At the end of a muddy road with more potholes than a Manhattan side street, I slurped to a stop and stepped out into the three inches of mud that hadn't made it to my windshield. Damn. My brand-new Reeboks! Well, the damage was done.
The bay was clean and bright, stretching to a pale gray line that I guessed was the state of Delaware. I kept on walking to the bay's edge. There, the mud turned into sand like brown sugar and the water lapped gently over my sneakers. I shut my eyes and took a deep breath. Salt. The sun felt warm on my eyelids. I was a kid againâlugging buckets of sand, tearing down the beach, my feet slapping against the wet sand, wading into the water, jumping the waves, being knocked down by a wave, my mouth full of sand. (It didn't taste like brown sugar.) The squawk of a seagull. I opened my eyes. Perched on a piling, crusty with barnacles, he stared at me. Looking for a handout, no doubt. “Sorry, buster.” I held out my empty hands. He turned his head away, unaware that he had ruined my reverie of innocent childhood.
Hey, I was no child.
I was an almost-thirty-year-old woman running away from the flotsam and jetsam of a botched career and a tired love affair. Shit. Where had that popped up from? People didn't have love affairs anymore. They had relationships. I kicked a beer can. People even
managed to desecrate this remote paradise with their dirty droppings. I looked up with a glare, as if hoping to find the culprit. But there was no one in sight.
A rotting log lay half-in, half-out of the water. I sat on the half-out end. After a few minutes, I pulled off my sneakers and socks and moved to the half-in end. For a while I played in the water with my toes, making tiny amber waves. It was warm for October. Indian summer. The sun felt good on my back. Chin in hand, my eyelids began to droop. I don't know how long I dozed there, but when I opened my eyes my toes were wrinkled.
What's wrong with you? Beginning a case of Chronic Fatigue Syndrome?
I dried my feet with a sock and pulled on my sneakers. Time to start back. Back? To what? That mangy motel? That poor old caretaker would think I'd changed my mind and was taking him up on his offer.
Motel doctor
.
My guffaw flushed a brown, spindly-legged bird out of the reeds. Catching sight of me, he darted back again. One last look at the bay. I had to shield my eyes against its brassy glare. Hunger pangs told me it must be well past noon. I got in the car and reached for my sunglasses. Wonder if they found that girl? A twinge of guilt. Torn between the girl who wanted to get away and whoever might be worried about her at home. I must be getting old. A few years ago I would have thought of only the girl. I maneuvered the car through a muddy U-turn. My fenders were iced with mud an inch thick. Budget-Rent-a-Car would love me. Feathery reeds caressed the car on either side. Now and then a red-winged blackbird (one of the few birds I knew) darted in front of me. I rounded a bend and slammed on the brakes.
In the middle of the road stood a man poised with a bow and arrow. The arrow wasn't aimed at me, but still ⦠I leaned out the window. “Yo, Robin Hood!”
He put the arrow away and stalked toward me, spewing anger like exhaust from a tailpipe. When he drew near he said, “You just scared off the whole herd. I've been waiting all morning.”
“Sorry.” Although I wasn't. I liked deer.
“What're you doing here?”
“Is this a private road?” I swiveled my head. “I don't see any sign.”
“There hasn't been a sign for years, but everybody knows ⦠. Where you from?”
“New York.”
His face closed up.
“New Yorkers aren't a popular brand around here, huh?”
“Don't know any.”
“And don't want to.”
“I don't want people pokin' around ⦔
“Is there something sacred about that mud puddle I just visited?” Now
I
was getting hot under the collar.
He looked at my car for the first time. “I can direct you to a nice car wash.”
I looked over his shoulder at the field where the herd must have been. It was the color of butter. A bundle of clouds like a pile of freshly mashed potatoes sailed above it. It was as quiet as a church on Monday. My anger melted. “I can see why you want to protect this.” I gestured at the field. “I won't hand out any travel brochures when I get back to Manhattan.”
He smiled. It changed himâlike that dab of red on a blackbird's wing in the spring, from something ordinary to something extraordinary. “Sorry,” he said. “I didn't mean to be unfriendly.”
