Halfway down the mountain, cars are lined up behind the wreckage of a jackknifed semi. It’s splayed across the highway, blocking both shoulders. There is only enough clearance on the uphill side to walk along the edge of an embankment that’s thick with live oak trees and scrub. Live oaks get so dense you could lose a bicycle in them. As kids, when someone’s bike went missing, we’d always check the trees to see if it was hidden up there as a prank.
I park, jump out, and head for two men who are climbing down from atop the tractor that has flipped over on its side.
“Is he okay?” I ask.
One of the men shakes his head.
The force of the tractor slamming onto the pavement must have hammered the driver’s head against the doorframe or the pavement, killing him.
Near the downhill end of the trailer, another man’s consoling two women. One woman is clutching her forehead. The other is bent over, head buried in both hands, shoulders convulsing.
“Has anyone called for help?” I call out.
The man turns to me. “911 operator said the nearest unit was almost half-hour out when we called it in. They’re due any minute.”
On the other side of the trailer, a black Yukon is crumpled like an accordion, its hood buried in hemorrhaging cargo. The driver had no choice—it was either crashing into the jackknifed trailer or the trees. The result would have been the same—occupants compacted into the interior. Crimson-stained shards crunch under my feet as I edge closer to get a better look.
I turn, stare downhill—sirens, flashing lights. EMT. Fire engine. Sheriff’s cruiser. They’re too late, always too late.
I look away. Something’s up in the trees … pink … a shoe … a small body tangled in the branches.
Celine’s image pops into my head. She’s on the ground cowering. Now she’s gone. A sharp pain starts behind my ear, arcs to the top my head—again and again—like a short circuit. My breakfast backs up. I bend over and throw up. Everything starts spinning.
Amy
I
n town, a building—windows covered with boards … doors chained and locked. Tess parks the pickup behind it. Doesn’t want people to see the truck—not ‘registered’ … or something.
Before we get out, she tells me the rules. Stay close. Don’t talk to strangers. She says the rules again while we're walking to the store. This time she adds a new one … keep my mouth shut about passing the truck up on the highway. Must not want anybody to know she was mean … scared the truck driver.
In the store she buys beer, ice and cigarettes—gets me candy in a red wrapper. Not supposed to tell Bryce I got candy. When she’s paying for the stuff a woman comes up behind me. Her little girl says, “Hi. My name’s Alexis.”
Shuffle my feet.
“What’s your name?” she asks.
Tess grabs my arm.
“Mommy, why won’t she talk?”
The woman whispers to the kid, but I can hear. “Honey, some children can’t talk.”
“Mommy, why can’t she talk?”
Tess lets go of my arm … digs into her pockets for money.
Wanna say to the little girl it’s the rules. You’re not supposed to talk to strangers. They can hurt. The woman tells her, “Some children are born that way. But sometimes people get hurt real bad or get very sick and aren’t able to talk anymore.”
I stare at the girl. My stomach twists in knots. Wanna tell her nothing’s wrong with me. “I … I….”
Tess yanks me. “We better get up the hill. Bryce’ll be pissed.”
Wanna say to Tess, we’re out of food. Need to get food. But she’ll thump me on the head. So, I keep quiet.
Outside, Tess looks around to be sure no one’s watching … pushes me into the alley … pins me against the side of the store … her eyes dark … teeth clenched. “Do I have to watch you every second? You know the rules. What the hell are you doing talking to strangers?” She bites her lip. “You want to go back on that chain? If Bryce hears about this you’re going to. You should thank your lucky stars I’m not telling him—not this time, anyway.”
We walk to the pickup. I take a lick of my candy, wrap it back up, stuff it in my pocket. Don’t know why the woman said something’s wrong with me. Why doesn’t her girl follow the rules?
Headed back up the mountain, I’m still trying to figure out why the girl broke the rules. Tess stomps down on the brakes. Traffic’s stopped.
She turns off the motor. “Hell, all I need is for some cop to come by and see my expired plates. No license—no insurance.”
No idea what she’s talking about.
Tess grips the steering wheel like she wants to rip it off. “We gotta let Bryce know I’m stuck behind a wreck. Damn trucker turned over his rig, sprawled across the highway.”
Is it the truck driver Tess scared? Shut my eyes. Pound on my head … both hands … over and over. Don’t wanna think about it. Reach in my pocket. Feel the candy in its crinkly, red wrapper. I turn … look at her.
