Six
Carol's old station wagon threatened to come apart at
the seams at speeds above fifty miles an hour. A semi-trailer rising from
behind a wind-swept hill kicked up a swirling gray mist that rocked the
car violently. Blinded, Lori clutched the steering wheel with a death-grip
and aimed the car somewhere between the truck and the shoulder of the
road, not certain of the location of either within a yard or two. The
driver's side windshield wiper scratching at the glass did little to clear
her view. When on onrushing car appeared from the haze, she jerked the
wagon back into her own lane and ignored the frantic wail of the passing
horn.
She turned on the radio, hungry for the sound of
another human voice to accompany her in the no-man's land of County F-34
on a nasty Monday afternoon. Carol's country and western blared noisily
from ruptured speakers, and the tuner seemed unwilling to bring in
anything with more dignity, or clarity. With shaking hands she turned off
the radio and endured thirty miles of engine noises, exhaust fumes, and
doubts about the wisdom of prying into David Malcolm's private affairs.
Traffic picked up near town. The Denton plant
sprawled over an enormous track of land north of Clayton. She pulled into
an employee parking lot the size of Sorrel and weaved down one long isle
after another in search of Dave's distinctive black and gold pickup. She
finally remembered that she'd find the truck in the foreman's section of
the lot. That part of the lot was backed against the plant and enclosed
by a chain link fence. She parked where she could keep an eye on the exit
to the lot, and her vigil began when the three-thirty whistle blew.
An enormous crowd of men spilled from the face of the
plant, dispersing across the vast black-topped lot to their cars. For a
time, her surroundings consisted of a sea of bobbing heads, roaring
engines, and squealing tires. Slowly, the lot emptied and quieted.
Stragglers walked past at a more leisurely pace. Then the lot was empty
and ominously quiet with the afternoon darkening in the shadow of another
approaching thunderstorm. She thought for a time that she had missed him,
and then the black and gold pickup roared from the fenced lot and
accelerated directly toward her. Lori slumped into her seat to avoid
being seen. The truck rushed past and was gone in an instant.
Lori's heart pounded furiously. There had been a
woman in the truck, a red-head no less! Her hand shook as she twisted the
key. The wagon didn't want to start. It finally burst into a stuttering
idle. She burned a little rubber of her own on the way on the access road
leading to the highway.
The station wagon swayed precariously on its way to
Clayton. She accelerated to a foolish seventy miles an hour. The pickup
was three cars ahead of her, and she refused to lose sight of them now.
Almost before the chase had begun, a city police car penetrated the pall
of exhaust smoke and rushed up behind her with a flash of red lights and a
whooping siren.
Lori cried out her frustration. The brake pedal went
slowly to the floor, and she cried out again, this time in abject alarm.
She pumped frantically. The right wheels of the station wagon dropped off
the pavement and fishtailed to a stop on the rough gravel.
She had a few precious seconds to gulp air and fake a
nonchalant attitude. The officer tapped at her window with a ball-point
pen.
She rolled down the window and searched frantically
through her purse for her driver's license. The officer studied her
solemnly as she handed him the plastic card.
"Registration and proof of insurance, Mrs. Malcolm?"
She found the paperwork in the glove compartment and
stuck them through the window.
"You're not the owner of this car," he said.
"No, thank God."
"Lady, this vehicle shouldn't be on the road."
"I know!" she cried in a plea for understanding.
"Please, my husband was in the truck ahead of me. A thirteen thousand
dollar truck of our money and he had a goddamn woman in it!"
The officer stared at her, nodding satisfaction when
she forced herself to relax. "Your husband," he said.
"He's an assembly line foreman at the Denton plant.
I wanted to see where he goes when he says he's working overtime.
Please. I'll take this piece of shit back. I won't ever drive it again,
I promise."
"Lady, I don't know where you thought you were going,
but I doubt if you would have made it in one piece. There's an off-ramp a
mile down the road. If I see this vehicle again in my jurisdiction, I'll
have it impounded."
She nodded quickly. "Okay. Thank you."
He paused as if reluctant to turn her loose. She
forced a smile, knowing she had a nice smile. The officer tipped his cap
and left.
She drove cautiously to the exit the officer had
indicated, prepared to abandon her quest, but the black and gold pickup
had turned off as well and was just pulling out of the filling station on
the corner directly ahead.
