They moved this way for more than a mile. The walker going somewhere; the hitcher going anywhere. The wraith and her shadow.
The morning was cold, cloudy. Wind streamed the tall grasses on either side of the road.
Fifteen years ago, when the brokenhearted hitcher was five years old, she had spent four nights and five days knocking on every door in her building.
“Is my sister in here?”
Some said no; some said who?; some said what’s your name, little girl? Most didn’t open the door at all. That was 1958, when a child could play all over brand-new government housing in safety.
The first two days, after making her rounds on floors ever higher, higher, and making sure she had not missed a single door, she waited. Jean, her sister, would be coming back anytime now, because dinner food was on the table—meat loaf, string beans, catsup, white bread—and a full pitcher of Kool-Aid was in the refrigerator. She occupied herself with two coloring books, a deck of cards and a wetting baby doll. She drank milk, ate potato chips, saltines with apple jelly and, little by little, the whole meat loaf. By the time the hated string beans were all that was left of the dinner, they were too shriveled and mushy to bear.
The third day, she began to understand why Jean was gone and how to get her back. She cleaned her teeth and washed her ears carefully. She also flushed the toilet right away, as soon as she used it, and folded her socks inside her shoes. She spent a long time wiping up the Kool-Aid and picking up the pieces of glass from the pitcher that crashed when she tried to lift it from the refrigerator. She remembered the Lorna Doones that were in the bread box but dared not climb up on a chair to open it. Those were her prayers: if she did everything right without being told, either Jean would walk in or when she knocked on one of the apartment doors, there’d she be! Smiling and holding out her arms.
Meantime the nights were terrible.
On the fourth day, having brushed her eighteen milk teeth until the toothbrush was pink with blood, she stared out of the window through warm rain-sprinkle at morning people going to work, children to school. Then for a long time no one passed. Then an old woman with a man’s jacket roofed above her head against the fine rain. Then a man tossing seed on bare places in the grass. Then a tall woman walked past the window. No coat and nothing on her head, she touched her eyes with the back of her arm, the inside of her wrist. She was crying.
Later, the sixth day, when the caseworker came, she thought about the crying woman who looked nothing at all like Jean—was not even the same color. But before that, on the fifth day, she found—or rather saw—something that had been right there for her all along. Demoralized by unanswered prayers, bleeding gums and hunger she gave up goodness, climbed up on a chair and opened the bread box. Leaning against the box of Lorna Doones was an envelope with a word she recognized instantly: her own name printed in lipstick. She opened it, even before she tore into the cookie box, and pulled out a single sheet of paper with more lipstick words. She could not understand any except her own name again at the top, “Jean” at the bottom, loud red marks in between.
Soaking in happiness, she folded the letter back in the envelope, put it in her shoe and carried it for the rest of her life. Hiding it, fighting for the right to keep it, rescuing it from wastebaskets. She was six years old, an ardent first-grade student, before she could read the whole page. Over time, it became simply a sheet of paper smeared fire-cracker red, not one decipherable word left. But it was the letter, safe in her shoe, that made leaving with the caseworker for the first of two foster homes possible. She thought about the crying woman briefly then, more later, until the sight of her became an occasional heartbreaking dream.
The wind that had been stirring the grass was carrying snow now—scarce, sandy and biting like glass. The hitcher stopped to pull a serape from her duffel, then ran to catch up and wrap it around the walker’s shoulders.
Sweetie flailed her hands until she understood that she was being warmed, not prevented. Not once, while the wool cloth was being wrapped around her shoulders, did she stop walking. She kept on moving, chuckling—or was it sobbing?
The hitcher remembered passing a large house less than a half hour earlier as she hid among the crates. What took twenty minutes in a truck would take pedestrians hours, but she thought they ought to be able to reach the place before dark. The question was the cold; another was how to stop the crying woman, get her to rest and, once they reached shelter, get her inside it. Eyes like those were not uncommon. In hospitals they belonged to patients who paced day and night; on the road, unconfined, people with eyes like that would walk forever. The hitcher decided to spend the time talking and started out by introducing herself.
