Authors: Andrew Vachss
“It seems, all my
life, I’ve been looking for a getaway man,” she said. “Even
when I was a kid. Other little girls, they used to dream about Prince Charming.
You know, someone to ride up on a white horse and take them to a castle, where
they’d be a princess and everything would be perfect. Me, I always knew
it would be a man in a car. Honking the horn in front of the house. And
I’d run out, and go away with him.
“I ran to that horn
plenty of times, Eddie. Only it was never a prince behind the wheel.
“All my life, I’ve been waiting. What I told you before,
it’s God’s truth, Eddie. You’re my getaway man. That’s
my half of it, Eddie. The other half, you have to make come true. Promise
me.”
I didn’t tell Vonda about my own dream, because it was
already coming true. But I did promise her.
“
I
wish I could
sleep with you,” Vonda said, when I came back into the cabin that
night.
“Why couldn’t we?”
“Not that,
Eddie,” she said. “
Sleep
with you. The way a wife does
with her husband. In the same bed. All night. So when I woke up in the morning,
you’d be the first thing I saw.”
“We can do
that,” I said. “We can—”
“We
will
do that,” she said, in a fierce voice. “But we
can’t do it here. Not ever. I don’t know when they’re coming
back. I never do. And if J.C. ever caught us, you know what he’d
do.”
I wasn’t sure what he would do, but I didn’t
want to argue.
“But we could do something
like
it,” she said. “If you’re willing.”
“I’ll do whatever you want, Vonda.”
“Go sit
on the couch,” she said. “I’ll be right back.”
S
he was gone a lot more than a little while. I just sat there.
When she came out of the bedroom, she was wearing a black slip. Her hair
was down and she didn’t have on any makeup. Or any shoes. She looked real
little that way.
“This is like a nightgown, isn’t it,
Eddie?”
“I guess it is.”
She had a blanket in
one hand. She gave it to me. Then she laid down on the couch, so her head was
in my lap.
“Put that over me,” she said.
I did
that, and she snuggled into it so it was all wrapped around her.
“I’m going to sleep,” she said. “Right here. Just a
little nap. You can watch television; it won’t bother me at all.
Okay?”
“Sure.”
“And, when I wake up,
you’ll be right there, Eddie. I feel so safe when I’m with you
watching over me, I could sleep like a baby. I’ll bet I have sweet
dreams.”
I stroked her hair, to help her fall asleep.
“Goodnight kiss!” she said, in a bratty kid’s voice.
As soon as I kissed her, she closed her eyes.
I
was watching a
TV movie. The
Badlands.
It was about a young guy who killed a whole
bunch of people. He had his girlfriend with him the whole time he was doing it.
They drove all over the place, across the state lines and everything. But, when
the cops got close, he didn’t try to get away; he just gave up.
The girl was
real
young, just a baby who didn’t know
anything. The movie tried to make it out like she was as guilty as him. But I
could tell she was innocent. He was a guy who just liked killing, and she
didn’t have any choice but to go along with him.
Vonda stirred in
my lap. “Hi, honey,” she said.
That was the first time she
ever called me that.
“Did you sleep good?” I asked
her.
“Like an angel,” she said. “Eddie, could you do
something for me?”
“Sure.”
“Could you
sleep out in the barn tonight? On your couch? I’m afraid, if I knew you
were sleeping in the next room from me, I couldn’t stop myself from going
to be with you.”
“We could just—”
“Please, Eddie,” she said. “I know I’m being a
pain, but, just this once … ?”
W
hen I got up in the
morning, I went into the cabin to take a shower. The room where Vonda and J.C.
stayed was closed; I guessed she was still asleep.
I was eating
breakfast when Vonda came out. She was wearing her bathrobe. It’s white,
and it looks like it’s made out of towels. She had the belt tied tight,
but I could see she didn’t have anything on under it.
She went
into Gus’s room. I had never seen her do that in all the time we had been
staying there.
She came out with a cigar box in her hands.
“This is Gus,” she said. And she handed the box to me.