Lori cried out in triumph. She turned into the
station. Surely the officer would allow her to stop for gas. He passed
with a casual wave and turned out of sight. As soon as he was gone, she
jammed the wagon into low gear and took off after the pickup in a cloud of
acrid smoke.
She could see the back of Dave's head now, his
thinning, disheveled head of blonde hair. And the back of hers. She was
a tall woman with curly auburn hair, a woman to fit the fancy pickup Dave
had brought home one day last summer without a word of explanation. Three
hundred dollars a month it was costing, while her Volkswagen sat broken
and not worth the expense to repair. His Christmas bonus had gone for a
useless six hundred dollar, World War II vintage, M-1 rifle hanging on the
wall over their bed, a memento of a war that had cost Dave the life of his
grandfather. Lori had wanted to spend the money to repair the console
television. Dave had brought home the cheap nineteen-inch portable
instead.
She pulled directly behind the pickup at a light,
shaking, but with anger rather than fear. The truck turned onto a side
street. She followed at a discrete distance, dropping back and pulling
sharply to the curb when Dave and his passenger bounced into the driveway
of a neat little ranch-style home with a late model sports car parked in
front.
Tears ran unchecked down her face. Her lower lip
quivered. She sobbed aloud when her husband and the slender red-head
bounded from the truck. They danced up the stairs to the front door with
their arms about one another and vanished inside.
"Bastard! I'll get you for this, you bastard!"
The station wagon's idling engine chugged and
faltered. Lori pumped the gas with a cry of alarm, but the engine
shuddered and died. She twisted the key. The engine ground once, and
then locked tight.
A shower of hail rattled briefly against the top of
the car. The windows misted over. She wiped her face dry of both tears
and rain with the sleeve of her blouse and sat shivering in the cold,
trapped and indecisive.
She had planned for every contingency except this.
What was she going to do now? Who could she call for help? Amy didn't
drive. Karen caught a ride with a friend to her afternoon job as a
cashier at a Clayton mall. And she had just beaten to death Carol's only
means of transportation.
She glared at the black and gold pickup, despising it
with an almost tangible vehemence, although sudden memory of a hidden
spare key smoothed the worry lines from her face. The bold idea she
contemplated alarmed her somewhat, but she had children to care for, and
Dave was obviously set for the balance of the rainy afternoon.
She left the wagon, oblivious to the downpour roaring
quietly in the gray afternoon. She crossed the street on foot and turned
into the driveway alongside the truck. Drenched to the skin, she squatted
out of sight, feeling beneath the chrome running board for the magnetic
box containing the spare ignition key. She pried it loose with her
fingernails and opened it, tipping the shiny new brass key into her hand.
With victory well within her reach, she let herself
into the truck and closed the door behind her, her saturated clothing
squishing on the gold-colored leather seats. A large picture window in
the face of the house stared down upon her. At any moment, Dave or the
woman might walk past, look out, and see her.
She hesitated long enough to reconsider her decision,
then inserted the key into the ignition and twisted it. The engine popped
to life and hummed like magic. She released the brake, put the gear in
reverse, and backed smoothly from the drive. Smiling to herself, water
still running into her eyes, she drove quietly away.
Wendy and Leslie were already home from school by the
time she returned to the house. "You've got dad's truck," Leslie said
accusingly.
"He let me borrow it for the day," Lori called back
on her way to the bedroom to change her wet clothing.
Wendy shook her head doubtfully. Leslie eyed her
suspiciously. They both knew their father's possessiveness toward the
truck and the unlikelihood of their mother's story.
"Honest," Lori said when she returned with a change
of dry clothing, and they let it go at that.
She dozed early in the evening, preparing herself for
Dave's expected arrival and inevitable rampage sometime later in the day.
Instead, the dream of the glass eye woke her with a gasp at just after
midnight. Neither Dave nor Carol had bothered to check with her on the
status of their missing vehicles. She locked the house and went to bed
proper, but failed to drift to sleep for the balance of the long night.
She managed to get Wendy and Leslie off to school the
next morning. She phoned Carol at the diner. "Your car died on me in
Clayton. Carol, I'm so sorry."
"I was wondering what happened to it. Is it serious,
do you think?"
"I think it's terminal."
Lori could hear the early morning commotion in the
background. "We'll discuss it later," Carol said. "Don't let it bother
you. It was on its last leg anyhow."
