It's Not Like I Knew Her (13 page)

R
oy Dale drove them back into the teeth of the storm and onto Main Street. Suddenly, he swung the car about and backed into the dead-end alley between the A&P and Gaskin's Drugs.

“What the hell?” One more delay and Jodie feared she'd come to her senses and back out altogether.

“Sit tight. Old man Golden owes me wages. I mean to get what I got coming.”

He hurried out of the car, grabbed a tire iron from the trunk, forced open the back door of the A&P, and disappeared inside. She picked at a bleeding hangnail, sorting through what he meant.

At the street end of the alley, a car approached, its bright lights reflecting off the rain slick walls. The driver came to a full stop and sounded the horn before moving through the intersection. She exhaled, her hot breath forming a perfect circle of relief on the windowpane.

Roy Dale was a damn fool if he thought his declared intention would cut it with the law, and her staying in the car made her an even bigger fool. He'd land his puny ass in the slammer, and if she was to avoid the Ocala Reformatory for Girls, she'd need to drag his pokey ass back through that busted door before it was too late.

Grabbing the door handle, she laid a shoulder into the frame, and in that instant a crash of lightening split the sky like an executioner's axe, the alley flashing a bluish-white light. Her scalp tingled and the trapped air in the Hudson smelled scorched.

The sound of heavy boots sucking mud grew loud behind her and she turned to see Roy Dale. He was high-stepping his way toward the car while stuffing something shiny into his belt. The wet paper bag he clutched ripped apart, spilling Tom's peanuts, Juicy Fruit gum, and assorted candy bars onto the ground. He crouched, stared at the busted sack, his mouth forming curse words, then he slogged on toward the car. He snatched open the door, jammed his boney hip hard against her shoulder and shouted for her to move over. Rainwater poured through the open door and her instincts told her she was about to be sucked along by an undertow not entirely of her making.

“Drive, damnit.” He leaned, inches from her face, his eyes stretched wide in his ghostly pale face. Droplets of rainwater ran along his temples and dripped off the beak of his nose. He was soaked through to his skin and he reeked.

Caught up in his panic, she turned the ignition key. The engine caught, sputtered, and died. “Carburetor's flooded.”

“No, stomp it. Stomp it harder.”

The engine roared and she ground the gear into first, the car jerking forward. The front tires slammed hard onto Main Street, and she pointed the hood ornament toward the town's single traffic light, swaying in the wind like a tethered ball, blinking its amber caution. Through chattering teeth, she asked for directions.

“Haul ass out of here.” His high-pitched tone was chased by crazed laughter, and he slid something under the edge of the passenger seat before flipping onto his knees and grabbing a dry shirt from the pile he'd stashed earlier. He wiped his face and arms, shivering.

The wiper blades squeaked with each pass, and she strained to gain a guiding glimpse of the center line. He dropped onto the seat, yammering that her pussy driving would get their asses snagged.

“What's the hurry? There's no crime in our leaving.” She squinted at him, but there was nothing in his paddle-shaped face but a mix of fear and excitement. She knew if she could see her own face, it would look the same.

“Yeah, you're right. Two losers ain't a loss.” His right eyelid fluttered, and she hated that he was more right than wrong.

By the time they had crossed into the neighboring county, they had outdistanced the westernmost reaches of the storm, and Roy Dale's earlier hype had gone the way of a slow tire leak. He retrieved a quart jar of ‘shine from beneath the seat, taking a long pull. He squeezed his eyes shut and shuddered, then pushed the jar toward her. When she waved it off, he screwed the lid down tight, shoved the jar back under the seat, and settled his long frame, all the time bragging on the roomy, step-down body of the old Hudson. Folding his thin arms across his sunken chest, he laid his head back, his oily hair damp and matted, and in no time he slept. A perfect picture of what Maggie would have called rotten-boy innocence.

Fragments of regret pierced Jodie's thoughts like fine shrapnel, and she doggedly rubbed tears away with a clenched fist. Just how hard would Red search before welcoming the conclusion that she'd left of her own will? His womanizing hadn't started with her mama, nor had it ended with her. Still, Jodie knew the lack of her presence as a daily reminder of his infidelity meant he was certain of an easier go with Miss Mary. Red's serial cheating left the old woman little more than her denial, never mind its hollowness.

