by Jodi Thomas
When she forced herself to look up, a littered vacant lot across the street was her only view. Between the road and the parking lot, one lone tree stood, fighting for space amid the concrete, struggling to live in a world where no one cared. The elm was crooked, bent and twisted beyond any beauty. Blaine guessed some city worker had chopped off the branches on one side, leaving stubs without leaves where the limbs might have ventured near the windshield of a passing car. The effect bowed the elm’s shadow, deforming it in the morning sun.
In a strange, unexplained way, the elm gave her an ounce of hope.
“You need to keep moving if you don’t want to be bothered.”
Blaine noticed Chipper sweeping the steps with the same careless effort she used to mop. The woman’s pale, almost colorless eyes watched first the front door of the shelter, then the walk beyond the steps.
“Keep moving?” Blaine asked, thinking it seemed pointless to walk when she had nowhere to go.
Chipper stopped sweeping and stared at Blaine as if she had just discovered an original life-form. “You’re new at this, aren’t you? I thought it was just an act when we was inside. But now I think you really don’t know nothing.”
Blaine saw no point in lying. “You’re right, I really don’t know nothing.”
“Keep moving and you’ll be safe enough during the day. Just walk down the streets like you got ever’ right to be there. Stop anywhere, go in any store, and the next thing you know you’ll find yourself in trouble.” She looked down at Blaine with sad eyes, as though watching something die. “There’s a place down near Neches and Seventh that’ll feed you lunch. They don’t ask questions, just let you eat and use their bathroom. They even have phones for local calls, but the waiting lines are usually long. Keep walking ’til then. When you get there, watch who you sit by.”
Chipper’s advice almost made sense. Blaine stood and automatically dusted off the back of her trousers before realizing it was a wasted effort. She would walk while she thought. She needed a plan. Once she decided on that, the rest would be easy. She’d give Mark time to calm down, then she’d try again. He must be still in shock, running on adrenaline the way he always did.
“Thanks.” Blaine turned back to Chipper, but the woman had gone inside, apparently believing that sweeping the first few steps was enough outdoor activity for the day.
Blaine walked east until she crossed Brazos Street, then turned south. She knew the way as well as she knew the creases in her palm. Anyone wanting to be lost in Austin for a few hours only had to find Sixth Street. It was like a vein running through downtown. A vein pumping with the heartbeat of the city.
When she reached the fine old Driskill Hotel with its proud pillars, Blaine turned onto the street made for midnight entertainment. Sixth Street. She hardly noticed how shabby it looked in sunlight. At night, music drifted from almost every door and the air smelled of beer and pizza. Within a few blocks you could stroll along after dinner and hear everything from bluegrass to jazz. At night, college students, businesspeople, panhandlers and druggies populated the sidelines, but in the daylight all she noticed were delivery people and shoppers.
Several people wearing matching orange shirts passed her, whispering the protest they planned to chant near the capitol steps. Blaine made out the words on one large woman’s shirt: Our Children Are Eating Their Way to Early Graves. Then in smaller print: Healthier School Lunches Starting Today.
The soft soles of her slip-on shoes made no sound as she weaved between groups of strolling tourists and men with dollies hauling in liquor. Blaine felt like a ghost drifting through the real world.
Blaine walked. She’d have to find some way of getting in touch with Mark. He needed to know she was alive. But if telling him would endanger his life, she might be better off letting him believe a lie for a while longer. Mark might be a warrior in the courtroom, but he didn’t even own a gun. She couldn’t imagine him defending himself against an attack, much less protecting her. Not that he was weak. Never. Civilization had simply bred the instincts out of him.
If he knew she was alive, the first people he’d tell would be the partners and at least one of them wished her dead.
Maybe if she went to the police, she would be safe. The station house was only a few blocks away. But hadn’t Frank Parker thought that same thing when he filed his report about the bombing? He had been a guard. He must have known something about protecting himself, and what good had telling done him?
Blaine took a deep breath. She didn’t know any hard facts; she might just be paranoid. And Frank, it was possible no one had tampered with his car. He could have simply fallen asleep at the wheel after being up all night. Maybe he wasn’t the “detail” the shadow talked of “taking care of.”
She could almost believe she imagined the conversation between the thin shadow in a cap and Harry Winslow. Almost.
If Mark thought she was dead, the bomber would too, unless he’d been watching last night when she’d stumbled from the alley. And if he had, he would have told Winslow. Maybe it was safest to stay dead a few hours longer.
Mark had answered the phone both times. Only she knew about the private line in his office.
Blaine crossed another intersection and entered a part of town called the East End. Here the shops were trendy and the bars were replaced by sandwich stops and bakeries. For the first time she noticed the people around her. All kinds, from different walks of life, with one thing in common. None of them seemed to see her.
She had become one of the invisible people no one looked at on the street. Even when she tried to make eye contact, it was impossible. The feeling was foreign to Blaine. All her life, well, since high school anyway, she had been one of those girls, then one of the women, that people noticed. Men often smiled, not so much in greeting, but more in appreciation. Mark had once said she was the kind of person people enjoyed watching move. Perfection in motion, he had declared matter-of-factly, in more of a statement than a compliment.