“No?” I eyed his bow. “I better be going.”
He stepped aside.
I looked back once in the rearview mirror. He was looking after me.
South Jersey isn't overpopulated with fast-food places. I passed a roadside stand piled with pumpkins, apples, jugs of cider, and a few squash. Beggars can't be choosers. I backed up and stopped. No one in sight. A bunch of plastic bags hung from the roof of the wooden shed and there was ajar with a hand-penciled sign stuck to it: WHEN I'M NOT HERE, GOD IS WATCHING. I thought how that would go over in the stalls on Third Avenue. I bagged three apples, picked up a jug of cider, and toyed with the idea of a pumpkin. But where to put it? In the rear window of the car? A skinny woman in an apron was making her way toward me from the farmhouse.
“Nice day,” she said, coming up. “You're not from around here.”
Was I wearing a sign?
“I noticed your plates.”
They didn't miss a trick in this neighborhood. I'd hate to be on the lam like my neighbors from last night. I wouldn't stand a chance. “I'm looking for a place to eat,” I said.
She frowned. “Nothing around here. You'd have to get back to the main road.”
“And where is that?”
“Wait a minute.” She smoothed the apron over her lean front.
“There is Lester's.” She looked down the road, running a bony hand through her hair. “It's behind the country store on Snakeskin Road. The boys go there for a bite when they're done hunting.”
I could just see the boys lined up at the counter, their red necks glowing, swilling beer and munching venison burgers. “Thanks. I'll find something.” I took off with a wave.
By four-thirty, I still hadn't eaten. My stomach was rumbling like a bowling alley on a Saturday night. And rush hour was starting up. There were at least three other cars on the road besides mine. One driver was in such a hurry to get home, he actually passed me. To my left loomed the cooling tower of the nuclear power plant. It had to be that. A giant chimney, black against the crimson sky, spewing clouds of steam. Flashing lights circled its gaping mouth, warning airplanes to keep away. Suddenly, I felt for those Pompeiians who had lived their short lives in the shadow of Vesuvius. What had Mr. Nelson said? “The biggest landmark ⦠five miles from here.” A glance at the map revealed the sad truth. I had been traveling in a circle. After driving all day, I was only five miles from the Oakview Motor Lodge. I turned down yet another nameless country road (they didn't believe in road signs in South Jersey) and tried to decide what to do. The crimson sky had turned a deep plum. The headlights of some cars were already glowing. I was sick of driving. Hungry and thirsty. I was contemplating a juicy hamburger and a frosty Budweiser when a noise in my right ear nearly sent me off my seat. I pulled over and bumped to a halt. A blowout. In the middle of nowhere. Just as it was getting dark. Great. I looked around. Of course I had to pick the most deserted spot I'd been in all day. Not a house or a barn in sight. On one side lay a field of charred cornstalks; on the other, an empty field edged by a dark wood. Wait a minute, there's someone ⦠oh, shit. Not a helpful farmer. Just another scarecrow.
At least I didn't have to worry about car-jackers here. And thank God dad had taught me how to change a tire. He might make fun of the feminist movement, but he didn't want his daughter caught helpless on the road, either. With a sigh, I opened the
trunk, took out the spare (one of those useless doughnuts), and fumbled for the jack.
I had just gotten the tire raised and was tackling the nuts when I was blinded by headlight beams. A car coming. I was well off the road with my blinkers on, so I wasn't worried. When the car drew near, it slowed, as if the driver was debating whether to stop and offer help. He sped on. Out of the corner of my eye, I glimpsed temporary plates. Didn't that crook couple have temporary plates? I went back to the tire.
Once the tire was changed, I still had the problem of being lost. I poked along cautiously. I had no faith in those doughnuts. My gas gauge was also making me nervous. I turned into the first driveway I came to. Poor choice. Deeply rutted, it was bad for the baby tire. At the end I could make out a farmhouse. Its bare wood glinted silver in the first rays of a full moon. A big, ugly dog barked ferociously. I didn't dare get out of the car. I'd handled a couple of rabies cases at Bellevue and I wasn't about to become one. I sat in the car and waited. After a few minutes the screen door banged open and a man emerged, shouting at the dog. I waited until I was sure he had a good grip on the dog's collar before I got out of the car.