Miss Ruth held her worries close, while Maggie raged—swearing and threatening whomever she thought to have dirty hands. Yet Jodie counted on Maggie to know she'd played the hand that was dealt her, and that alone would eventually earn Maggie's forgiveness.

Thoughts of Clara Lee brought wave after wave of pain, and Jodie's chest felt as if it would collapse inwardly upon itself. She gripped the steering wheel tighter and sucked air into her deflated lungs. Pushing upward into a new determination, Jodie swore she'd leave Clara Lee Adams—and her broken promise—behind.

Then, Silas was a much harder worry.

Roy Dale stirred, glanced at her, and retrieved the jar. He tilted it, whiskey dribbling from the corners of his mouth. He wiped it away on the sleeve of his shirt and resettled.

She remembered the summer Silas submitted a story to the publisher of the
Grit
newspaper, believing it was his ticket to a scholarship to the university. He'd met the empty-handed postman daily for the balance of the summer. His dream of college was just that, and nothing more. Then, Silas always had a backup plan. Shade-tree mechanic wasn't Mark Twain, but he'd sworn he'd turn the shed bearing his uncle's name, situated under a huge live oak, into the best auto shop in the county.

He had plotted her future as well as his own. She'd clerk at Gaskin's Drugs until they'd saved enough money to marry. He'd done so in spite of her adamant rejections of his advances, choosing to interpret them as virtue while it was nothing of the sort. He'd planned for the two of them, while she and Clara Lee had plotted their escape.

Now, she rolled westward along a deserted highway with the likes of Roy Dale Pitts, the whole of her plan a destination and a dream. She'd need to take to heart Jewel's notion that regrets stole dreams, and that where she was headed, a belly full of stoked fury would serve her better. Still, she wished she'd taken time to say a few good-byes.

Roy Dale sat upright, squinting as though trying to remember why he agreed to leave town on nothing more than her exaggeration. If he wasn't, then he was a bigger fool than she remembered.

He wallowed his tongue across his yellow-stained teeth, his liquored breath foul.

“What's the time? Where the hell are we?”

“Hour hand there on that clock is stuck. My best guess is about eight, maybe earlier.” She wasn't sure where they were, but she'd driven in the direction of Mobile. She'd pick up a road map on their first stop, but for now, she'd follow the swirling glow of headlights west along Highway 98.

Roy Dale slammed the dashboard a hard blow with his fist; the minute hand dropping, both hands now settled on six.

“Damn this piece of junk. If I'd known, I would've stolen us something better.”

“What the hell? You said it was yours.” She let up on the accelerator and glared at him.

“It was fixing to be till you showed up.” His right eye fluttered, and she now knew it was a dead giveaway. Her gullibility was about to suffer yet another spike.

“I was headed back from what you might call a test run. Aimed to strike a nickel down and nickel a week deal with old man Stone when I caught up to you. Hell, you know the rest.”

“Jesus, Roy Dale.” She was driving a stolen getaway car from what was likely a robbery. While her only crime was grand stupidity.

“Remember, it was you who was hot to trot.”

“Did I say steal a car? No, hell, I didn't.”

“You're driving. I'm along for the ride.” He looked like a slinking dog, caught sucking eggs. “Hell, forget it. Old man Stone's plumb addle-brained. He won't remember diddly-shit.”

“And that makes it all right? Damn your rotten hide, Roy Dale.”

He shrugged and turned his attention to the radio, running the full band before settling on a station, grinding out blips of “Yakety Yak” between longer runs of static. He pounded the dash in time with the music, and she cringed at Webb Price's rendition of “In the Jailhouse Now.”

She didn't feel any better about what Roy Dale had done, but he was right that the old man's pathetic condition went in their favor. What was done was done, and there was no easy way of turning back. Still, she meant to know the full extent of her troubles. She reached across and slapped Roy Dale's shoulder a hard lick.

“Roy Dale, you're coming clean, or I'm wrapping this heap around the nearest light pole.” She jerked the steering wheel, the car swerving.

