?” She accented the last word—Joisey—and smiled. “But really, it’s a sweet little town in the Skylands. I thought I’d check it out, and I’m glad I did.”
Her hand crept across the table, looped around mine. A gentle squeeze before returning to her fruit cup. I just about purred.
We finished our breakfast, paid up, and left. The plan now was to buy Sally whatever she needed in the way of feminine products, and to buy us both some new clothes. Despite unforeseen expenses—a blown tire and a three-hundred-dollar ride to Tulsa—I still had a wad of bills in my wallet, although I wondered how long it would be before I’d need to buy a cheap guitar and go to work.
We took a cab into downtown Tulsa where the shopping was better and the streets somewhat livelier. They still felt subdued, though, but I put that down to being used to the bustle of Manhattan, the tight anger of Newark. Even so, walking through the Pearl and Brady Arts District, I felt myself becoming more transparent. The footprint I’d left in Sand Springs was definitely—to use a spiderism—daintier here.
“Why not a city?” I asked Sally, who’d paused to look in the window of a store called Stomp! where headless mannequins posed in colorful garb, all of them clutching fake smartphones.
Sally looked at me and smiled. “Huh?”
“A city?” I said. “It has to be easier to disappear in a city. Dense. Crowded. Diverse. We’d be needles in a haystack.”
“You’re right,” Sally said, and continued walking.
“So let’s go to LA,” I said, skipping along beside her. “Or Philly or Seattle. Let’s be invisible.”
She stopped again and I bumped into her, gently, but I steadied her with both hands. She tilted her face toward mine. I thought she was going to kiss me, but, ever careful, she whispered in my ear.
“This ability I have,” she said. “This power. It’s like living with a warhead in my pocket. The more people there are around me, the more chance it has of detonating. And believe me, Harvey, the last thing I want to do is go bang.”
I considered the brief puff of smoke I’d raised with my ninja smoke bombs, and the difference in our respective superhero abilities seemed suddenly Pacificlike.
“I’ve done the math,” she assured me. “Small towns. But not too small. America is full of them. We find the right one, and if we don’t draw attention to ourselves, we can remain invisible for a very long time.”
“Sounds good,” I said.
Now she kissed me.
“I know.”
* * *
We loaded ourselves with shopping bags, Sally buying more than me; I was a light traveler and could comfortably run a pair of jeans for five days, but women—thank God—are more heavenly creatures. So Sally bought shoes and skirts and jeans and underwear and tops and I don’t know what from Walgreens. She capped her purchases with a suitcase in which to keep it all. My wallet was notably lighter, but I couldn’t really complain given that I’d plucked her from Kansas with only the clothes on her back.
We used the lavish restrooms of a four-star hotel to freshen up and get changed. I trashed the contents of my backpack—mostly old clothes that needed replacing anyway. The only items I didn’t throw away were my mix tapes, my Book of Moments, an old Flaming Lips T-shirt that I couldn’t bring myself to part with, and the .38 Special. I hadn’t told Sally about the gun and didn’t know if I would. I was holding on to the hope that, like us, it would remain hidden.
I pulled the tags off a new T-shirt and pair of jeans, slipped into them, then splashed my face with cold water. I was in and out in five minutes. It took Sally considerably longer. I waited in the lobby, sitting in a chair that was more stylish than comfortable. Guests whizzed by, dragging luggage, talking on cell phones, lost in their own busy worlds. I heard clinking glasses and the buzz of conversation from the bar, while the hotel’s discreet sound system piped orchestral renditions of country hits. A string of clocks behind the front desk displayed times from around the world. Each one checked off ten minutes. Then fifteen. I looked at the door to the ladies’ restroom and frowned, as if this would speed Sally along. Every time it opened I expected it to be her. My concern incrementally deepened when it wasn’t.
I willed myself to calm down, but a mean voice at the back of my mind insisted that Sally was gone. Outta here. Riding the Greyhound to Somewhere, USA. I wiped my eyes and wondered if it would always be like this. Twenty years from now, returning to an empty house, or whenever Sally was running late, would I worry that she’d left me—not even a Dear John—or that the hunt dogs had grabbed her?
Yeah, probably. This was the life I’d chosen, after all. I might adjust to it, but it would never be easy.
“Not for as long as the spider is alive,” I muttered to myself, and that was when it lodged in my mind—I mean really lodged: Kill him. Kill the fucker. I’d thought it before, of course, but flippantly: hiring an elite assassin who could run a bullet through his skull from a mile away. This time it was different. It felt like a
spark, like the beginning of a plan. I saw Lang in my mind, gray-faced and sucking on oxygen, then recalled Sally whispering that her power was like living with a warhead in her pocket. And believe me, Harvey, she’d said. The last thing I want to do is go bang.
I pulled my wallet from the pocket of my new jeans, took out the red feather, and twirled it. The shaft was kinked and the barbs splayed—it had seen better days, for sure—but when I spun it between forefinger and thumb, it looked like fire.
Kill the fucker.
Yeah, a defiant thought, but hotheaded, ultimately foolish. If it was that easy—or even possible—Sally would have done it already.
The thought lingered, though, at least for the next ten minutes, until the ladies’ restroom door opened and Sally walked out tugging her suitcase. She looked at me and grinned. The relief was so huge that I rose unwittingly to my feet, as if lighter.
“Sorry,” she said. “Becoming a new person takes time.”
She spread her arms and offered a single, glamorous twirl. The shit-kicker boots and practical Levi’s were gone. She now wore skinny jeans, baby-blue Vans, and a loose sweater. Her hair was wrapped in a polka-dot scarf.
“What do you think?” she said.
“Yeah,” I said, and smiled.
This was more like the Sally I didn’t remember.
* * *
We decided then, on the spot, to make Ryder, California, our new home. If we didn’t immediately jive with the town (although we both had a feeling we would), we’d hightail it to the Rockies.
“When do we leave?” I asked Sally.
“As soon as possible,” she said.
There was a Greyhound leaving Tulsa at 3:15 a.m., scheduled to arrive in San Jose, California, forty-two hours later. We could sleep, talk, and play the license plate game, but forty-two hours, man, on a bus. I thought I might go crazy.
We decided to break it into two—Jesus, maybe even three—parts. For now, I bought two tickets to Cypress, New Mexico, arriving at 3:20 p.m. Twelve hours was still ugly, but it was doable.
