Necessity

The front wheels feel as if they’re sliding toward the edge. There’s something bearing down on the whitewater above her—a Goddamn tree limb or something. It looks big enough to slam us all the way around. Oh Christ …

The nose of the Jeep begins to rise. Lifting into shallower water it shakes free of the worst pressure of the current. The tree limb spins past behind her; she hears branches scrape across the back of the Jeep but she’s climbing onto the bank now and she reaches down with her right hand to hold the baby in place on the seat.

The wheels slither on the slick mud bank; they’re digging ruts in the earth but soon they’ve pawed the loose mud away and they’re down to thick root systems. These give purchase and the Jeep heaves itself up onto solid ground.

The hiking trail curves away through another hedgerow. She drives right along, not even slowing down for a look back until she’s into the trees. Then she stops the Jeep, picks up the baby and holds her in her arms while she looks in the mirror for the first time.

The Bronco is back there on the far side of the stream. Stopped. A man gets out of the passenger seat and walks forward to look at the crossing. He’s wearing a checked shirt and jeans.

The shadows are tricky under those trees but it’s Bert.

He has a rifle.

Cradling the baby, crooning, caressing, she stares into the mirror and thinks about picking up the revolver and shooting the son of a bitch where he stands but in the end she just puts it in gear and drives on. Past the row of trees the trail meanders along the edge of a field and decants her onto a graded dirt road. She thrusts the clutch to the floor and pulls levers and hopes she’s done it right; she starts up the road and is pleased not to hear any longer the meshing protesting whine of the low range. The Jeep goes properly up through the gears and she’s doing a good clip by the time she passes the first house on the hill.

We could stop and go in there and ask for help but in the first place we might not get it and in the second place I’m committing a felony and I doubt we’d get a whole lot of sympathy from the police.

She’s looking in the mirror. No sign of the Bronco yet. But Bert won’t give up and go back. She has no doubt they’re horsing it across the stream right now. If they don’t capsize they’ll be right after her.

And for certain they’ve put out a call on the CB radio. Wherever this road comes out into the world there’s likely to be someone waiting for us.

Charlie, you son of a bitch, what a mess you’ve left us in!

58 Driving the graded dirt road at sixty miles an hour she is thinking:

I know this road. The Concord winery back there—Bert knows the man who owns it. The bald man with the strange accent—Hungarian, Polish, whatever he is. We had di

Think, now. This road comes out to the paved highway a couple of miles ahead, just beyond the mouth of the valley up there.

The intersection’s down at the foot of the hill. A Citgo station on the corner. Nice clean restroom. That road goes on up to Plattsburgh. Going the other way I think it comes out onto one of the main highways you take to get down to Albany.

They’ll probably have the intersection blocked.

Very matter of fact: All right, she thinks; then we’ll just have to get rid of the Jeep and get around the intersection on foot. And let the bastards sit there all night waiting for us to show up.

59 At the crest of the last hilltop she stops and gathers the baby in both arms; thrusts the door open with her foot and gets out of the Jeep. Every bone and muscle is afire with pain.

North in the distance the two aircraft are still swooping in their odd Alphonse and Gaston dogfight.

Ellen reaches up with a finger and tugs at her lip. She gives the tiny finger a love bite and stares back down the road. In loops and whorls there are bits of it visible from here: several miles back is the steep hill she descended.

And there comes a dot that must be the fucking Bronco—hurrying down the switchbacks.

Not too far back; speeding to make up for it.

Son of a bitch.

She gets back in the Jeep and adjusts the baby in her throbbing left arm and drives down off the hill. Ahead in the distance above the trees she can see the V-shaped sign of the Citgo station.

Once in the woods she begins to search for turnings and when she sees a mailbox ahead she eases her foot back on the gas.

No good; an old house trailer up on blocks with a huge TV ante

No place to hide there. She drives on, anxiety climbing.

Two more driveways give access to small newish bungalows near the road. No hope there.

Another mailbox. The dirt driveway disappears into the trees to the left.

She takes it.

Not far in there’s a small old barn beside the drive. It looks like a one-time carriage barn or a two-horse stable; not big enough for real farm work. The wood has gone pewter colored since its last coat of paint. There’s a rusty plow beside it—the wheeled kind that’s meant to be pulled by a tractor. The barn door hangs ajar—open a foot and badly warped, sagging on the ground and leaning.

Just behind it a stream cuts through, disappearing into tangled growth.

She stops the Jeep in the weeds and sets Ellen down on the seat. “Stay put ten seconds, my love. Be right back.”

When she gets out of the Jeep the baby starts to wail again. “I’ll be right back, damn it.” She grasps the twisted edge of the barn door and bends it out far enough to make room for her head and shoulders.

Inside there are two splintered stalls on the right. The rest is an open floor—mud puddles and wet straw. It looks as if it’s been in disuse for years but it still carries a horsey pungency compounded by damp earth and rotten wood.

There’s room inside for the Jeep.

She tugs at the barn door but it’s badly warped and jammed against the earth. It doesn’t want to move. She kicks the damn thing and stands back yelling at it. Her curses blend with the baby’s outcries.

She gets back in at the wheel and picks up the baby. “Shush now. You’ll get all hoarse.” She rocks the baby. Then with an abruptness that startles her an invention penetrates past the rage of frustration.

Of course.

She starts the engine and jockeys it back and forth until she’s positioned the mangled wreckage of the front bumper beside the edge of the barn door. She locks the wheels sharp right and backs up, hooking the jagged ruin of the bumper against the door.

Use the horsepower of the Jeep to pull the damn door open.

It gives. But she hears something snap with a loud report.

She parks the Jeep inside. Grabs her handbag and the sack of baby things out of the back seat, collects the baby in her arms and climbs out.

When they emerge from the barn she sees that the noise she heard was the snapping of the rusty bottom hinge of the barn door. Opening it has scraped a raw fresh wound across the earth.

Damn.

Holding the baby she puts her back against the sagging door and leans into it, thrusting her heels into the earth. The door slides reluctantly shut. It’s tilted against the building now, the bottom skirt bent out a foot or so away from the sill; but it’ll do. You can’t see the Jeep from out here.