The sun shone through the side window and caught her full in the face. Marilyn rubbed her eyes and sat up. The car’s stuffy interior stank of baby poop. She checked the back. Ethan dozed in his car seat, his perfect little chin resting on his chest. She covered his bare arms with the blanket, smoothed his hair, pushed the Chevy’s door open and pulled herself up, wobbling. Sometime during the night when the moon went down, she had edged the car off the two-lane highway into the darkness. Now, in the dawn’s glare she found herself on a gravel turnout, surrounded by an ocean of Nebraska corn.
Closing the door quietly, she moved into the field, squatted, and peed. With only blackbirds and crows watching, she dug the compact out of her purse and stared at her face, red from half-a-continent’s-worth of windburn. Somewhere west of Philly, the car’s AC had quit. The summer heat had turned her peach-fuzzed cheeks into leather. She pulled a comb through her bobbed blonde hair and turned slowly to study the countryside. Except for a few pump sheds, the rolling plains held no shelter. A smudge of brown smoke hung above the closest rise. She sucked in a deep breath and let it out slowly. A pickup truck pulling a tractor on a flatbed drove past. It slowed for a moment, but kept moving and disappeared over the horizon.
…no cities…no yammering…just sun and the wide open…should’ve done this months ago…had Ethan in some farmhouse with only the old women watching…
Her son’s high-pitched squeal broke her reverie. At the car, she found him wide-eyed and flailing. She opened all the doors to air out the Chevy, changed his diaper and cleaned him with baby wipes before burying the smelly mess under dirt clods at the edge of the field. She unbuttoned her blouse to nurse. His body felt soft against hers, heart beating with a reassuring rhythm. Her muscles relaxed, the tenseness replaced with a warm glow. The silence returned, the tarmac empty of traffic. The heat came on strong. As her baby fed, Marilyn hummed a childhood song and fanned him with a folded newspaper that pictured a longhaired brunette version of herself.
With Ethan strapped in his seat, she collected her cigarettes and lighter and stepped outside. She never smoked in any space with Ethan; it might be too late for her but the child deserved a chance. She stared into the fields and thought about the past week: emptying their bank account, buying a used car, listening to TV news in that sleaze-bag motel room, and hardening her heart.
A flock of blackbirds exploded from the greenery. The cornstalks jerked along two rows. Something charged toward her, coming on fast. Marilyn flicked the cigarette to the gravel, hustled inside, and locked the car doors. She fumbled in her purse for the key, inserted it in the ignition and twisted, grinding the starter. But the tired engine wouldn’t fire. A girl clutching a fist-sized rock burst from the field and rushed the Chevy. She halted in front of the car and placed a hand on its hood, her chest heaving. She looked maybe sixteen, well developed, with shoulder-length hair the color of corn silk.
“Stop,” the girl ordered, “or I’ll break your fuckin’ windshield.” She raised the rock above her head.
Marilyn grasped the steering wheel with both hands and squeezed her eyes shut.
…it always finds me…I never get away clean…like a shadow I can’t ever shake…
She raised her head and studied the girl: ragged jeans, a faded pink T-shirt, a pretty dirt-smudged face punctuated with freckles. Marilyn reached inside her purse and grasped the pistol. It felt slippery in her clammy hand, like the last time she’d used it. She unlocked her door and climbed out, held the gun at her side, and moved toward the girl.
The teenager backed away and dropped the rock, stared at the pistol then at her filthy bare feet. She drew a forearm under her runny nose. “Look, I…I didn’t mean nothin’…wasn’t gonna hurt you.”
“What the hell are you doing out here?” Marilyn’s voice shook and sounded way too loud.
The girl shrugged.
“What do you want?”
“Water…and maybe a ride.”
“Are you from around here? What’s your name?”
“Lyn.”
“Lyn what?”
“You don’t need ta know.”
Marilyn paused and stared into the girl’s blue-flecked-with-gold eyes. She slipped the pistol back into her purse. “Come on, I’ve got some water in the cooler.”
Lyn flashed a smile before resuming her sullen pout. Marilyn opened the rear door. Ethan let out a howl. She lifted him into her arms then handed the girl a water bottle, watched her chug its contents. She passed her a roll of paper towels. Lyn doused her face liberally and scrubbed at it until her cheeks turned pink, as if they’d been slapped. The water drenched her T-shirt. She didn’t wear a bra. The baby stared unblinking at the girl. She reached a hand toward him but Marilyn pulled him away.
“How long have you been out here?”
“Long enough,” the girl said
“You’re not gonna tell me much, are you?”
Lyn grinned.
Marilyn opened the passenger-side door and motioned for her to sit. She placed Ethan in his car seat, slid behind the wheel, and gazed westward through the bug-stained windshield. She knew that she was too much of an adult for some freaked-out teenager to open up to. Still, she tried.