Roy Dale scrambled to right himself, his arms flailing as if he fought off a swarm of pissed off yellow jackets.

“You stole this car and flat out robbed the A&P.” From the moment he'd taken the tire iron to the door, she'd known the truth.

He shrugged. “So what if I took a little extra? Stingy Jew bastard never paid me what I was worth.”

“If he paid you a cent, he did.”

“Are you saying it was right he paid that old blue-eyed sambo more than a white man?” He bristled with what she recognized as a common mix of unfounded pride built on willful ignorance.

“Yeah, I am. Mr. Samuel works hard. Never missed as much as a day.”

“You'd be wrong on that. After the dent I put in his wooly head.” His eyes flashed mean, and she saw him clearly, and what she saw scared her.

She slammed on the brake and struggled to steer the speeding car onto the rough shoulder. The car slid to a stop, the engine stalling.

“Holy shit. You set on killing us?” He wiped blood on the tail of his shirt from the cut that had opened above his right eye.

“We're turning back to that town we just passed. Find a pay phone. If he's hurt, he'll need help.” Jodie felt she might get forgiveness for leaving the wrong way, but not for going on, knowing Mr. Samuel was hurt. She attempted to restart the engine.

“Ah, come on, gal. I didn't hit him that hard. How'd I know that old spook would get between me and the cash box?”

It was like Roy Dale to misunderstand an act of loyalty.

“Reckon I should've used the barrel end.” He reached beneath the seat and pulled out a Browning snub-nosed .22-caliber handgun, rusted with age and neglect. “Passed down to my pa from his pa. Mine now, I reckon.”

It had been the gun he'd put into his belt as he ran from the store. She'd underestimated Roy Dale Pitts. She grabbed for the door handle, meaning to take her chances at flagging down an approaching vehicle.

He reached, grabbed her hair in his big hand, and snatched her head against his chest. With his sweaty face pressed close, he put the gun to her temple, a nervous laugh on his tight lips. She felt the round coolness against her hot skin, her flesh filling the inside circumference of the barrel. If she gave into her fear, she was certain she'd pass out.

“Listen, and listen smart. What got done back there's on you, same as me. Now drive. The further we get, the less likely the law will come after us.”

“All right, but take that gun out of my face. It could go off.” He might use it, and if he did, it wouldn't be an accident.

Roy Dale squeezed the back of her neck, and she bristled at the touch of his hot fingers on her skin. When he figured he'd made his point, he let go and looked as if he believed he'd drawn an inside straight. But he was dead wrong.

She restarted the car, drove back onto the highway, and stared into the darkness ahead. She'd need to stop thinking regrets and start thinking smart. The road ahead would be what she made it.

T
hey entered a south Alabama town, a near replica of Catawba, and Jodie searched the street for a cop car. Roy Dale yawned and stretched as though nothing had ever gone wrong in his entire sorry life.

“Pull over at that filling station. My tank's way over on empty. I need to grab a candy bar or two.”

Jodie stopped the car at the gas pump. “Send the attendant out.”

He nodded toward the restrooms.

“No, you go ahead. I'll wait.”

He grabbed the keys from the ignition. “Jingle-jingle, gal. You stay put unless you figure on walking to Dallas.”

She showed him submission, the kind she imagined he'd learned to expect from women, while counting on him to still be pumped after his earlier stunt. Roy Dale walked into the station and pointed toward the Hudson. A teenage attendant nodded and headed toward the pump.

Roy Dale walked around the corner of the station toward the bathrooms, and then popped back, a fool kid grin on his ugly face. She expected him to be satisfied with his game of “gotcha,” and as soon as he was out of sight, Jodie grabbed her suitcase. She paused to consider her basketball, but decided to leave it behind and take Roy Dale's gun instead. She slipped the gun into her belt, punctured a front tire with her knife, and ran full out into the path of a semi pulling away from the diesel pump.

She waved and shouted at the confused driver. He couldn't possibly hear her over the noise of the engine, but neither could he mistake her panic. She looked back over her shoulder. Roy Dale hadn't emerged from the bathroom, but it wouldn't be long before he discovered her attempt to escape.

The driver brought the tractor to a stop and leaned out the window.