“This isn’t the way to Whitwell. Lake Waccamaw is just up there.”
“Shortcut,” he said. “This is farm country. His granny, she lives on a farm outside Whitwell.”
She followed the car, could hear her little-girl self crying inside, but she kept going. She followed his instructions, did what she was told, and the roads grew smaller, the land more empty with each passing mile. “I don’t want to do this.”
“But you’re doing it,” he said.
She trembled, wishing she had paid attention to the exit number, the route number, something. She looked out, saw some kind of abandoned factory. A power station maybe. Lots of electrical towers and power lines that seemed dead now. She’d remember this. If she just paid close attention to where she was going and could get back to this, she could get back to the highway. Lake Waccamaw wasn’t too far. Randy’s house was just south of the lake. If she focused, stayed steady, she’d get there. And Randy, he’d make it all right. He’d make her forget this whole stupid mess. She drove in deeper darkness and realized she’d forgotten to pay attention. While she was thinking about what she’d do later, she’d lost the sense of where she was. A dark wave rolled up from inside her, as if she’d been snatched by a current. The Cape Fear River. She had felt it then. She might have gotten help if she’d done something to get attention, but now she’d been carried too far out for anyone to hear her call.
Katy kept her eyes on the Datsun. Maybe they’d just rob her, maybe rape her, leave her to find her way home. But she was lost; she had no idea where she was. She looked out at the fields going red in the sunset and saw herself rising in the air, like Dorothy in that little house lifted by a storm. She’d get through this, like Dorothy, and she’d wake up, find herself settled in a bright new land.
Jesse flipped through her billfold. “Man, you’ve got no cash here. Not a dollar here.”
She slapped at his hands. “Stop it. Stop going through my things like I’m not here.”
He smacked her arm hard enough to make her bite her lip, grip the wheel. “Now, don’t you start pissing me off.”
“All right,” she said, “I’ll pull over. Go ahead and shoot me. I’m not scared.”
He laughed, yanked the gun out and waved it in the air. “Damn gun doesn’t work. It’s just a prop, man.” He pulled the trigger. Nothing happened. It was jammed. “Scared you, didn’t I? See, I told you I wouldn’t shoot you. Look here, now. It’s almost over. He’s turning down that dirt road.”
She looked to where the Datsun was turning, west where the sky hung in purple and pink waves. The gun doesn’t work, she thought; she’d driven all those miles for a cute guy with a smile and a gun that didn’t work.
The Datsun slowed, took another turn, and Katy thought to just plow straight ahead to get to anywhere but where they were going. Jesse was shaking with quiet laughter. “All you got to do is raise a gun to somebody’s face. They put the bullets in it. They see their heads blown off. All you got to do is raise the gun. Devil works likes a magician, man, half the game is sleight of hand. Most people. You believers. You do all the rest.” He waved the gun in the air. “This is what you get for believing in things.”
She kept driving down the narrow gravel road, saw a field of fallen trees as if a great wind had leveled the land. She remembered she was in hurricane country. Every year the coastal towns prepared for the seasonal storms that spiraled out at sea, gathering up strength like a fist rising to slam the coast.
She scanned the horizon for any sign of something she could know. Then she saw it. The radio tower, just a few miles away maybe. If she could get to that tower, she’d know where she was, and Randy’s house was only a few miles from that. She sighed. She’d be all right. The tower, there it was back there, a sign that she wasn’t as lost as she had thought. She followed the car down another gravel road, but it curved as if it might go someplace. She kept watching the land for a sign of a house, a tractor, a powerline, anything that looked like someone could be around. The road kept curving, surrounded by nothing but thickets and brambles and trees.
“Where the fuck is he going?” Jesse leaned forward in his seat.
Katy said, “I thought we were going to his grandmother’s house.” But she didn’t believe the words any more than she believed in that hundred-dollar bill, which was probably a fake. She looked out at the land, thought the trees looked familiar. Then she saw a house. A little brick house. Once they stopped the truck, she could run to that. Driving on, she saw an old tire on the ground, thought maybe she’d seen that before, but in the country people were always just leaving their old stuff scattered in the fields: tires. washing machines, old cars. At least with all this junk, people couldn’t be too far away. And she could run. She’d been a real good runner back in school.
Jesse leaned out the window, looked around. He yelled, “You’re driving in fucking circles, man. I thought you knew where you were going.” He sat back in his seat, kept his eyes on the Datsun. “The fucker is stoned,” he said. “That’s another reason I hate riding with him. When’s he’s stoned, he doesn’t know what the hell he’s doing.” He gave her that smile. “Don’t you worry. He’ll get us there. It’ll be all right.”
The Datsun eased to a stop, then made a quick turn down a little road she could hardly see for the trees.
“See,” Jesse said. “We’re getting there.” The rutted road led them through thickets and overhanging branches so thick she was sure there would be nothing but more trees and dirt and rocks where they were going. And the crying, that stinging ache, rose behind her eyes. The sky was shrinking to a thin patch above. She looked left, right. All she could see was trees. She wished she’d paid attention to where the sun was when she’d seen that house. She hoped the guys would do what they wanted and leave. She knew they’d take her truck. Billy had warned her to keep the doors locked. She glanced at the man sitting in her truck. He might rape her. But he might be too stoned for that. If he did, she’d go still so he wouldn’t hurt her. And when she got her chance, her first chance, she’d run. She’d take whatever he did, play along, but at the first chance, she’d run. She might have to run a while. But she’d live. She’d been through worse than this. She’d live. She’d get to Randy. Maybe the whole point of this was to get to Randy, who’d give her the nerve to leave Billy behind. If she could be with Randy, she could get over Frank. There was always a reason for things. It just took time to understand. She’d never really wanted the safe guy. Poor Billy. He loved her. She wished she could want the safe guy. If she’d wanted the safe guy, she wouldn’t be stuck in a truck with a guy who’d do God knew what if he got the chance. But she was stronger than he could guess. She was. And smart and fast, and she would do whatever it took to get out of this mess alive.
Sacramental Things
Livy Baines used her ring finger to dab night cream on the tissue-thin skin of her eyelids; they were bluish, sunken a little, but not as bad as they were for most women her age. She worked gently around to the crow’s feet, then touched at the lines beginning to form underneath her eyes. She stepped back from the mirror and saw a face that was growing to look more like her own mother, who was buried down in Suck Creek, than like her daughter, Katy. Livy glanced at the clock. It was going on midnight. She imagined Katy tending bar now, pressing cold beers into the hands of men who smiled at the simple sight of her girl. Yes, she was a pretty girl. Everyone said so. Livy tried to remember when she’d crossed the line to looking more like her mother than her daughter, who was tall and lean with thick, curly dark hair, sapphire eyes, and a smile that made every other man who met her fall in love. She could have been a model with that face and that long, slender frame. People used to say the same thing about Livy. She looked at herself in the mirror. Not bad for her age, just an older, more filled-out version of Katy. But the last time she’d had a facial, the woman had asked if she’d considered getting rid of her “eleven.”
“My