“Does your family live around here?”
“Yeah, well…they did.”
“Do you have brothers or sisters?”
“Nah, but I always wanted ’em. My parents stopped with me. I guess they quit while they were…behind.” The girl’s mouth tightened and she looked away. Marilyn paused in her questioning, then changed the subject.
“What happened to your shoes?”
“Lost ’em.”
“I’ve got some flip-flops in the back you can have.”
“Thanks. You got a cigarette?”
“Yes, but you can’t smoke in the car…it’s bad for the baby.”
“Right.”
The silence built between them. The girl seemed to study the littered front seat. She grabbed the newspaper wedged next to the center console, unfolded its front page, then stared at Marilyn. Ethan cut loose with a string of baby sounds.
Lyn muttered, “That’s about the only age guys are lovable.”
“What are you talking about?”
Lyn pointed to the newspaper with its black headlines – Woman Wanted for Killing Husband, Flees With Baby Boy. “That’s you. You know what I’m talkin’ about. That’s why you’re on this back road to nowhere.”
… shit, what do I do now? Damn teenagers can’t keep secrets…
Marilyn reached into her purse. It would be easy: order the girl out, march her into the field, put a bullet in the back of her head and let the harvesters chew up her rotting remains. They stared at each other. The girl looked ready to bolt, her goose-bumped arms trembling, arms with dark bruises around the wrists and above the elbows, hands with broken nails and bloodied knuckles.
Marilyn let out a deep breath. “So, am I going to find your story on a front page somewhere?”
“Yeah, maybe…but not for awhile. We’re in the middle of frickin’ nowhere, ya know.”
“Yes, I’m counting on that. So, are you gonna tell me?”
“No…well, maybe later. We need to get movin’.”
“Why would I take you with me? Why would you want to travel with a…”
“You’ll need help drivin’…and I look like I could be your daughter, or maybe a younger sister. The cops will be lookin’ for you with your kid – not a threesome. The same’s true for me.”
Marilyn smiled. “You have it all figured out, don’t you?”
“I didn’t…until now. We need to make it to the coast, to some big city, and get lost.”
“Really? Then what?”
“Hey, just get me there and I’ll find somebody to hook up with.”
“I’m sure you will,” Marilyn said and turned the key. The car started without hesitation. She checked on Ethan then pulled onto the shimmering blacktop. They drove into the empty morning with sunburnt arms resting on windowsills, the plains a blur of green and gold. A strong headwind buffeted the sedan and Marilyn concentrated on driving while Lyn slept.
…this actually might work…at least get us to the coast…there’s something about her I don’t like…but hey, killers can’t be choosers…
Near noon, Marilyn pulled the car next to a single gas pump outside some kind of country store with neon beer signs flickering in its windows. Lyn continued to snore. Ethan slept. She climbed out and stretched, staring all the while at her two passengers. Neither moved. A hand-lettered sign attached to a pole read, “Pay befor U Pump.” She pushed into the store, the AC chilling her bare arms and legs, waking her, setting her on edge. A fat man sat in a cushioned chair behind the counter, watching a TV soap. He stared at her. His gaze fixed on her breasts for a few long moments before he resumed his television ogling.
“Give me yer money first before ya pump gas,” he said without looking at her. “No offence, lady, but I get too many fools tryin’ ta rip me off.”
“I understand. I also need to get something to eat. Do you have a restroom?”
“Yeah, outside and around back. Sorry ’bout the mess.”
Marilyn nodded and wandered into the store’s dark interior. A bar stretched along its back wall. But by the look of the dust-covered counter and empty bottle shelves, it hadn’t seen patrons for a long time. Rows of supplies on folding tables occupied the space. A bank of rumbling wall coolers full of beer and soft drinks filled a sidewall. She grabbed two bags of chips, a six-pack of soda, two packaged fruit pies, and a few candy bars and laid them on the counter along with three crisp twenties.
“I’ll be back in for the change,” she said, “and I’ll need some ice for my cooler.”
“It’s around the side,” he gestured. “Look, ma wife is making lunch in back. She can fix ya some sandwiches if ya want. Cost three dollars apiece.”
“No, but thanks for the offer.”
Marilyn moved to the entrance then froze. The Chevy’s front and rear doors on the passenger side stood open. The girl and Ethan were gone. She rushed outside, gazed up and down the highway and at the nearby crossroad with its rusting stop signs. The road stood empty of cars and people. She hurried around the corner of the building and almost collided with Lyn. The girl cradled Ethan in her arms, the baby pressed against her breasts.
“What the hell are you doing?” Marilyn yelled.
“Hey, shut up, will ya. I just got the little guy quieted down. I think the heat was gettin’ to ’im so I brought ’im into the shade.”
