“Katie” (Part I)

If the bus hadn’t been late, she would have been safe. She would have been on it, heading for a new life in a new place as far away from here as a one way ticket could take her. If the bus had not been late.

Dale had caught up to her; had figured out what she meant to do and come to stop her. She had seen the old Buick careen into the parking lot and stop dead in a space reserved for the big Greyhounds, and her skin had gone clammy with fear. She had picked up her bag and made for the ladies’ room, but he had seen her before she reached the door and the look in his eyes had warned her against making a scene. He had been drinking for a while before coming to get her. He had worked himself into the self-righteous lather that always led to violence—for ingratitude, for insolence, for incompetence. It was always her fault that things weren’t the way he wanted them; that the mill had shut down, that the welfare cheques never stretched far enough. She had thought she could have endured indefinitely, until she had skipped her period. That was her fault as well. She was to blame for the mistake of a child he didn’t want and couldn’t afford. For the baby’s sake, she had decided to leave. There had been no choice, really. She had to protect her child at all costs. She had feared for its life every day she had taken to save the price of a bus ticket. Seven months along, she had reached her goal and made the move to leave him.

And the damned bus had been late.

She had thought of throwing herself from the car. He had been raving at her, calling her names and swearing she was in for it while the Buick wove drunkenly toward the highway out of town. She didn’t hear him anymore. She thought only of escape and how to do it. Jumping out at a red light had crossed her mind but the lights had been with Dale and there was no stopping along the main drag. Every light went green as they approached an intersection—a sure sign that she was doomed if she didn’t do something drastic. So she thought about throwing herself from the moving vehicle and running into oncoming traffic; to flag down another motorist who might take pity, or to be struck by one and relieved of her burden that way. It didn’t matter what she did. She knew she was gonna die.

Dale had figured that out, too. He said he could read her mind and she almost believed him. He had pulled into the parking lot of a grocery store and driven around to the loading bay behind the building. Frozen with terror, she had imagined he would finish her there, but he had hauled her from the car’s warm interior and forced her into the trunk. Now she lay curled around her belly in a cramped and frigid darkness that smelled of tires and gasoline, weeping silently and praying for mercy from a God she was sure had abandoned her.

The Buick was a pig. Built in the mid-50s, it lacked shock absorbers and springs made to modern standards. She felt every ripple in the asphalt, every dip in the road; and when corners were taken, she was invariably bruised against a wheel-well. She hoped a policeman might spot the car and pull it over; she might have a chance then. Or maybe Dale would drive into the meridian and flip the car, killing them both. She didn’t think about the baby much. Her fate was its fate. There wasn’t any use in thinking otherwise at this point. Death was the only peace she could guarantee it.

But she didn’t want to die. That was the absurdity. She had to live for the baby; wanted to live for the baby. Wanted to birth it and raise it and love it the way she had once loved its father. She didn’t know the man behind the wheel. He wasn’t the same sweet Dale she had fallen for in high school; who had dropped to one knee when he proposed and brought her flowers every Valentine’s Day and birthday and anniversary for five years before he had lost his job and his confidence. He had always liked his beer, and had occasionally given her a swat or a punch when at his drunken worst. But he had always apologized and she had always forgiven him. Only after the mill closure had things really hit the skids. There was no work, no savings. They had lost the house and the truck. He hated welfare but there had been no choice. He didn’t want her to work. Her job was caring for him—and she didn’t do it all that well. Not anymore.

The sway of the car on the road soothed her a little. She stopped crying and fell into a petrified trance, too afraid to envision what waited at home. She had committed an unpardonable sin by trying to leave him. Her one chance had failed. He would make damned sure she had no second.

The Buick lurched violently to the right and she hit her ankle off the jack. Changing lanes, she thought. They must be nearing the exit to the trailer park. They were getting close to home. She swallowed from a dry mouth and tried not to whimper. He wouldn’t likely use the bat first. If he could knock her out with his fist, she might be spared worse. Playing possum wouldn’t work; he seemed to know when she was faking. But she was so tired and so scared that maybe, if she was lucky, she would faint quickly. But what if he kicked her in the belly?

Her arms cradled the baby. She conjured the words to a lullaby her mother had sung to her and sang them in silence, knowing the babe would hear. They were bonded by blood, each dependent on the other. The baby gave her strength to go on and she would live for the baby. She would. She had to.

Her head hit the side of the trunk as the Buick swung right and bounced a ways as if Dale was driving on the moon. Her heart skipped a beat before it began thundering above the baby’s head. They had stopped. Oh, Lord, they were home.

