The blacktop road isn’t important enough to rate an interchange. It crosses on an overpass above the Interstate. She goes down along the right side of the hump of landfill and parks herself and the baby on the sloping grass fifty feet above the highway, protected from view by the bulk of the overpass.
Cool here. Cool now and it’ll get cold soon. Wish we had a blanket—although God knows how I’d have carried any more weight.
Cars go by at infrequent intervals, headlights stabbing the road, but by the time they come in sight they are broadside to her, heading away. No chance of being seen unless she steps out onto the shoulder.
She lies back—aching everywhere but it is good to stretch out. She holds Ellen close. Is there anything we can do other than take the chance of hitchhiking?
If only my brain weren’t so fogged. Just reeling.
Got to protect the baby. That’s number one. Got to keep us both out of Bert’s clutches; that’s number two. Got to get out of this area; that’s number three.
Might as well go down there and stick out a thumb. Can’t think of anything else to do. Can’t think period.
Rest here a few minutes. Gather a bit of strength. Then go down and thumb—and be ready to leap back out of sight if you see anything that looks like the square silhouette of the Bronco.
Remember too—they may have alerted every sheriff and local cop and highway patrolman; every big rig with a CB radio. Knowing Bert and his capacity for rage he’s perfectly capable of turning this into something no less noisy than the Lindbergh kidnapping.
Funny image: show some flesh; stick out a leg—make like Claudette Colbert in It Happened One Night—imagine the shock on some lecher’s face when you step into the light and he gets a good look at you like a critter out of some low-budget horror movie all scratched up with ripped clothes and matted hair and this little E.T. in your arms talking to herself earnestly in a language from another planet.…
She awakens having no idea how long she’s slept. Stars glittering overhead.
Ellen!
She’s fine. The baby’s fine. Snuggled right here in my arms. Poor kid’s nose is running. Find something to wipe it—here, this’ll do.
So stiff. Can hardly move. I’d give anything for a drink and a couple of aspirin. Anything except my kid.
Haven’t seen a single car go by since I woke up. It must be very late.
She holds the watch close before her eyes and tries to turn it to pick up reflections of starlight. Very hard to make out the dial. Can’t be sure but it looks as if either it’s ten after twelve or it’s two o’clock.
Either way, kid, past your bedtime. Let’s see if we can’t commandeer you a nice car seat to sleep on.
Which way? North or south?
South, I expect. He’ll certainly have people watching the border crossings into Canada. We’ll have a better chance to get lost in the crowds if we try to make it down to Albany or maybe even the city.
Of course nothing comes with guarantees. If only Charlie hadn’t deserted us.…
The short descent to the bottom of the slope seems more painful than the entire afternoon’s walk. The baby seems to have gained a lot of weight. The blister is raw and burning; the knees keep wanting to buckle; the small of her back feels broken; there are aches in all her ribs; her arms are like weights; her neck is in agony; she can’t stand the smell of herself.
Whiplash Willie, where are you now that I need you?
For a long time she stands by the side of the road. All she can hear is the baby’s breathing and the occasional halfhearted whoo-whoo of an owl.
A single headlamp appears on the hill to the south and approaches soundlessly. Can’t tell if it’s a motorcycle or a one-eyed car. Anyway it’s in the opposite lane heading in the wrong direction. Better hunker down anyway; don’t take chances. Make the lowest possible silhouette.
There’s a wide grass divider between the roadways here; not much chance of being seen from way over there. The headlight turns out to be a boxy old car with one lamp blown out. It thunders under the overpass, throwing back a raspy broken-muffler echo; it rushes away into the night, tail-lights glowing an angry red. The silence it leaves behind makes things lonelier than before.
63 High beam headlights bear down, blinding her, and she stands in the garish brightness with her arm raised, palm out, cradling the baby in the other arm and thinking: If this is Bert or some cop then we’ve had it but we can’t stay here forever.
Aren’t those lights very high off the ground?
When she hears the first hissing sigh of air brakes she knows it’s not a car.
He’s braking hard and gearing down but it takes more distance than that to stop such a huge object and the juggernaut goes rumbling past her at a pretty good clip, turn indicators flashing. Semitrailer rig. Eighteen wheeler. Big high square monster. It’ll be a way down the road before it stops. What do we do now—climb out of sight? Run for it? Hide?
I can’t. Too tired. The bones and muscles just won’t do it any more. I just can’t.
She looks back along the road. Anything else coming? No. No reprieves there. Not a light in view.
With the handbag appended to her forearm from its strap and the sack of baby things over her shoulder like a hobo’s swag and Ellen’s weight sweetly painful in her arm she walks forward to catch up to the truck and find out what fate awaits her.
64 She trudges into the light with a stoic readiness to accept whatever will be.
He jumps down from the passenger side of the truck—a tall narrow stick of a man. His back is to the light so she can’t see his face. He’s got shaggy hair like a hippie from the sixties; he’s bony and angular in some sort of windbreaker.
She says, “Thanks for stopping. We could use a lift.”
He’s getting a look at her now. “What happened to you?” His voice is soft and pleasant; no special accent but he talks very slowly, measuring the words.
