“I could use a million bucks, so what?”
“You’ve got some quarters. I’ll just get one quickly, and come back. I’ll get you one, too.”
The girl glanced inside the car where Mistie was busy unraveling the scarf. “She’s so weird,” she said in disgusted amazement. “She plays with everything. Her food, her crotch. Makes me sick. She’s nothing but a typical new nigger in training, huh?”
Kate said nothing. She waited. Waited. Her heart picked up speed, but she didn’t let it show on her face. Then the girls said, “Okay, and get one of them newspapers from the machine there on the porch. I wanna see something.”
A few more squeezes and the nozzle clicked off, the gas tank full at $23.93. Kate waited like a child with her hand out as the girl fished quarters from her shirt pocket. Kate imagined herself leaping upward in a Tae Bo kick. She’d seen those women on T.V. and knew they would have been out of this situation in a second. She imagined herself slamming the girl’s chest with a sudden and well-aimed foot, knocking the girl’s breath from her lungs and legs from under her body with one move.
Just like you did with Willie Harrold.
Willie.
She immediately forgot about the girl squalling on the ground, and remembered Willie.
Willie’s Daddy was probably at the school this very moment, insisting the Mr. Byron and Joe Angelone find out why the hell that coward Mrs. McDolen didn’t show up for school. The phone would be ringing back at the McDolen house, unless Donald had read the note and had given the school the heads-up on his wife’s sudden absence. Donald, what are you thinking now? Kate’s stomach fluttered.
No, stop it, you can do this. Deep breath. Yes. Okay.
She trembled fiercely; dread and hope. She rubbed her arms to cover the tremors and said, “Brr, it’s incredibly cold out here. Nearly forgotten it’s almost Christmas.”
“You watch your ass,” said the girl, pressing six quarters into Kate’s palm. “Cause I’m sure keepin’ an eye on it, ugly as it is.”
Kate nodded. She strode to the newspaper box and casually dropped in the quarters, took the paper and rolled it up under her arm, collected the dime change. She looked at the old man on the crate. He was picking his teeth with a little stick.
Okay, now. Okay.
She walked to the drink machine. Her whole body shook; her calves knotted and twitched. She tucked one hand inside the other to keep from dropping the coins.
Here’s your chance. Now. God help me.
The old man on the drink crate, a mere two yards away, looked in her direction, smiled and nodded. Kate put in one quarter, and listened as it fell through the machine works with a soft little clink.
Without turning to the man, she whispered, “Listen to me, please. I’m being kidnapped.”
A second quarter into the machine. Clink. A taste of blood at the back of her mouth. Maybe she’d bitten her tongue, she couldn’t tell.
“Call the Virginia State Police after we leave.” Each word painfully dry. “Get my license plate number. Please. I’m in danger. I need your help.”
She pressed the Pepsi button, and a can dropped into the retrieve slot. She bent pick it up and put it into her coat pocket. Next quarter; clink.
“Don’t do anything now. Just get the license number. Call the state police. Help me, please.”
Second quarter, clink, Dr. Pepper button pressed, clunk, can in the slot.
“Do you understand what I’m saying?” She reached for the Dr. Pepper and put it in with the Pepsi. “I hope so.”
She turned back toward the car.
The girl stood in front of her, arms crossed. “I understand, all right.” A look of sheer hatred, of sheer disbelief and wonderment, all rolled into one. Then, loudly, “Let me help you with those, Mom. You’re always trying to do something nice for others, let me do something nice for you.” She waggled her hand. Kate gave her the Dr. Pepper and the newspaper.
No no no no no!
The old man on the Coke crate grinned and nodded.
The girl tipped her head toward the car, indicating Kate go on ahead. Kate moved on. The front door to the Texaco station banged open, and the young mother came out, calling, “George! Damn it, George, turn your hearing aid back on, old man, there’s phone call from your wife. Get in here!”
The old man looked confused until the young mother pointed at her ear, then he nodded and smiled.
“In the fucking car,” hissed the girl.
Kate climbed in. She couldn’t feel her hand on the door handle as she pulled it closed beside her. Through the windshield she saw the old man get up from the drink crate and waddle into the station after the young mother.
The girl dropped into the passenger’s seat and yanked the door shut. “I’ve let the gas money on the tank. They’ll find it. Now drive until I say don’t drive. You goddamn, stupid, fucking bitch. Just wait, oh, yeah, just you wait!”
I am a stupid bitch at that, thought Kate, her heart lunging against her ribs. The remnants of the breakfast biscuit, eaten well over an hour again, turned sour and repulsive in her stomach.
Another lesson in vocabulary.
Stupid.
Fucking.
Bitch.
28
There was a lake not far from Bloomville, South Carolina, due northwest from the Texaco station, passing over Interstate 95, and then through the towns of Summerton and Rimini. It was a huge lake, Lake Marion according to the signs, lined with tall trees and cabins, punctuated with boat ramps that lead down to the water’s edge.
Tony instructed Kate to follow the road along the lake’s side. She’d know what she needed when she saw it. Minutes later she spied a cleared utility line and furrowed drive that traveled beneath the overhead wires. “There,” said Tony, and the teacher turned the car onto the line. She rolled the window down and let fly, one at a time, the pages of the Clarendon Courier, the ten-page rag masquerading as a newspaper. There had been not one mention of the events in Southampton County, Virginia. Not one tiny article, not even a blurb. There was weather, and sports (the local high school football team had won their final game, 22-6,) and a half-page photo spread of the “Miss Clarendon Holiday Pageant” winners (little girls in frilly gowns and crowns and tiaras,) and a local sheriff’s report of speeding tickets and driving without licenses and bad checks.
The Virginia armed robbery was clearly not big enough news. The Virginia murder of a gasoline man was clearly not important to South Carolinians.
About a half-mile bouncing along the rocky stretch they came to a chain stung across a dirt road. There were thick pines and cedars on both sides. A sign hammered to the wooden post read, “Camp Lakeview. Closed. Trespassers will be prosecuted. God Bless.”
“Here,” said Tony. “This looks right.”
The teacher stopped the car in front of the chain. The teacher had said nothing since the Texaco; back to being a quiet little pussy. Oh, but she wouldn’t be quiet for much longer. What Tony had in mind involved some good old-fashioned screaming.
An empty camp would be just the place.
“Break the chain,” said Tony.
At last the teacher spoke. “How?”