Marilyn’s heart slammed against her chest. She forced herself to slow her breathing and waited for the fear to subside. “Sorry. Thanks…thanks for watching after him.”
The girl grinned and rocked Ethan gently. “He wants ta nurse. No luck here.”
“Yes, if you would pump the gas and get some ice, I’ll feed him. I’ve already given the guy inside three twenties for fuel and food.”
“No problem.”
Lyn sauntered over to the ice machine, yanked a ten-pound sack from its smoking interior, and disappeared around the corner. Marilyn retreated deeper into the shade and nursed her hungry baby. The calm returned. She felt relieved, and grateful for Lyn’s help.
…at least she doesn’t treat him like a doll…maybe I can trust her…but not yet…let’s see how she does with the change…
Marilyn imagined the proprietor’s reaction when the braless teenager pushed through his dirt-smudged door. For a fleeting moment she felt concern and patted her purse, reassured by the feel of the gun. In a short while, Lyn returned.
“Everything go okay?” Marilyn asked.
“Oh yeah. That frickin’ letch behind the counter was gonna make a move. But lucky for him, his wife came out from the back. Here’s your change. The car’s gassed and I checked the water and oil. She’s down half a quart, but you can wait ’til the next fill-up.”
“Thanks. You did good, and sorry I didn’t tell you about that creep.”
Lyn gazed at Marilyn nursing. “Does…does that make ya feel good?”
Marilyn smiled. “Yes, it’s almost like I’m high. Calms me right down, just like Ethan.”
“Have you ever given the kid, ya know, formula from a bottle?”
“Sometimes. But it’s not as good for him.”
“Yeah, that’s what my health class teacher told us. Sorry I can’t help ya.”
“Don’t worry. With your looks, you’ll be pregnant soon enough.”
Lyn brayed loudly. “My mama always said the same damn thing.”
Ethan had finished nursing and dozed in her arms. After burping him, she slid him into the car seat and slipped behind the wheel. Lyn had washed the windshield and thrown away the crap littering the front seat. The girl opened cans of soda and a bag of chips.
“You want me to take her for awhile?” Lyn asked. “Ya know, I’ve been drivin’ since I was fourteen.”
“Not yet. Maybe after our next stop.”
With the car’s sun visors lowered, she drove into the shimmering heat and wind. Golden grain fields had replaced the corn and the land flattened even more below a cobalt-blue sky with mashed potato clouds pushing up on the western horizon. Sometime in the late afternoon, she pulled the car off the highway near a deep gully and an under-road culvert. She unfastened her seatbelt and opened the door.
Lyn stirred. “Why…why’d ya stop?”
“I have to pee. Watch Ethan till I get back, then you can go.”
“There’s nobody out here. Relax.” Lyn leaned her head back and closed her eyes.
Punch drunk from hours of driving, Marilyn grabbed the car keys and her purse and climbed out. She took a dozen steps and turned to stare at the girl and Ethan, motionless in their seats. She walked to the ravine and slid down its bank. Out of sight of the highway, she pushed her panties down and squatted. The wind blowing through the culvert howled like a banshee. A shadow fell across the gully. She jerked to her feet and turned just in time to see Lyn charge down the bank and snag her purse.
“What the hell…” Marilyn croaked.
Lyn reached into the purse and withdrew the pistol and Marilyn’s wallet. She thumbed the half-inch-thick sheaf of bills.
“So now you’re gonna rob me?” Marilyn asked, her face burning.
“Not exactly.” Lyn grasped the pistol at arm’s length and pointed it at Marilyn. “My plans have changed. A teenage mom with a kid is an even better cover…and your money will help me disappear.”
“But the cops could think you’re me.”
“Give me a fucking break,” Lyn snapped. “We don’t look that much alike.”
“I was only trying to help you.”
“Yeah, then why the gun?” Lyn laughed. “Turns out, you had a good reason for carryin’ it. Ironic, huh?” She sighted down the barrel.
“Please…please don’t. Please…my child…” Marilyn backed toward the culvert, stumbling over the uneven ground.
“Quit whinin’. You sound just like my Pop…my mama had more guts.”
A solitary semi roared past on the highway above them. Not even the crows heard the pistol’s crack. And the coyotes that crept from the fields near sundown seemed to enjoy their unexpected feast.
Terry Sanville lives in San Luis Obispo, California with his artist-poet wife (his in-house editor) and two plump cats (his in-house critics). He writes full time, producing short stories, essays, and novels. His short stories have been accepted more than 500 times by journals, magazines, and anthologies including The American Writers Review, The Bryant Literary Review, and Shenandoah. He was nominated three times for Pushcart Prizes and once for inclusion in Best of the Net anthology. Terry is a retired urban planner and an accomplished jazz and blues guitarist – who once played with a symphony orchestra backing up jazz legend George Shearing.