“We’re all right. We just need a ride.”
“I’ve got a first aid kit in the cab. You’d better paint those scratches. Here, let me give you a hand with the baby.”
“I’d rather—can you take these things?”
He takes the sack from her. “You’re holding the baby in the wrong hand.”
“What?”
“For climbing into the truck. You need your left hand free.”
“Oh.”
He swarms up into the cab and for a moment he’s out of sight. Then he reappears, head down near the seat cushion—he’s leaning across from the far side and now he extends his arm down and points. “Grab that chrome rail with your left hand. Put your right foot on that step. Okay, that’s good. Now hike on up and swing your left leg into the cab. Come on.”
He’s got a grip on her arm and it’s a good thing because there’s a moment’s disequilibrium hanging in midair when she feels as if she’s going to pivot right out and fall.
He pulls her in onto the seat. Under the dome light she peers at Ellen, whose face is screwed up into a comical squint against the brightness; she’s pawing at the air with both tiny hands.
“Okay Sluggo,” she says, “calm down a minute. Everything wet under there?”
She looks at the driver. “I didn’t realize these things were so high. It’s like climbing to the second floor. Where’s that bag of things? I need a diaper.”
“Right behind you.” He reaches around and produces it.
It surprises her to see a rumpled bed—sheets and blanket and pillow—arranged crosswise behind the seats.
While she rummages for a diaper the driver is pulling a professional sort of first aid kit out from under the dash. “Any cuts on the baby?”
“I don’t think so.”
She removes the old diaper and wipes the baby with a tissue and rolls the baby over to examine her from all angles. Now ladies and gentlemen I want you to look very carefully and you’ll see what is truly meant by the expression Mother Love. I think I broke my Goddamn arm and forty-�
�leven other bones but there isn’t a single bruise on this kid’s delicate skin and I want that to be entered into the books by whoever’s keeping score up there when it comes to parceling out that term in purgatory.
The trucker says, “You look like you lost an argument with two miles of barbed wire.”
She replies with the first thing that pops into her mind. “My husband had too much to drink. He beat me up and threw us out of the car. I hope he drove into a tree.”
She fastens the clean diaper and settles Ellen in her lap. “Right, Sluggo. That better now?”
The driver takes a bottle of alcohol out of the first aid kit and opens it to soak a cloth pad. He waits until she takes it from him and begins to dab her face; he points toward the huge outrigger mirror beyond her window and she’s surprised to see that it’s at an angle where she can see herself in it. She begins gingerly to wipe at the scratches.
He says in a soft dry voice, “Your husband must have about sixteen real long fingernails.”
It makes her look at him—really take a look—for the first time. He’s younger than she thought at first. No more than her own age; no more than early thirties; perhaps even younger. The long hair is coal black. He’s got a narrow blade of a face but attractive in its way. All his bones seem unusually long; perhaps it’s only because he’s so thin. He has large hurt eyes.
She meets his gaze. “I got into a bramble patch.”
“I can believe that, lady. My name’s Doug. What’s yours?”
“Jennifer Hartman. This is Wendy. Say thank you to Doug, Wendy. What’s your last name?”
“Hershey. Douglas V. Hershey. Like the candy bar or the town in Pennsylvania. No relation to either. Where you from, Jennifer the Mauled?”
“Baltimore. We took a vacation in Canada. Some vacation. I don’t know what I’m going to do about Frank’s drinking, I really don’t. There, I guess I’ve got the worst of them washed off. Nothing seems to be bleeding now—I guess I don’t need bandages. You wouldn’t happen to have some water and a couple aspirin, would you?”
“No, sorry. Coffee in that Thermos.”
“Thanks.”
She uncaps it and the rich aromatic steam hits her nostrils. She pours into the cap. “Want some?”
“You go ahead.”
She knocks it back, not minding when it scalds her throat. “God that’s good. I don’t know how to begin to thank you for picking us up.”
“You ready to go now?”
“Any time.”
“Here we go then.”
He switches off the interior dome light and his hands jab at various levers and buttons and the big steering wheel. It all looks more complicated than the controls of Charlie’s airplane. The engine begins to growl and the steel floorplates begin to vibrate under her feet, reminding her of the blister on her heel. Doug Hershey checks his mirrors and eases out the clutch and the rig begins to gather speed down the shoulder of the highway.
He says, “There’s an all-night truck stop about twenty-five minutes down the road. I was going to stop there anyway.”
I don’t want to show myself in any damn highway cafe around here, she thinks. But what am I going to do about it?
Well you’ve got twenty-five minutes to figure that out.
The noise increases. Pretty much up to speed now, the rig moves out into the traffic lane and the driver relaxes back in the seat, hanging one wrist on the near rim of the wheel, glancing down at the baby asleep in her lap. He says something she doesn’t catch.
“What?”
He rolls up the window. The blast of wind diminishes. He says, “I said she’s a cute baby.”
“Yes. She’s very special.”
She feels lightheaded with exhaustion. Her eyes move fitfully around within the unfamiliar enclosure. It has a smell—old leather, metal, engine oil, tobacco—that infuses her with déjà vu.
Of course. It was the smell of her father’s camper pickup.