Their stares had usually made her uncomfortable, but their choice not to see her bothered her more.
People never walked around Blaine Anderson. Or at least they never had until now. She had just gone through the worst twenty-four hours of her life and woke up invisible. How much darker could this nightmare get?
She purposely lined up in a direct path with the people on the street.
They walked around as if she were no more real than a lamppost. Two women even parted and moved past her without the slightest pause in conversation.
Blaine tried to do what her mother always harped on…think of the bright side. Well, at least she wouldn’t have to worry about holding in her stomach or keeping her back straight. She’d eaten so many pancakes, she wasn’t sure she could hold in her stomach. Here she was without a dime to her name but her belly was full.
I’m cracking up, she decided as she slowed in front of a coffeehouse. The aroma made her absently reach for her purse. One half-decaf latte, she almost said aloud.
Then she remembered. No wallet, no money…no coffee.
She glanced at her reflection in the shop window. The face staring back looked pale, frightened, almost transparent. Lowering her head, she continued walking until the crowds thinned. The wind whipped between buildings and passing cars circled dirt in the air, but Blaine hardly bothered to notice.
By the time she reached the cemetery, a thin layer of grime covered her face as if it had been spray-painted on. Blaine strolled through the limestone gates and into the quiet peace of the State Cemetery, welcoming the shade and the smell of spring. Walking through this place was like strolling through the history of Texas. She’d always loved it here. The silent marble beckoned her as before.
Here, her mind could stop worrying about being watched, for no one seemed to be around except those made of stone. She found the water fountain first, surprised at how thirsty she was, then walked beside the Confederate graves before circling back to Stephen F. Austin’s monument. This place of
trees and grass and headstones calmed her the way leafing through an old album, when you already know all the pictures by heart, might.
Here were the brave of generations. The thought gave her a little hope.
Blaine relaxed on a bench and took deep breaths, willing her soul to soothe. Even if no one knew it, she was alive. Things could only get better from here. Every cop in the county must be working on this case, they’d catch the bomber and she’d probably be one of many who could identify him. In hours, maybe a day or two at the most, she’d be back with Mark and they’d be laughing at her worry over what Mark’s old law partner said to his mechanic outside the office.
A lecture she remembered finding interesting echoed in her mind. Something about a pyramid and what things were important to people. She recalled the teacher saying humankind is only hours into civilization. Take away the bottom of the pyramid…the food, water and shelter…and we all go right back to the primitive days.
Blaine smiled. For the first time in her life she stood at the bottom of that pyramid. Forget love and acceptance and reaching one’s potential, what she needed to think about now, what she had to think about, was food and water. Survival. She had no money, no credit cards. But she would survive. An old saying about no matter how bad things are they can always get worse crossed her mind. Somehow the horror of the bombing had put her fear of pregnancy in a new light.
A workman rattled past her, pushing a wheelbarrow loaded down with gardening tools. His work clothes were worn and had been patched in several places, but he still was dressed far better than she. For a moment she thought he might pass her unnoticed, but to her surprise, he smiled.
“¿Cómo está?” he said.
“Bien,” she answered, switching to Spanish easily. “Is it all right if I sit here for a while?”
“Sí.” The man nodded. “No sleeping.” He glanced down at her filthy slipper shoes.
Blaine swung her feet beneath the bench.
“Are you all right?” he asked in a caring tone.
“Yes,” she answered, wishing she could tell this man all her problems. He had a kind, weathered face. “I just need a place to rest for a while.”
He nodded as if he understood and moved on down the path. An hour later, when he crossed the path once more, he lay half of a sandwich wrapped in a paper towel beside her on the bench. When she thanked him, he only smiled as if to say, “I’ve been where you are. I understand.”
His simple kindness touched her deeply. He wasn’t giving her charity, he was sharing.
As the day passed and the shadows in the cemetery deepened, Blaine felt a kind of exhaustion unlike she’d ever known blanket her. Clouds blocked the sun and the wind whirled in her hair, but she barely noticed. Finally, when rain splattered against her cheeks, she pulled from deep inside herself and moved.
At first she ran beneath an old cottonwood, but the wind shoved the rain into her hiding place. She tried to guess the time. Had she sat for an hour or all day? It was dark enough to be dusk, but storm clouds could be playing tricks with the time.
Blaine glanced toward the old rock offices of the cemetery. The lights were out in the main office building, but still on in the rock-walled offices. Blaine hurried to the second building. When she entered, she could hear voices in one of the rooms.
“Have you locked up yet?” a woman asked.
“I was just fixing to,” a man answered.
Blaine moved between flag stands holding each of the six flags that had once flown over Texas.
A wiry man hurried from the office. He didn’t bother to turn on the lights as he locked the door. “We’d better hurry if we plan to beat this storm.” He didn’t even look in her direction as he turned and retraced his steps.
Blaine glanced down and saw the shiny puddles of rain her steps had left on the floor. If he looked down, even in the shadowy room, he’d see them. She held her breath trying to think of what she’d say if he saw her.
