Necessity (25 page)

Use the horsepower of the Jeep to pull the damn door open.

It gives. But she hears something snap with a loud report.

She parks the Jeep inside. Grabs her handbag and the sack of baby things out of the back seat, collects the baby in her arms and climbs out.

When they emerge from the barn she sees that the noise she heard was the snapping of the rusty bottom hinge of the barn door. Opening it has scraped a raw fresh wound across the earth.

Damn.

Holding the baby she puts her back against the sagging door and leans into it, thrusting her heels into the earth. The door slides reluctantly shut. It's tilted against the building now, the bottom skirt bent out a foot or so away from the sill; but it'll do. You can't see the Jeep from out here.

No choice but to spend two valuable minutes kicking leaves and twigs across the tracks left by the Jeep.

Only when she's satisfied by the look of it does she hike away.

Hauling Ellen back through damp tangles under the trees she remembers the revolver but to hell with it. Not worth the bother to go back for it. There may not be time anyway.

That grinding noise. Is that the Bronco? Christ …

She swings around and peers back through the tangle, walking backward, feeling her way with one foot and then the other. She hears the Bronco slow down at the mailbox.

She can see a corner of the barn through there. Not the road, though.

It's stopping. The damn Bronco is stopping.

Easy now. If I can't see them, they can't see me.

It's starting up again. Going on along the road.

Thank God!

She soothes the baby, whispering to her, stroking her tiny forehead.

“Give them a couple minutes, darling,” she murmurs. “Then we'll be on our way.”

Oh Jesus. Oh Christ.
It's coming back!

60
She hears it back up and change gears and come forward into the lane. She hears it stop somewhere just beyond the barn.

Bastards.

The sudden silence. Terrifying. She holds her hand near the baby's mouth, ready to clamp down if she must.

Does she hear voices or is it just her overstimulated imaginings?

That sagging corner of the barn—

If they come around there they'll be able to see her.

Come on, fool. Get out of here.

She pokes a toe back behind her and all of a sudden the wet earth gives way and she's sliding helplessly …

Oh!

Slithering. Out of control on this slick muck.

What—?

Don't panic it can't be far.…

Instinct brings the baby protectively against her chest, arms shielding Ellen from the twigs and stones. But it's a quick soft slide: a few feet of mud and her scrambling feet find purchase against polished stones.

She looks over her shoulder. The stream has parted around her boots. She's got her feet in the water. It's only six inches deep.

She hears, very loud, the snapping scrape of wood on earth and she knows instantly what it is: they're opening the barn door.

It'll take them five seconds to absorb what they're looking at—the Jeep in the barn—and a few more seconds to realize she's on foot and then they'll start looking for her footprints and in this God-forsaken mud it won't take them any time at all.…

She takes three paces upstream, turning rocks over with her boot toes, making a plainly visible swath. Then she turns, crouching, and moves downstream on careful feet, dislodging nothing, clutching the baby, murmuring in Ellen's ear: “Old Injun trick, kid, you betchum.” Not for nothing did she sit through those awful Westerns with Daddy in the PX theaters.

She giggles.…

Hey. Calm down, Little Beaver, this ain't no time to go all hysterical on me.

She ducks under a fallen trunk that lies jammed across the gully; she eels past the clutching arms of a bushy thicket, letting it slide back into place behind her.

Careful you don't turn an ankle on these stones.

The stream bends around the exposed roots of a big maple. She picks her way over them, staying in the water, moving downstream as fast as she can, stopping at intervals to turn her head sideways so as to catch the breeze from behind her on the flat of her eardrum.

It's been a while now since she's heard their voices. Have they lost the track? Or are they right behind her, creeping up?

Don't speculate. Don't think at all. Just move. Keep going …

Ten minutes? Half an hour? There's no way to measure time. Her ankles are weakening; were it not for the support of the boots she'd have caved in by now. Can't walk on these Goddamn stones any longer. This is just going to have to be far enough.

She climbs out of the stream and leans against the bole of a tall tree, propped on one shoulder, looking back the way she just came.

“Do you think it fooled them, little girl? Think we've got a chance?”

Who knows. All we can do is play it out.

She finds a place deep in the woods—a fallen log to sit on. Changing the baby's diaper, feeding her unwarmed milk, she listens to the forest.

“Just stick with your momma, kid,” she says drily, “and we'll see what other nifty kinds of trouble we can get you into. If you want a dull peaceful life you picked the wrong momma.”

61
With the baby balanced on her shoulder she trudges across the back of somebody's cornfield.

Just make it to that far corner; then we can rest again.

Everything hurts. Everything.

The baby lies across her shoulder like velvet. No complaints now; no stirrings. Poor kid's exhausted.

I understand, Ellen. I know how it is. It's always harder to be a passenger than to be a driver.

Feels like a blister coming up on the left heel. Damn. All we need. Well what did you expect, feet all soaking wet and everything?

One foot and then the other. That's it. Just put one foot down and then put the other foot down. One foot at a time. We'll get there.

How far do you suppose we've walked? Time's it? Takes too much energy to shift things around so I can look at the watch; take a guess by the sun shadows.

Probably somewhere between four and six. Split the difference. Say it's five. I don't believe less than nine hours ago Charlie and I were making love.

Charlie. I wonder what happened to the airplane and the helicopter. Haven't noticed them since God knows how long ago. No sign of them now.

Hell with them. Come on. Almost to the corner now.

Nasty rip in the sleeve of this blouse from those thorns back there. Cheek feels all scratched from the thickets. Burrs in my hair, what'll you bet. I must look a sight.

Well this ain't no beauty contest, honey.

This is the corner. We can sit down now. Jesus—it feels as if I've got drill bits in my joints. God, that hurts!

Now then. What's the plan?

Are they back there? Tracking?

Maybe. Maybe not. You can't do anything about it so quit thinking about it.

Can't be too far to the Interstate. Keep walking east you're bound to find it.

What then?

God knows. Worry about it when we get there. One thing at a time. Too tired to think.

Let's see what we've got in here, kid. You want Gerber's applesauce or Gerber's apricot? Where's the Goddamn plastic spoon?

Here, quit making such a mess all over your face. You handle the mouth, let me handle the spoon, all right? Try to get the food inside the mouth, right?
That's
the idea.

Now stop looking at me like that. Like I'm taking food out of the mouths of babes. In the first place the damn things are too heavy to go on carrying. And in the second place Momma needs nourishment too, you know. One jar of Gerber's apricot isn't going to make that much difference in your life, kid, take my word for it.

God, it tastes good. I think I'm going to start eating baby food for a regular diet. If we ever get out of this mess alive.

62
She finds a narrow blacktop road and walks east on the shoulder. Every time she hears the rumor of an approaching vehicle she takes cover off the road.

The baby is delivering herself of long closely reasoned monologues in a language known only to herself.

It probably isn't very far in miles but she hasn't been able to move at a very good pace. By the time the country road takes her across another hill from which she sights the superhighway below her, the sun is setting; by the time she stumbles to the overpass the last of the twilight has dimmed to dusk.

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.