The seat is high and firm; her feet barely reach the floor. The truck rides more gently than she thought it would but she keeps one hand protectively on the baby just in case.
She says, “If there’s someplace that’s not out of your way where we can catch a bus—”
“Albany be all right? I’m picking up the thruway there, heading on west.”
“What are you carrying?”
“Syndicated Van Lines. I’ve got a couple households full of furniture. People moving out west. I’ve got a two-bedroom house to Salt Lake and a three-bedroom to Portland.”
“That’s a long way to drive by yourself.”
“I pull over and sleep a few hours every now and then.”
He’s got both hands on the wheel now; he’s scowling. Suddenly he says, “I hate getting shoved into a position where I have to play God, don’t you? Where you have the power over somebody else’s life that you didn’t even ask for?”
The earnest plea in his voice surprises her. She only watches his face, illuminated by the faint green glow of the dashboard and the on-off-on-off reflection of headlights off the dotted white stripe in the highway.
He says: “I don’t want this decision. I really don’t.”
She has a premonition and it makes her hold the baby tighter.
It’s a feeling like ice on her spine.
He says, “I’m not a hundred percent sure you’re the right woman because the CB said she was blond. But there’s some guy in Plattsburgh offering twenty-five thousand dollars reward to anybody who turns you and that baby in.”
65 Dazzled by the lights she squints crankily and mutters, “Where are we?”
“Truck stop.”
The rig grinds to a halt with a hiss of air brakes. He switches everything off. The sudden lack of vibration becomes not merely a silence but a void.
The touch of his hand on her forearm. “You awake?”
“Yes.” Barely.
“You’d better not show your face in there. Anyhow you’re in no shape for it. I’ll bring some stuff out. What do you want besides aspirin?”
“I don’t know. Something to eat I guess. Maybe some warm milk for the baby.” She feels around the cab. “Where’s my handbag? I’ll give you some money.”
“Never mind. Pay me back later. Hamburger all right or are you a vegetarian?”
“A hamburger would be heaven right now. Make it two.”
He opens his door and climbs down. She can see his head and shoulders in silhouette. She’s trying to keep her eyes open; dazed, she tries to focus her attention on the very important thought that hovers just out of reach.
He says, “You’re just going to have to trust me, you know.”
Then the door closes with a soft click and he’s gone.
Groggily she rubs her eyes and begins to shake her head to clear it but the movement makes her aware of the headache.
She shifts to one side and sets the sleeping baby down on the seat beside her. Then she opens the door and steps down, hanging onto things, but still she slips once and abrades her shin. When she’s standing on solid ground she braces both arms against the truck and leans on them. Her head drops forward and she sucks in deep breaths.
Finally she reaches up and carefully lifts the baby down. Ellen’s eyes flutter and there’s a moment of recognition but then she drowses again.
“There must be a ladies’ room around here.”
Carrying the baby she wanders toward the station. Several trucks are parked beside it and there are a few cars out front, one of them getting filled up at the pumps. She sees the Men’s and Ladies’ signs hanging above unlit doors along the side of the station; she tries the knob of the Ladies’ but it’s locked and she scowls at it for a long time before she turns away and plods sturdily around into the office of the station.
The attendant is still out at the pumps serving his customer. From the wall she unhooks the restroom key with its huge wooden tag; she trudges back outside with the single-minded determination that comes with extreme exhaustion.
As she unlocks the door and goes inside she finally realizes what the thought was—the one that kept evading her in the truck.
Suppose he’s in there making a phone call?
66 We’ve got choices. We could disappear back into the woods behind the place. We could just stay here in the bathroom and hope he thinks we’ve run off, and wait till he drives away and then try and hitch a ride with someone else.
We could call a cab.
She giggles.
Come on. Be serious now.
Lightheaded, I know. That’s fatigue. But you can’t afford to blank out your brain. Not now. For Ellen’s sake …
She broods into the mirror. Holy Mother of God I look a fright.
I wish I had someone to pray to. I wish I believed.
She flashes on a long rainy high school afternoon: four girls earnestly reflecting why God, if he exists, should permit evil to prevail.
It all broke up over a rusty joke: “God isn’t dead. God exists—and She’s black.”
She washes her face with cold water, scrubbing at her skin. Must think. Must use my head.
If he’s called a cop or put in a call to Bert’s house …
She dries her face on paper towels and gently begins to wash the baby. “It’s not exactly the master bathroom, darling, but any port in a storm.”
There’s no more time for stalling. Got to make the decision. He’ll be coming outside any minute now and if he finds us gone he’s sure to raise the alarm.
What do you say, kid? Which way do we turn?
In a way it doesn’t matter. No matter what direction we choose, it’s a field mined with perils.
Listen: we’ve been taking ridiculous chances all day and all night. This is no time to stop.
Making the decision, she feels immediately lighter of foot. Ellen is no weight at all when she carries her out of the ladies’ room.
There’s a fat mustached cop just going into the men’s room. He glances at her, then goes inside without any evident show of interest. Eyes wide with shock she retreats quickly around behind the station and directly out across the dim asphalt to the rig.
Necessity Page 20