Sweetie heard what she said and, for the first time since she’d left her house, stumbled as she turned her smiling—or crying—face toward the uninvited companion. Sin, she thought. I am walking next to sin and wrapped in its cloak. “Have mercy,” she murmured, and gave a little laugh—or whimper.
By the time they saw the Convent, Sweetie was cozy. Although she had felt none of the biting cold sweeping the road, she was comforted by the warm snow covering her hair, filling her shoes. And grateful to be so clearly protected from and unassociated with the sin shape walking next to her. The sign of Sweetie’s state of grace was how badly the warm snow whipped the shape, silenced it, froze it and left it breathing heavily, barely able to hang on, while she, Sweetie, marched unbowed through the cutting wind.
Of her own accord, Sweetie slogged up the driveway. But she let the demon do the rest.
The woman who opened the door to the banging said “Ooh!” and yanked them both inside.
They seemed like birds, hawks, to Sweetie. Pecking at her, flapping. They made her sweat. Had she been stronger, not so tired from the night shift of tending her babies, she would have fought them off. As it was, other than pray, there was nothing she could do. They put her in a bed under so many blankets perspiration ran into her ears. Nothing they offered would she eat or drink. Her lips were shut, her teeth clenched. Silently, fervently, she prayed for deliverance, and don’t you know she got it: they left her alone. In the quiet room Sweetie thanked her Lord and drifted into a staticky, troubled sleep. It was the baby cry that woke her, not the shivering. Weak as she was, she got up, or tried to. Her head hurt and her mouth was dry. She noticed that she was not in a bed but on a leather couch in a dark room. Sweetie’s teeth were rattling when one of the hawks, with a blood-red mouth, came into the room carrying a kerosene lamp. It spoke to her in the sweetest voice, the way a demon would, but Sweetie called on her Savior, and it left. Somewhere in the house the child continued to cry, filling Sweetie with rapture—she had never heard that sound from her own. Never heard that clear yearning call, sustained, rhythmic. It was like an anthem, a lullaby, or the bracing chords of the decalogue. All of her children were silent. Suddenly, in the midst of joy, she was angry. Babies cry here among these demons but not in her house?
When two of the hawks came back, one carrying a tray of food, she asked them, “Why is that child crying here?”
They denied it, of course. Lied straight through the weeping that sifted through the room. One of them even tried to distract her, saying:
“I’ve heard children laughing. Singing sometimes. But never crying.”
The other one cackled.
“Let me out of here.” Sweetie struggled to make her voice shout. “I have to get home.”
“I’m going to take you. Soon as the car warms up.” Same sly demon tones.
“Now,” said Sweetie.
“Take some aspirin and eat some of this.”
“You let me out of this place now.”
“What a bitch,” said one.
“It’s just fever,” said the other. “And keep your mouth shut, can’t you?”
It was patience, and blocking out every sound except the admonitions of her Lord, that got her out of there. First into a rusty red car that stalled in the snow at the foot of the drivewa
y, and finally, praise, praise His holy name, into her husband’s arms.
He was with Anna Flood. They had been on their way from the minute she’d called on her Savior. Sweetie literally fell into Jeff’s arms.
“What you doing way out here? We couldn’t get through all night. Where is your mind? Lord, girl. Sweetheart. What happened?”
“They made me, snatched me,” Sweetie cried. “Oh God, take me home. I’m sick, Anna, and I have to look after the babies.”
“Shh. Don’t worry about that.”
“I have to. I have to.”
“It’s going to be all right now. Arnette’s coming home.”
“Turn the heater up. I’m so cold. How come I’m so cold?”
Seneca stared at the ceiling. The cot’s mattress was thin and hard. The wool blanket scratched her chin, and her palms hurt from shoveling snow in the driveway. She had slept on floors, on cardboard, on nightmare-producing water beds and, for weeks at a time, in the back seat of Eddie’s car. But she could not fall asleep on this clean, narrow childish bed.