“Hurry up if you still want that ride,” the woman yelled.
The man rushed to the office and gathered his things. Blaine heard the couple bumping their way down the hall to the back door. Then the door opened and a moment later slammed closed.
She was alone.
Cautiously, she moved past the first few desks to the phone. The clock on the wall marked 5:15 p.m. Mark would still be in his office. She’d call. The need to talk to him overrode her fear.
She dialed the private line.
It rang once, twice, three times.
Blaine fought the urge to break the call. It was all she had. Mark was the one person she cared about…the one person who cared about her.
Someone lifted the receiver. She could hear breathing.
“Hello,” a man said. “Who is this?”
It wasn’t Mark. Blaine panicked. She knew the voice. She’d heard it outside the office just this morning.
“Is someone there?”
Winslow! Blaine lowered the phone. Winslow had answered Mark’s phone. To do so he’d had to unlock Mark’s door and cross the office.
She huddled down onto a leather couch, shaking with cold and fear. She wanted to go home but she couldn’t.
The friends she knew in Austin were more acquaintances who would be shocked if she involved them in anything more than a luncheon invitation. She couldn’t call them.
Tears fell silently though no one could have heard her sobs over the storm that raged outside. Blaine cried as she’d never cried in her life. She’d never been totally alone. Not when her mother died, not when she’d lived in a one-room apartment. There had never been such complete isolation. Until now.
Exhausted, she curled into herself and slept as the storm raged in the sky above Austin.
When she awoke, the world slept silently once more to the dull sounds of motors, air conditioners, cars and faraway trains. The half moon blinked between the blinds. Blaine slowly stood, stretching her cramped muscles like a colt learning to stand.
She glanced at the clock: 5:00 a.m. Mark would be home. His alarm would be close to sounding. Blaine moved to the phone and felt the numbers to dial.
She let it ring, knowing it would take him a while to answer.
One, two, five, ten rings. No answer. It took her a few more rings to realize not even the answering machine was picking up.
She lowered the phone and slipped outside.
The air smelled newborn and traffic rumbled like a heartbeat a few blocks away on the interstate.
Leaning against the wall of the old limestone building she stared out at the State’s sleeping ancestors. Her head felt clearer than it had since the bombing, and the throbbing in her throat had dwindled to a dull ache. Blaine crossed her arms. She had survived the bombing and the storm, she would make it through this also. She would survive. Somehow she would get past this and return to her life.
Sadness swept through her as she realized she wasn’t sure she wanted to return to where she had been a moment before the blast. Despite still loving Mark, she knew that she’d been standing at a crossroads even before the bomb exploded. The things she’d lost sleep over before she went to the clinic seemed trivial compared to staying alive on the streets. If she had a child, it wouldn’t be the end of her world. It might be the end of her marriage, but it wouldn’t kill her.
And if worst came to worst, she’d fight cancer maybe with more success than her mother and grandmother had.
A strength kindled in Blaine. The kind of strength that comes only when you’ve reached the bottom and can look up and say, “Bring it on. If I handled this, I can handle anything.” Lifting her chin, testing her newborn power, Blaine took the morning’s dare. She’d make it, no matter what.
A shadow moved from one headstone to another, pulling Blaine out of her thoughts.
She waited, not even breathing.
The shadow crossed again from grave to grave.
Blaine was no longer alone.
Seven
Mark Anderson stared i
nto the night, watching the lights of Austin flicker through the trees outside his condo window. He waited for sunrise, as if he thought the start of the day would change one thing in his life.
Yesterday he felt as though he’d walked underwater all day. He heard people mumbling around him, but what they said made little sense. When he’d finally made it back to the apartment complex, things were not much better. The phone rang repeatedly with co-workers and friends who mumbled comments like, “We’ll all miss Blaine” and “We wish we’d known her better.” Several offered to help, but what could they do? What could anyone do? She was gone.
Harry Winslow had been more help than anyone, ordering Mark to go home and turn the phone off, which Mark finally did after an hour of constant calls.
The old partner had even suggested that Mark think about not trying to run for office during this hard time in his life. He’d said he was only a few years away from retiring and if Mark would wait to run, he’d dedicate himself full-time to the campaign.
The old man’s generosity stunned Mark. It was almost as if he felt he personally had to make up for Mark’s loss of Blaine.
Mark didn’t want to think about tomorrow much less six months from now. In truth, he didn’t want to think at all, but he told Winslow he would give the idea some thought.
“What will I do?” Mark whispered, his voice echoing in the empty room. Blaine was a constant in his life, like sunrise and cool fall days. He realized he’d spent little time thinking about her over the years. Until today, she had always just been there. She liked to tell him little details from the news she knew he didn’t have time to listen to or all about a research project she’d been hired to do. Half the time he didn’t really listen to the details she seemed to think were so important. More often than not her assignment was nothing but someone in another state needing family history pulled up.
Mark realized he never truly listened to her when she talked about her work. Her voice provided background music to his thoughts.