She stares straight ahead. “If you start hoofing it right now and don’t dog it, you can be back up the mountain in maybe three, four hours—just in case I’m stuck down here forever. Tell Bryce there’s a wreck and I can’t get through. I’ll have to go back and get more ice. It’ll all be melted if I have to sit here half a day.”
My heart jumps. He’ll be pissed no matter what. Everything’s always my fault.
“If they clear this thing up sooner, I’ll pick you up on my way. Remember the rules. Don’t talk to anyone. And don’t tell Bryce about the damn truck driver. It’s the guy’s own fault. Didn’t pull over when he should’ve. Blocking traffic—it’s just not right. Besides, what kind of a trucker can’t keep his rig upright. Sheesh.”
A car’s honking in my head … wanna tell it to stop.
I get out of the pickup … try not to make any noise ... see a big black car up ahead … smashed into the trailer. A woman’s holding her forehead. Another bent over, hands covering her face. A man talking to them.
I walk along the ditch past the black car. Something crunches under my feet. Pieces of glass—dark red, slippery. Try to keep away from crunching glass … stay close to the big bushy trees. Hope no one sees me. Sirens blare. Cover my ears.
Something wet drips on my head. I stop. Look up. Maybe a bird crapped. Trees are thick with branches, leaves. Reminds me of ripples covering the lake.
Don’t see any birds, but there’s a pink shoe up in the tree. A kid … one leg swung over a branch … no foot. Watch a drop … red … hurts my eyes … lands near my feet. I yank the candy out of my pocket … tear off its crinkly red wrapper … throw the candy away … hold the wrapper up to my eye … study the kid in the tree. Could be a girl … curly hair … face all bloody—like when Tess guts Bryce’s deer, rabbits, and stuff. My stomach gurgles. Throat tightens. Things start spinning. Say to myself … this isn’t real.
In front of me a man stops … drops to his knees. I peek around the candy wrapper. He’s puking. Straightens up. Doesn’t see me. He runs uphill, away from the wreck.
I better keep moving. Tess’ll make trouble if I’m still here when she comes by. She’s a snitch—even makes stuff up. Told me she once had a rich boyfriend … good job. How’d she wind up with a creep like Bryce? It doesn’t matter that she lies … Bryce believes her. He shouldn’t, though.
Above the wreck … cars headed down the mountain, stopped … more people hanging around. I walk faster. Someone might try talking to me. One of the cars turns around, comes right at me. I jump out of the way. Tumble into the ditch. Land in a heap.
Roll over … up on the road a shiny red car—stopped. Dark windows. Can’t see inside. Reach in my pocket … candy wrapper is still there.
The window comes down. I look down. Don’t want them to see me.
A man inside says, “Jeez, I’m sorry. Are you all right?”
Maybe if I don’t look at him he’ll stop seeing me. Wanna shrink as small as an ant.
The car door opens. The man climbs out, stumbles down the ditch. Kneels next to me. “I’m really sorry. Are you hurt?”
Knee hurts bad … I rub it.
Man reaches for my knee.
Hunch up in a ball.
He backs off … holds his hands up. “Sorry, I won’t hurt you. Sure you’re okay?”
I start to get up.
He takes my arm. “Here, let me help you.”
Jerk away. Leg hurts worse. Stand on it just the same.
“Honest, I’m just trying to help.” He steps back. “Haven’t I seen you before?”
Look away.
“Aren’t you the kid who lives across the lake from me? You like to skip rocks.”
“No.”
“Really? I could swear you could be her twin.”
I shrug.
“Say, were you in that wreck down there?”
Shake my head.
“Where do you live? I should take you home, to your parents.”
“That’s okay. I can get home myself.”
Can’t he stop talking?
“I should get you to your family so they can be sure you’re okay.”
Knee aches … wants to fold up under me.
“Please. I won’t bite.”
Bryce bites.
“It won’t be any trouble, really. I’ve got the time.”
People are watching. Somebody might tell on me. Take a step. A sharp pain. Shut my eyes.
He takes my arm. Steadies me. “Here, let me give you a ride.”
“No. I’ll be okay. Just have to rest a minute.”
He nudges me toward his car. “I insist. After all, it’s my fault.”
No, it’s
her
fault.
He opens the car door.
I’ll never make it to the shack … look downhill to see if Tess is coming. I get in.
He climbs in the other side and points to a picture sitting in a tray between us. “I have a granddaughter. I’m not going to hurt you. Just want you to get home safe.”