I opened it up. Inside were pictures. Girls. They were all tied up. But not
like Daphne wanted to be tied up—these girls, it looked like they were
tied up for real. And the way they were tied, it had to hurt. One girl, from
the look on her face, you could tell the ropes were really cutting into
her.
There was no reason to tie them up like that just to keep them
from getting away, so it
had
to be like it was with Daphne. But I
could tell it wasn’t.
At the bottom of the pile, a girl was tied
to a long, thick piece of wood, like a pig on a spit. She was facing the
camera. There was a man behind her, but you couldn’t see his face. Her
eyes had a lot of white showing. Her mouth was open, like she was
screaming.
“This is Gus,” Vonda said, again. I
couldn’t tell if she meant it was Gus in the picture. I didn’t want
to ask.
“Careful,” she said. “They have to go back in
the exact same order, otherwise he’ll know someone was
looking.”
I didn’t touch them. Vonda stacked them, so it
was like they were before. Then she went and put the box back in Gus’s
room.
I went back out to where the cars were.
I
didn’t
see Vonda all that day. But we had supper together. She made a stew, with all
kinds of stuff in it. I told her it was the best I ever had, and I wasn’t
lying—Virgil never made stew.
“Thank you, Eddie. That
was sweet. Are you ready to see your movie now?” she asked me. “The
present I got for you?”
“Sure.”
“Well,
go get it!” she said, smiling at me.
T
he movie was
Rebel
Without a Cause.
The cover on the box had a guy in a leather jacket,
standing next to an old Mercury.
“It’s not about
driving, Eddie,” Vonda said. “It’s a love story. But
it’s my favorite of all time. And I wanted you to watch it with me. Is
that okay, honey?”
I told her sure it was. Just because all my
own movies are about driving doesn’t mean I couldn’t like anything
else.
We sat down together and watched. The movie was about a kid who
didn’t fit in. He never fit in. His family just moved to a new town, and
he didn’t fit in there, either.
There was a girl he really liked.
A pretty one, with dark hair. Only that girl already had somebody—the
leader of the gang he wanted to be in.
The kid in the movie, he was
trying to make the other kids like him, but it wasn’t working. They
wouldn’t let him join. So he got in a drag race with the boyfriend of the
girl he liked.
The movie went on after that, but it was right then that
I figured out how to do what I had to.
I looked over at Vonda, to see
if she understood, but she was lost in the movie.
She cried when it was
over. I couldn’t tell if she was crying sad, or crying happy. A
kid—a little, scared kid; the best friend of the guy who ended up with
the girl—he died at the end. But the rebel and the girl he liked ended up
being with each other.
A
few years ago, a guy brought his Mustang
into my place. He wanted it to get off the line better. Not for real racing;
just the kind of thing some guys do at stoplights.
I told him, he
either needed more engine or a lower rear end. He asked me a lot of questions
about changing the rear end, like he never heard of such a thing.
I
went behind the car to show him something. He had a lot of stickers all over
the bumper. I remember there was a couple of Confederate flags. And one that
said, “WWJD.”
I asked him what that stood for. He told me,
“What Would Jesus Do?”
That confused me, so I asked him,
how would a person know? He said, you just have to ask yourself the question.
“What would Jesus do?” Then, whatever Jesus would do, that’s
the right thing. And you try to do it yourself.
I couldn’t see
how people could know what Jesus would do, but I didn’t say
anything.
Before, watching the movie, I was thinking I knew what I had
to do. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized, just knowing
how
to do something doesn’t mean you
should
do it.
What would Tim do?
I asked myself, inside my mind.
J.C.’s the smartest man I ever knew. He’s smart about planning
and things like that. But Tim was the smartest one about doing what’s
right. Everybody said that about him. Especially after the trial.
I
felt grief in my heart, because the one man who would know the answer I needed,
I couldn’t ask.
And then I was disgusted with myself for what I
had been thinking. Feeling bad because I couldn’t ask Tim was just
another way of feeling bad for myself, not for Tim.