“Hey, asshole—what the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

It was Dale, hoarse with fury. She hadn’t heard the car door open, but he was yelling at someone. She was grateful it wasn’t her. Then she remembered the rifle he kept under the driver’s seat. Cold sweat broke on her forehead. Unsure whether to scream or remain silent, she chose the latter simply because she was afraid to be discovered.

Everything was muffled from inside the trunk. She heard Dale but no one else. Then she didn’t hear Dale. There was some bumping and scraping against the side of the Buick, and it rocked a little on its springs, then there was nothing but the grumble of the engine, still running.

Nothing. No movement, no voices. Nothing.

She lay in paralyzed silence, straining to hear over the motor. Then the motor stopped. She lifted her head and tried to call out, but her voice croaked uselessly. She was about to aim a kick at the side of the car when a key scraped in the lock of the trunk. She froze.

It wasn’t Dale. When the lid lifted, the first thing she saw was the shadow of a man bigger and stronger than her husband. He stood over her, staring, she imagined, though his face was obscured by the darkness. Behind him, the night sky sparkled with the icy fire of a million stars. She smelled the pungent scents of grass and raw earth and realized that, for now, she was saved.

She tried to sit up. She didn’t let herself think on how she must look, battered and bruised from the unceremonious bundling into the trunk of the car. She couldn’t look at him, couldn’t meet his eyes for fear of what she might see there. Shock, disgust, pity—she had seen them all before and hated them no less because they were familiar. She looked for Dale instead, relying on him to guide her.

But Dale was dead. The stranger had him by the scruff of the neck, head lolling, limbs dangling loose in their sockets. From the tilt of his head, it looked like his neck had been broken. She didn’t think to ask why or how. She didn’t question what she knew in her heart was true. Dale was dead.

Remarkably, she didn’t scream. Nor did she cry. She simply sat staring at his corpse hanging like meat from the stranger’s left hand. “You killed him,” she said bluntly. Her voice sounded foreign to her own ears.

“He cut me off.”

She raised her eyes to his face. They didn’t work so well in the dark; she could barely make out the rough cut angles of cheek and jaw. But the voice was beautiful—a deep, dark baritone spoken so softly that it might not have spoken at all. The voice of God; of an avenging angel. Reality hit her at that instant and her hands rose to cover her face as she burst into frenzied tears.

A large hand took her by the arm and all but lifted her out of the trunk. She stumbled and he caught her, dropping the body at her feet. Unable to face him, she stared instead at Dale, seized by a morbid fascination that demanded confirmation of his end. He sprawled in the grass with his ear laid flat to his shoulder, gazing up at her with blind eyes. “You killed him because he cut you off,” she murmured. She looked over the roof of the car. A late 90s Mercedes sedan stood idling in the swath of the Buick’s headlights.

“He would have killed you for less.”

She turned back to the voice. Its owner towered over her by at least foot; a big, well-muscled man in his very late thirties, broad in the chest and shoulders, slim in the hips and legs. He was dressed in worn blue jeans and a black sweater under a scuffed leather jacket. She wondered if the Mercedes was stolen.

“What are you called?” he asked.

“Katie,” she said automatically.

“That’s a little girl’s name.”

She managed a watery smile. “I never liked it much. I was christened Katherine.”

He said nothing. He let her go and bent to lift Dale’s body in his arms. He was fluidly graceful for one so big; he had the body folded and packed into the Buick’s trunk as neatly as tucking a shirt into a drawer. She saw that his hair was long and secured at the nape of his neck by a rubber band. The tail itself fell to the middle of his back. “Who are you?” she asked.

“We’ll leave it here,” he said, ignoring her question. He turned and she saw his face clearly for the first time. He was powerfully handsome with large eyes and a long, aristocratic nose that flared slightly at the nostrils. His mouth was wide and set in a straight line but his lips were full and soft. He looked like a Roman warrior carved from marble and come to life in order to save hers. “I’ll drive you home.”

“I can’t go home,” she blurted.

His straight black brows rose inquiringly.

“They think I’ve left town,” she explained. “When they find Dale, the cops’ll be after me for questioning and it’s best that the neighbours think I got away beforehand.”

“Where were you going?”

“My aunt lives in Kingston. She said I could come and stay with her.”

“How far?”

“Overnight by Greyhound. I have the ticket in my—” She faltered, realizing that her purse was in the trunk. “It’s in there,” she said, jerking her head toward the Buick.

He understood without being told that her belongings could not stay with the car. “Go and get into mine,” he said.

She didn’t think to disobey. She crossed the grass to the Mercedes and slid into the front seat. It was warm inside. She relaxed gratefully against the leather upholstery, closing her eyes. “It’s all right, baby,” she whispered, lightly stroking her belly. “We’re fine now. We’re gonna be fine.” A few seconds later, her bag was tossed into the back seat and her purse landed on the mat in front of her.

To be continued …