The crying woman had flipped—in the night and the next morning as well. Seneca had spent the whole night up, listening to Mavis and Gigi. The house seemed to belong to them, although they referred to somebody named Connie. They cooked for her and didn’t pry. Other than discussing her name—where’d she get it?—they behaved as though they knew all about her and were happy for her to stay. Later, in the afternoon, when she thought she would drop from exhaustion, they showed her to a bedroom with two cots.
“Nap awhile,” said Mavis. “I’ll call you when dinner’s ready. You like fried chicken?” Seneca thought she would throw up.
They didn’t like each other at all, so Seneca had equalized her smiles and agreeableness. If one cursed and joked nastily about the other, Seneca laughed. When the other rolled her eyes in disgust, Seneca shot her an understanding look. Always the peacemaker. The one who said yes or I don’t mind or I’ll go. Otherwise—what? They might not like her. Might cry. Might leave. So she had done her best to please, even if the Bible turned out to be heavier than the shoes. Like all first offenders, he wanted both right away. Seneca had no trouble with the size eleven Adidas, but Preston, Indiana, didn’t sport bookstores, religious or regular. She detoured to Bloomington and found something called The Living Bible, and one without color pictures but with lots of lined pages for recording dates of births, deaths, marriages, baptisms. It seemed a marvelous thing—a list of whole families’ activities over the years—so she chose it. He was angry, of course; so much that it dimmed his pleasure in the extravagant black and white running shoes.
“Can’t you get anything right? Just a small Bible! Not a goddamn encyclopedia!”
He was guilty as charged and she had known him for only six months, but already he knew how hopeless she was. He accepted the enormous Bible nonetheless and told her to leave it and the shoes at the desk with his name and his number. Made her write it down as though she might have trouble remembering five numbers in a row. She had brought ham sandwiches too (his letter said they could have a picnic-type lunch in the visitors’ quarters) but he was too nervous and irritated to eat.
The other visitors seemed to be having a lovely time with their prisoners. Children teased each other; curled up in the arms of their fathers, playing with their faces, hair, fingers. Women and girls touched the men, whispered, laughed out loud. They were the regulars—familiar with the bus drivers, the guards and coffee wagon personnel. The prisoners’ eyes were soft with pleasure. They noticed everything, commented on everything. The report cards little boys brought to them in fat brown envelopes; the barrettes in the little girls’ hair; the state of the women’s coats. They listened carefully to details of friends and family not there; had advice and instruction for every piece of domestic news. They seemed terribly manly to Seneca—leaderlike in their management of the visit. From where to sit, where to put the paper wrappings, to medical advice and books to send. What they never spoke of was what was going on inside, and they did not ever acknowledge the presence of the guards. Perhaps Attica was on their minds.
Maybe, she thought, as his sentence wore on, Eddie would be like that. Not furious, victimized, as he was on this their first visit since he was arraigned. Whining. Blaming. The Bible so big it embarrassed him. Mustard instead of mayo on the sandwiches. He didn’t want to hear anything about her new job at a school cafeteria. Only Sophie and Bernard interested him: their diets. Was she letting them out at night? They needed a good long run. Use their muzzles only when they are outside.
She left Eddie Turtle in the visitors’ hall promising him four things. To send pictures of the dogs. To sell the stereo. To get his mother to cash the savings bonds. To call the lawyer. Send, sell, get, call. That’s how she would remember.
Heading for the bus shelter, Seneca tripped and fell on one knee. A guard stepped forward and helped her up.
“Watch it, there, miss.”
“Sorry. Thanks.”
“How you girls expect to walk in those things, I don’t know.”
“Supposed to be good for you,” she said, smiling.
“Where? In Holland?” He laughed pleasantly, showing two rows of gold fillings.
Seneca adjusted her string bag and asked him, “How far is Wichita from here?”
“Depends on how you traveling. In a car it’d be—oh—ten, twelve hours. Bus, longer.”
“Oh.”
“You got family in Wichita?”