Lori hung up. She dropped face down on the couch,
wondering how much stress it would take to break her altogether.
A tapping at the back door yanked her awake at three
in the afternoon. She got up to let Karen Radcliff in, then turned away
to make strong black coffee. "You're not working today," she called over
her shoulder, hoping she was sounding and behaving coherently.
"I got off early," Karen said. "They've been
breaking some new girls in for the weekends."
Karen sat at the kitchen table. The chair creaked
ominously as two hundred and fifty pounds threatened its structural
integrity. "I heard about the factory closing. The whole town's in a
panic."
"Panic's a healthy reaction when you're losing
everything you've ever worked for," Lori pointed out.
"I see Dave left his truck. He's not home?"
"He slept over in Clayton last night." Lori made it
sound as casual as possible.
"It would help if you and Dave seek counseling,
Lori. You know the impact the closing is going to have on the middle-aged
male ego. It'll only aggravate the drinking and the abuse you take from
that man."
"No shit, Sherlock."
Karen shrugged. "I've been through it all."
Lori had to smile despite her annoyance. "If you'll
remember, your circumstances were somewhat different."
Karen turned beet red. "Well, he had it coming. I
rejected the victim mentality ages ago, when Benjamin began shirking his
family obligations."
"I'm not being critical, Karen. I'm just not in the
mood for advice today."
Karen shifted position. The chair creaked in agony.
"Well, I'm not here to discuss that. I'm being sworn in as acting
chairperson of the Children's Defense League tonight."
Lori frowned. "This isn’t a Friday, is it? I could
swear I just did a Friday."
"I'm attending twice a week now. I thought you'd
like to join me. We need all the good people we can get."
Lori poured coffee and sat across from the woman. "I
can't. I've got kids here to defend."
"Perhaps you should attend because of them. You know
what's happening here in Sorrel. God only knows what child might be
next." Karen blinked away sudden tears. "If only I had known of the
dangers before Gloria disappeared, poor child."
Lori shook her head, unwilling to go back over the
same old arguments again. Maybe Gloria was dead and buried in a shallow
grave somewhere in the county. As long as nobody knew for certain, there
were other possibilities to consider. Maybe the precocious girl had
simply run away and was surviving hand-to-mouth on the streets of some
distant city. Maybe the abused and timid Benjamin Radcliff had snuck back
to Sorrel to spirit away his daughter to some other part of the county,
state, or country.
Movement in the doorway to the dining room startled
her. She thought for an instant that Dave had appeared for their terrible
showdown, but it was just Carol Fisher wearing little more than her cocky
smile. She leaned against the door frame, puffed on a cigarette, and
breathed a lazy cloud of smoke toward Karen. Karen's eyes narrowed and
glittered with suppressed hatred for the sultry divorcee and her beige
bikini.
"Really, Carol." Lori had no choice but to side with
Karen on the unsuitability of the skimpy swimsuit. "You'll short-circuit
every male libido in Sorrel from Leslie on up."
Carol ran a hand across her muscle-contoured belly in
a mock search of what might not be suitable. "Oh, really? I would never
have thought..."
"Precisely," Karen muttered. “You do very little of
that. Thinking, that is.”
Lori caught Carol's eye and shook her head, warning
her away from whatever evil thought triggered her mischievous smile.
"Let's keep things civil. The children will be home at any minute..."
Lori suddenly remembered. "Carol, your station
wagon!"
Carol chuckled at her reaction. "Strange how
misplacing two tons of steel can slip one's mind."
"I can call someone and have it towed back," Lori
said, eager to help in any way she could.
Carol wrinkled her nose. "You said terminal. How
terminal is terminal?"
Lori blinked back a tear. "I think something broke
in the engine."
Carol shrugged off the loss. "Let them tow it away
and take it to the junkyard where it belongs. Which brings me around to
the really interesting question I've been meaning to ask. How did you get
back from town? Is that Dave's truck in the alley? If so, I sure as hell
haven't seen Dave around today."
Lori had no way to hide her guilt.
Carol's lower jaw went lax. "You stole Dave's
truck?"
"I had to have a way home. He must know I have it.
God, I've been a nervous wreck waiting for him to show up."
The front door slammed. The shock wave went through
Lori like a stun gun.
"Hi, Mom!" Leslie called out from the living room.
"I'm home!"
