Kate shoved the card at the slot; it spit the card out into her hand.
“What’s the matter?” said the girl. “Where’s my money?”
My money, you little shit! It’s my money and I can’t get it!
The gun jabbed Kate in the arm. “Where’s my money?”
Stop it!
Card in, spit out. Mistie in the back, humming a tune of some sort. “Daaa-da da da-daaaaa, da-da da-daaa.” Kate vaguely recognized it as the theme song to “The Simpsons.”
The girl grabbed Kate by the ear and twisted. A roar of electricity blew through Kate’s brain.
“Where’s my money?”
“Leave me alone!” Kate’s arms flew up around her head and she ducked down into a protective ball. “Leave me alone! What is wrong with you? What the hell’s the matter with you?” Her foot slipped off the brake and the car lurched forward, crunching the driver’s rearview inward. The car struck a curb outside the drive-through and hopped up onto the concrete and stopped.
The girl slapped Kate on top of her head. “Sit up!” she said. “Where’s my money?”
“It’s broken,” said Kate into her forearms. I won’t cry, goddamn it, I will not let her see me cry. “Everything is broken.”
“You got that right,” said the girl. “No money? Well, flying’s for pussies anyway. I wanna drive.”
“You want to drive? Take my car. Let us out.”
The girl blew out an exasperated puff of air. “Hell no. I think you two make good company. You and your little doll baby in the back. We’ll have lots of time to talk. It’ll be fun.”
“Please let us go.”
I can’t do this, this is insane!
“We’ll play games, you, me, and Baby Doll.”
Kate reached for the door handle and yanked it open, then she was falling out of the car to the concrete and struggling to stand. She was pushing up, up with her hands, her Easy Spirit pumps trying to find purchase on the wet surface, and she was running then, flying, away from the car and the green “Most” sign and the humming floodlights.
She remembered.
In bed in the hospital sixteen years ago, second floor, white walls and sheets, shaved belly and privates, a white light overhead that never winks, never rests, a monitor beeping in her ear, kicking, kicking against the pain and the fear. The nurse saying “Don’t yell, you’re scaring the other patients. Don’t grab those side rails, breathe. Quit fighting, just breathe.” The pain huge like her belly, going nowhere but spinning circles through her flesh, pushing but nothing helps, nothing stops the pain and it won’t let her catch her breath, crying doing no good, then thinking, I will run away!
Falling from the bed to the startled grunt of the attending nurse and waddling down the hall trailing a broken IV, running away from the pain, going home, going anywhere but this place of sweat and torment. I’ll come back another day I just can’t do this now, leave me alone! I’m going home!
Being stopped at the stairs by a male nurse who takes her arm and coos, “Mrs. McDolen, you’re in labor, you can’t leave! Come back now, you’re scaring everyone. Stop acting like a child!”
The wheelchair under her ass, plop, back to the room as the pain builds and hammers her insides and she thinks Let me go home! I can’t do this!
And the doctor comes in stares between her legs and puts his fingers in there and checks the monitor and says, “It’s not coming, let’s get it out.”
Yes! Get it out!
They get it out with a shot to her spine and a cloth draped in front of her face and a scalpel.
She remembered.
A call came from behind, “I got her out, you want me to cut her?”
Kate stumbled. She was on the other side of the road, in between assorted cars in some disheveled automotive lot. The street light at the walk made the figures across the street appear blue. Blue like babies without enough oxygen. Blue like the deep blue sea where sailors and lovers go to drown.
“I’ll cut her! Look!”
Kate looked. The girl had taken Mistie out of the back seat of the car, and they stood arm and arm like a friendly couple of kids, only the girl was holding her knife, and it was opened and it was poised at the girl’s neck.
Two cars passed in rapid succession, spraying melted sleet, whiz whiz, headlights catching Mistie and the girl, the girl lifting her hand and waving casually. The red-eyed taillights grew smaller and disappeared up the road.
“Here teacher, teacher, teacher! Come on back!”
The knife was visible again, taunting and twirling. Mistie held still, staring at the knife and then at her shoes. No struggle there.
Kate walked back across the road. A stray cat followed her half-way, and she yelled it back beneath the car where it had been hiding.
23
The girl held her by her arm outside in the dark cold and called across the street, “Here teacher, teacher, teacher!”
Mistie stared at the knife in the girl’s hand. It was sharp like the one Daddy used to cut open apples and things. She wished the girl would let go. She didn’t like people touching her. It was scary, people’s hands and the way they got sweaty and sticky; the things the hands held sometimes.
She shut her eyes tightly and imagined television with Princess Silverlace in her pink gown and the sparkling gifts being laid at her feet. The princess smiled at the people who stood at her throne. She smiled at Mistie. Mistie smiled back. The princess held out her hand, not to take Mistie’s but to welcome her to come up and try out the throne. Mistie walked up the carpeted steps and sat down. The chair was huge and gold, and the cushion on which she sat was soft and fuzzy, like what God’s lap would be if God had a lap.
“Mistie, get in the car.”
Mistie opened her eyes. The teacher was back again, standing beside her. It had started to drizzle, and the teacher’s face was streaked with wet. Mistie could no longer smell the teacher’s sweet hand lotion.
“Mistie,” repeated the girl with the knife. “Get in the car.”
Mistie looked at her feet, the teacher, the sky. There were no stars tonight.
“There’s another Twix in the car,” said the teacher.
Mistie went to the car and climbed in.
24
The teacher drove south. Sometime soon they would have to stop and let the baby doll go to the bathroom. Tony, herself, was feeling the early pressures of a bladder that would soon be uncomfortably full. She leaned against the driver’s side, eating some of the squashed bread from the floor. Every so often she rolled down her window and tossed out the crusts.
“I like birds,” she said simply.
A while ago, maybe ten minutes, maybe thirty, Tony told the teacher to pull off at a roadside trash pile. It was brush laced with trash, a spot county folks had obviously decided made a decent and convenient dump. Tony ordered the teacher use the quilt and water from a small, muddy puddle to wash down the dash and the passenger-side floor. The teacher had then tossed the quilt and the floor mat onto the trash pile along with the empty bread bag and candy wrappers the baby doll had scattered in the back. Tony threw in the photos and credit card and receipts from the teacher’s wallet, and found pleasure in grinding them into the slimy rubbish with the toe of her Granddad’s shoe. Then Tony told the teacher she might as well add the panty hose and underwear to the pile and she did, slowly and ceremoniously covered them up with sticks and some slimy brown paper bags as if she were performing a burial.