“Yes. No. Well, my boyfriend does. I’m going to pay his mother a visit.”
The guard removed his cap to smooth his crew cut. “That’s nice,” he said. “Good barbecue in Wichita. Make sure you get you some.”
Somewhere in Wichita there probably was very good barbecue, but not in Mrs. Turtle’s house. Her house was strictly vegetarian. Nothing with hooves, feathers, shell or scales appeared on her table. Seven grains and seven greens—eat one of each (and only one) each day, and you lived forever. Which she planned to do, and no, she wasn’t about to cash in the savings bonds her husband left her for anybody, let alone somebody who drove a car over a child and left it there, even if that somebody was her only son.
“Oh, no, Mrs. Turtle. He didn’t know it was a little kid. Eddie thought it was a…a…”
“What?” asked Mrs. Turtle. “What did he think it was?”
“I forgot what he told me, but I know he wouldn’t do that. Eddie loves kids. He really does. He’s really very sweet. He asked me to bring him a Bible.”
“He’s sold it by now.”
Seneca looked away. The television screen flickered. On it, grave-faced men lied softly, courteously to each other.
“Little girl, you’ve known him less than a growing season. I’ve known him all his life.”
“Yes, m’am.”
“You think I’m going to let him put me in the poorhouse so a slick lawyer can stay rich?”
“No, m’am.”
“You been watching those Watergate lawyers?”
“No, m’am. Yes, m’am.”
“Well, then. Don’t say another word about it. You want some supper or not?”
The grain was wheat bread; the green was kale. Strong iced tea helped wash them both down.
Mrs. Turtle did not offer a bed for the night, so Seneca hoisted her bag and walked down the quiet street in Wichita’s soft evening air. She had not quit her job to make this trip, but the supervisor made it clear that an absence this soon was not to a new employee’s advantage. Perhaps she was already fired. Maybe Mrs. Turtle would let her telephone her housemates to see if anyone had called to say “Don’t bother coming back.” Seneca turned around, retracing her steps.
At the door, her knuckles lifted for the knock, she heard sobbing. A flat-out helpless mothercry—a sound like no other in the world. Seneca stepped back, then went to the window, pressing her left hand to her chest to keep her heart down. She kept it there—imagining its small red valves stuttering, faltering, trying to
get back on line—as she fled down the brick steps out to the sidewalk, skirting dirt streets, then macadam, then concrete all the way to the bus station. Only when she was sitting frog-legged on a molded plastic bench did she surrender to the wails that continued to careen in her head. Alone, without witness, Mrs. Turtle had let go her reason, her personality, and shrieked for all the world like the feathered, finned and hoofed whose flesh she never ate—the way a gull, a cow whale, a mother wolf might if her young had been snatched away. Her hands had been in her hair; her mouth wide open in a drenched face.
Short-breathed and dry-mouthed, Seneca escaped from the sobs. Rushing down broad streets and narrow, slowing when near the business part of town. Upon entering the station she bought peanuts and ginger ale from the vending machines and was immediately sorry, since she really wanted sweet, not salt. Ankles crossed, knees spread, she sat on a bench in the waiting room, pocketed the nuts and sipped the ginger ale. Finally her panic subsided and the screams of a hurt woman were indistinguishable from everyday traffic.
Nighttime coming, and the station was as crowded as a morning commuter stop. The warm September day had not cooled when the sun set. There was no worthy difference between the thick air of the waiting room and the air outside. Passengers and their companions appeared calm, hardly interested in the journey or the farewell. Most of the children were asleep, on laps, luggage and seats. Those who were not tortured anyone they could. Adults fingered tickets, blotted dampness from their necks, patted babies and murmured to each other. Soldiers and sweethearts examined the schedules posted behind glass. Four teenaged boys with stocking caps on their heads sang softly near the vending machines. A man in a gray chauffeur’s uniform strolled the floor as though looking for his passenger. A handsome man in a wheelchair navigated himself gracefully through the entrance, only slightly annoyed by the inconvenient design of the door.
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