Leslie ambled into the kitchen, dropped a library
book on the table, and raided the refrigerator. Lori saw Karen visibly
suppressing an urge to comment. "Childhood obesity is much more
serious than adult-onset obesity," was Karen's stock rationalization
for her own excess baggage. "I can reduce my weight whenever I commit
myself, considering that I was slender as a child."
The front door slammed. All three women jumped.
"Mom?"
"In the kitchen!" Carol called out.
Wendy entered the room with her books clutched to her
chest. Finding herself in the midst of a veritable crowd, she lowered her
gaze and retired in silence to her room.
"Such a sweet child," Karen said.
Leslie wrinkled his nose in disgust.
"Too damned hot for coffee," Carol said, then
proceeded around the table to the counter and poured herself a cup. She
took a seat at the table and crossed her long legs. Leslie stood beside
her, his wide eyes scanning the woman's body with the first glimmerings of
adolescent fascination.
"Tiger?"
He glanced up guiltily.
Lori smiled and gestured with a nod. "Out."
Leslie retreated to the living room.
Carol stared at her coffee. "One thing we should get
out of the way before we twist ourselves into emotional pretzels avoiding
the subject..."
She eyed Karen Radcliff.
Karen avoided eye contact, looking suddenly pale and
frightened. "It was just a figure of speech," she said. "I never meant
it as a threat to anyone. I swear to God. She was just a little drunk
when I left her. She said she was going to take a bath and go to bed."
Karen looked up at Lori with a haunted expression.
"She phone me and said there was a prowler..."
Carol folding her arms against her breasts and stared
at the table, embarrassed by Karen's agitation.
Karen's voice dropped to that of a whisper. "I don't
even get to go to the funeral. The body is being shipped to her family in
Oregon as soon as the coroner releases it."
"Then the rest is up to Sheriff Danielson," Lori said
stubbornly. "You don't owe us an explanation."
Carol caught Karen's eye. The two were not friends,
but they had always been civil toward one another. "I just thought we
should clear the air."
"Yes," Karen said. "I understand. Thank you."
An uncomfortable silence returned only to be
shattered by Leslie's shrill cry from the living room. "Mom! Dad's
home! He's really pissed about something!"
Lori went rigid with tension. The front door
slammed. Dave thundered through the house. He balked when he entered the
kitchen and looked in surprise from Lori to Carol, and then Karen. He
blustered his way through regardless. "Lori, where's the goddamn spare
key to the truck?"
Lori picked the key from the counter and dangled it
between thumb and forefinger. She smiled sweetly through gritted teeth.
"Here, darling. Here's the key to your fucking truck!"
She flicked the key at him with a flair of vehemence
that startled both Carol and Karen. Dave snatched the flashing bit of
brass from midair. He gestured threateningly, wanting badly to say
something that would have to wait for a more private moment. He glared at
Karen and Carol, then stalked off muttering a stream of obscenities too
soft to be heard by the children.
Carol leaped to her feet. "Dave? Dave, wait a
minute!" She ran after the man, her shrill voice filtering back through
the house. "My car broke down in town! I was wondering if you could give
me a tow with your new truck..."
The truck's wheels spun on the gravel and screamed on
the blacktop out front. Lori cringed, aware of the dangerous extent of
his anger. The roar of the engine faded to silence, leaving in its wake
the lingering odor of exhaust fumes and burnt rubber.
Karen gawked at her in horror. Benjamin Radcliff had
been an annoyingly passive man.
Carol returned to the kitchen and dropped to her
chair with a coy smile. "He always did think I was a brazen hussy."
"Who dropped him off?" Lori wanted to know. "Was it
a red-head in a sports car?"
Carol shrugged meekly. "Sorry, honey. That's the
way it goes sometimes."
Lori couldn't contain her tears. "He's lost his
job. He's going to run off with that woman. What are me and the children
going to do?"
Karen and Carol could only look on helplessly,
unwilling to feed her the same line they had given Amy for the past two
years. "The worst is over," Karen advised. "It's just a matter of
adapting to the reality of the situation now."
"Oh, no, it's not!" Lori wailed, wondering if she
wasn't psychic to have such a powerful sense of impending doom. Nobody
but herself was thinking of her dream of the glass eye in that moment, a
phenomena that warned so profoundly of something dangerously amiss in her
own private universe.
"God, I can feel it! It's just getting started!"