He shoved the dog inside the screened porch and came toward me.
“Could you direct me to the Oakview Motor Lodge?” The words surprised me as soon as they were out of my mouth.
“Stranger?” He was the first person I'd met who didn't make
stranger
sound like
skunk cabbage
.
“Yes, but I have a map.” I handed him Mr. Nelson's map, and in the glow of my headlights he traced my route. Just as I thought, the motel was only a couple of miles away. I'd traveled all day to end up where I started. “Thanks,” I said.
“My pleasure.”
I looked at him closely. Having taken him for a farmer, I was surprised by his crisp, cultured voice with a touch of a European accentânot the soft country drawl of the natives around there.
“Juri!” A guttural voice croaked from the dark recesses of the porch. It was impossible to tell its sex. “Who's there?”
“A young woman. She's lost.”
“Well, send her away.” A window banged shut.
“Thanks again,” I said, and smiled my most engaging smile. He didn't respond. I guess he couldn't see it in the dark.
Â
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I dropped the car off at the gas station where I'd made my phone call that morning. Mike (his name was sewn across the pocket of his jumpsuit) greeted me like an old friend.
“Did they catch up with that girl?”
“I don't know.” I shrugged.
He promised to replace the tire early the next morning. It was a half-mile walk from the garage to the motel. On the way, in desperation, I detoured into the sleazy-looking dive called Harry's Bar & Grill. It was the grill I was interested in. The hamburger wasn't bad, but the stares and side-looks from the male clientele did nothing to improve it. I ate quickly and left, having gotten the message: Women in South Jersey do not frequent bars to satisfy their hungerâat least, not my kind of hunger.
Mr. Nelson was just packing up for the night when I walked in. He was talking in low tones to Jack-the-night-clerk who was hovering, waiting to take over. They stopped talking immediately, registered surprise, then grinned. It was a good feeling.
“Any vacancies?” I asked, although the orange vacancy sign had been aglow when I came in.
“For you? We'll make up the bridal suite,” Mr. Nelson said.
Jack let out a hoot.
“A simple single will do,” I muttered, feeling a blush begin.
“How about number twenty-one?” He reached for the key.
“Fine.” Really like coming home. As I left, they were both still wearing those foolish grins.
When I entered my room, the first thing I did was stash away the Bible, so kindly provided by the Gideon Society. I didn't want to be reminded of my sins every time I walked in the door. Next, I stripped the bed down to the sheets and shoved the ugly orange bedspread and the acid green blanket out of sight in a drawer. In the acre-wide mirror over the bureau, I confronted my reflection.
What the hell are you doing?
Making myself at home.
Why?
No answer.
In this state of mind I went to bed. But, unlike the night before, I couldn't sleep. Tossing and turning, at one point I had to quell an impulse to retrieve the Bible. I was that desperate. Shortly after this, I fell into a restless, dream-ridden sleep. I was running down endless corridors, like the one outside my door, with Ken either ahead of meâjust out of reach, or behind meâclosing in on me.
At some point the scene changed. I was in a pristine modern medical complex where I shared an office the size of a small supermarket with ten other doctors. I sat huddled in my cubicle, waiting for a patient to call. The other doctors shuffled back and forth in the hall outside the door, clucking and muttering. The
only words I could make out were my name: “Dr. Banks”âcluck, cluck. “Dr. Banks”âmutter, mutter. When I woke up I was wrestling my pillow.
I dozed off again. This time I was walking down a hospital corridor. A middle-aged couple was huddled against the wall, clinging to each other. As I approached, the man raised his head. His eyes, red from weeping, were accusing, then turned to stone. I woke up shivering.
A dirty dawn was beginning over the parking lot. I had forgotten to pull the drapes. I snapped them shut and turned on the bedside lamp. Instantly the room was cozier. Without the ugly bedclothes, it was halfway habitable. A few pictures, an easy chair, a nice comforter, and the place would be almost homey. I left the light on and snuggled under the sheets. This time I fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.