I peek at the picture. A little girl … happy … lucky girl. I remember the little girl who didn’t have to follow the rules … the woman who thought something was wrong with me. Think about the girl in the tree. No. She wasn’t real. Feel for my candy wrapper. Look back at the little girl’s picture. “Is she really yours?”
“Yes, she’s really mine, but someone took her. Which is a good reason you shouldn’t be out here all by yourself.”
Truck drivers snatch girls off the highway. Bet the trucker Tess scared isn’t that way.
“By the way,” he says, “you haven’t told me where you live.”
I don’t look at him. Point. “Up ahead.”
He says, “Mind buckling up?”
Keep staring straight ahead. It’s hot in here.
He stops the car. “Sure you’re okay?”
“Yes, sir.” Cross my arms. Are Bryce’s marks showing?
He raises his voice. “You need to buckle up.”
My chin quivers. “How does it work?”
“Here.” He reaches across me.
My body stiffens. The seat belt clicks. I flinch.
He says, “This is how you undo it when we get you home.” He pushes a button on the buckle. The belt clicks again and comes undone.
I take a deep breath.
“Have you walked all the way from town?”
“No.”
“How far have you been walking?”
“Not far. Tess had to stop for the wreck. Said, ‘get out and walk home.’”
“Tess your mother?”
“No. No mother.”
“How about your father?”
Fish in my pocket for the candy wrapper—still there.
“How far up the road do you live?”
“A ways.”
“She made you get out and walk the whole way? Who is she anyway—a relative?”
“No family.”
He sighs. “I don’t have a family, either.”
I peek over at him.
“You’ll have to let me know when we get near where you live.”
No more talking 'til we get to a turnoff ... a little ways before the road to the lake. I point to the side of the road. “Let me off here.”
He pulls the car over.
“You sure? I can take you all the way home. I really should talk to someone.”
“Knee’s fine now.” I undo the seatbelt … fling open the door and jump out. Take a couple steps to show him I’m okay. He smiles and waves goodbye. He’s right … he didn’t bite.
I cross the highway and keep watching until the shiny red car disappears. When he’s out of sight I limp up to the lake turnoff. As I sneak past the man’s cabin I wonder if the girl in his picture has to follow the rules. Once I’m around the bend, I sit on a stump by the road and put my hands over my face.
I still see the big black car … crushed into the semi's trailer, as if I was standing next to it. Bloody windows … glass shattered all over the ground … crunching when I step on it. Blood dripping. The girl up in a tree. My stomach twists in knots … head spins … drop to my knees … puke all over the ground. Lie down and roll on my side … tuck into a ball … try not to crap in my pants. Ground’s damp, cool … smells like rotting logs. I look up … can’t see the sky … trees block the sun. Thank god there’s nobody up in those branches.
Close my eyes again … sleepy … imagine ripples spreading out across the lake … taste candy from crinkly red wrappers.
Bryce
Five more minutes gone by. Where the hell are they? Had to get my own damn breakfast. Now it’s gonna be lunchtime. Even have to stoke my own fire.
Slam the damn stove hatch, stand and stare out the window. Hour and a half, max. That’s all it should take. I grit my teeth, take out my pocket knife, open a can of chili. Set the can on top of the stove and watch it. How the hell long does it take this shit to boil? Jab at it with my knife.
Now, where’s the damn bread? I’ve told them a thousand times, “I gotta have bread with my damn chili.”
I stomp over to a box of food and kick it over. Pick it up and empty it on the floor. Hell! Damn bread’s on the bottom, smushed. Shit. That bitch knows you don’t stack stuff on top of bread. When she gets back, it’s gonna get done right.
Need a damn beer. Yank the top off the ice chest—the damn ice is all melted. Two beers left. They better get some ice and beer down in town, or I’m gonna give ….
A long swig does nothin’ to calm my nerves. Pace back and forth. Stop at the window each time I pass it. Hate staring out a damn window, waiting for women to come home—useless whores, every one of them. Make a fist and punch the palm of my other hand. They’s gonna be sorry.
I plop down in a chair, take another swig. Slam my hand on the table. Damn can’s empty. When I head over for the other beer I stop to look out the window. Won’t let myself do it this time. Not gonna look out that damn window again. Hope they drive the damn pickup into a ravine and bake to death in the hot sun. And when they do, I ain’t goin’ looking for them.