Necessity

Presumably Marjorie is still downstairs preparing sandwiches for the boys. If we time this right we can sneak out the back while she’s serving lunch in the front room.

“Okay.” She keeps her voice down. “Don’t talk. Stand up. Face the wall there until I tell you to move.”

She goes back to the door and stands with her ear by the open crack, listening to the clink of poker chips and the voices of the men below as they idle away time waiting for an airplane in the darkness.

Now the stillness ticks. She caresses the baby, hugs her close, listens to the sound of her breathing—reconstructing on the psychic bridge between them the lines of contact and understanding that are familiar but too long disused. We’re going to have to learn each other all over again.…

Two things happen simultaneously: two voices. Melinda whispering, “I got to stand here all afternoon like a bump on a log or what?” and, down below in the front room, George Talmy’s voice—“Hey, those look real good. I never get tired of good cured venison.”

“Shut up,” she hisses at the nurse. She hears Marjorie’s voice below: “You want beer or what?”

Bert: “Beer’s fine. Just bring us a six-pack, we’ll sort it out. Thanks, Marjorie.”

She comes past Melinda, moving swiftly now. “Come on. Keep quiet. Move.”

She opens the child gate. A bit of a squeak; nobody is likely to question it—if they hear it and think about it at all they’ll take it for the nurse going downstairs to get a bite of lunch.

She goes downstairs first, going down sideways one step at a time, keeping the gun and one eye on Melinda behind her while she negotiates the stairs. At the second step up from the bottom she stops. She warns Melinda with a gesture and the nurse stops three treads above.

Keeping the revolver leveled and cocked she watches the nurse unblinkingly while she listens to the sounds from the kitchen: the opening of the fridge, the scrape of something being removed from a fridge shelf, the chunk of the door closing, Marjorie’s footsteps and voice: “You want glasses or just drink out of the cans?”

Bert’s voice is faint: “Just the cans. Stays colder that way.”

Marjorie’s footsteps recede.

Down to the bottom of the steps now. Cradle the baby. Keep the gun on the nurse. Whisper: “That way. Out the back door. You go ahead of me now.”

Then they’re out the back door and elation washes over her. Ellen darling—we did it. That was the hardest part.

She wags the gun at the nurse. “Walk. That way.”

Into the woods—and she sees it when the nurse hesitates, thinking about letting that long branch whip back into her face. “Don’t do it, Melinda. I’m watching you. Keep going.”

Down to the pioneer road. No sign of the dog. The baby burbling now, soft questionings, not yet fully awake. Melinda hiking along the center hump of the road, white shoes filthy.

It’s hard to walk with the baby in her arm and the gun in her hand; she can’t see her own feet and it’s hard to watch the baby and the nurse and the uneven ground at the same time.

“Slow down. Stay closer in front of me.”

“You know you ain’t going to get away, miss. You know that, don’t you?”

“I like it better when you don’t talk.”

They go on, an odd procession. She’s begi

It’s turned into a beautiful day, my darling Ellen. In your honor I’m sure. Do you like airplanes? It’ll be noisy of course but I imagine not as noisy as that helicopter you’re used to. I hope you like Charlie. I hope he likes you. What are your views on moving to San Diego? I expect you’re going to—oh!

Caught under something—root or rock—her foot won’t come loose in time and she feels herself pitching forward; she flings out her right arm to break the fall and rolls on her right shoulder into a shallow puddle in the Goddamn rut but she’s still got the gun and she has protected Ellen in her grasp and the baby just laughs, thinking it some sort of game, so there’s no real harm done and let’s just get to our feet and never mind a bruise or two—

She hears the fast thumping of footfalls and the snapping of branches and knows she’s been hearing it for several seconds before realizing what it is: she searches frantically, getting a new grip on the revolver and whipping it up.

Bitch!

She sees the big white dress fleeing through the woods, weaving and dodging, flickering among the trees—arms batting about to fend off branches; feet scrabbling on the slick ground; an ungainly passage that makes a lot of noise but doesn’t put distance behind the nurse very fast. She’s still easily within range.

Bitch.

Aim the revolver—draw the hammer back to full cock—take a breath, let part of it out, hold it.

Hell. What’s the point. They’d hear the shots.

Go ahead. Shoot. They’ll have no idea which direction the shooting is coming from …

She watches the nurse gallop out of sight back toward the house.

Face it. You never would have shot her. It’s just lucky she didn’t call your bluff sooner.

The baby is starting to cry.

“Okay Ellen. Okay. We’re going.”

Hurry now. Hurry.

Run …

53 Gasping for oxygen she fumbles for the handle and gets the door open and tosses the revolver in and climbs into the Jeep. The baby is caterwauling at full decibels, flailing arms and legs.

I know. You feel exactly the same way I feel. Let me out of here! Right? Okay—okay. We’re going. Hang in there, kiddo.

She fastens the shoulder belt down across baby and all; snugs it tight; grips Ellen firmly and turns the key.

It starts right up. Thank heaven for small blessings. It’s still in dual drive low range where she left it so she doesn’t need to struggle with that.

She jams it into low gear and with one hand strong on the wheel points it off the road and holds the baby tight while the Jeep caroms off a stump and jounces toward the fence.

It would take an extra hand to shift gears. She leaves it in low and gingerly depresses her foot on the accelerator; braces her forearm across the steering wheel and clutches Ellen tight and she’s doing maybe ten or twelve miles an hour when the Jeep collides with the fence and stops short and damn near breaks her arm.

Jesus.

The engine has stalled. She can feel an ache in her neck. She lifts her arm off the wheel and works her fingers, makes a fist and then shakes the arm roughly with a wanton need to know.

Hurts like hell but everything works. Just bruised, evidently.

The baby wails. She strokes Ellen’s face and peers out through the windshield. The Jeep has bounced back a couple of feet from the point of impact and she can see the outline of its hood against the mesh of the fence. There’s the glitter of broken glass beyond the fence—pieces of headlight lenses.

Made a hell of a dent in that son of a bitch fence. One or two more and maybe it’ll give way.

At first she doesn’t recognize the sound; then because it’s quite faint she’s not sure whether she hears it or not. She opens the door and leans her head out into the open air and now she can hear it quite clearly: the drone of an airplane.

It grows steadily louder and she hears a change in its pitch. Descending now; throttling back.

Charlie. God bless him.

She shoves in the clutch and turns the key. The starter grinds.

Oh shit. Have I busted something in the engine?

Then it catches and roars. She backs her foot off the pedal and has a hard time ramming the gearshift into reverse. Backs up nearly to the road and that’s when, looking back, she sees the Bronco back there, engine whining high, bearing straight down on her.