I never think about
Tim or Virgil. Because, every time I do, I feel all empty and crushed, like a
soda can in one of those recycling machines.
I used to dream—not
a real dream, I guess, because I was always awake when I had it—of
breaking Tim out of prison, the way I saw in some movies.
It’s
not impossible. People break out of prison. I heard, once, guys even broke out
of death row, over in Virginia. I don’t know if that one’s true,
but I feel like it could be.
I know Tim would try, that’s for
sure.
The guys who broke out in Texas, that whole bunch of them, they
did it themselves, from inside. But, when they got out, there was a car waiting
for them.
I could do that part. If Tim could ever get out, I could be
the driver.
I didn’t know how to do anything else. If Tim ever
got word to me, I’d be waiting wherever he said. With the fastest, best
car there ever was.
But Tim never wrote me a letter, and I never wrote
him. I knew why Tim never wrote, and I wouldn’t dishonor him by going
against what he wanted.
I always read the papers, hoping. But
Tim’s name doesn’t get in the papers anymore.
There’s
other ways to get out of prison I heard about. There’s lawyers, people
with connections, politicians. They can fix things. I don’t know anything
about that for myself, but everybody in prison says that’s the way things
are. What it takes is money. Heavy money, because it has to be spread
around.
When this job is over, I’m going to find one of those
fixers, see if he can do something for Tim. I’m not sure where I would
look, but there’s people I guess I could ask.
I kept thinking,
the best person to ask would be J.C. I felt bad I couldn’t do that, but
that wasn’t a selfish feeling. Because, that time, it wasn’t me
that I was feeling bad for.
I
truly believed, if Hiram was still
around, he would be a man I could ask. Not because he was a preacher, or
because he’d know what Jesus would do. Because of the kind of man he was,
to have his woman love him so deep, long after he was gone.
And she
had picked me, too, to look after Hiram’s car.
O
ne day, I took the Thunderbird out for a drive. I knew
I shouldn’t have done it. But I just had to, even though I couldn’t
say why.
I didn’t want to go fast, or practice turns or
anything. I just wanted to drive. By myself.
The sun was bright, but it
wasn’t that hard white it gets sometimes. It was a soft, pretty glow,
like it was coming through those big colored windows they have in
churches.
The Thunderbird wanted to run, but I kept the leash tight. I
found a good station on the radio. They had a Delbert McClinton song playing.
He’s one of the ones I like the best.
I came around a long curve,
as smooth as water over river rocks. I was thinking those new shocks I had put
in were really doing the job … and then I saw the cop car.
It
was parked over the side, like it was waiting for speeders. I knew I
wasn’t speeding, but I kind of held my breath.
And then the cop
car pulled out behind me.
His light bar wasn’t flashing.
I knew the roads around there perfect. I should have, as much scouting and
practicing as I had done. I didn’t know what the troopers had in their
cars, but I was sure I could lose him if I could get off the highway.
But, sooner or later, I would have to go back to the cabin. There was no
phone there; I’d have to go myself.
And if the cops were watching
for me, everybody was finished.
I didn’t need to have Tim around
to ask what the right thing to do was.
I slowed down and moved a little
to the right, like I was letting the cop car pass.
The trooper swung
out and came alongside me. I looked over at him—that’s the natural
thing to do. And he pointed with his right hand, telling me to pull over.
I did it. The trooper pulled over, too. But not behind me, the way they
always do. In front.
The trooper got out of his cruiser and walked
toward me. I rolled down the window and reached in my wallet for my license and
registration. Even scared, it felt good, knowing I had all that, like I was a
regular person.
“Where’d you get this?” the cop asked
me.
“It’s mine,” I said. “I bought it
from—”
“No, son. I mean, where in the world did you
find yourself a fifty-five? You don’t see one of these every day. You
cherrying it out?”
“Yes, sir,” I said.
“I’ve been working on it for almost three years.”
“Damn! Mind if I take a look?”
“My
pleasure,” I said. And I wasn’t lying. I popped the hood. Then I
got out and lifted it up for him.