Allison Recalled

She ran it now, as quickly as she could through the spring night, hoping her feet would remember the way. She fell once, flat out, her foot snared by an unseen tree root. The wind whooshed out of her in a groaning cry and then she was up and away again, heading for the river and the huge tree half submerged there at its edge. Behind her there was a confusion of stumbling footfalls and voices made rough with frustration and drink.

At the river she never hesitated, just slipped in, next to the old dead tree. She felt the river’s current instantly, smooth and cold, pushing her against the tree’s trunk with the uncompromising strength of a snake moving across ground. She pulled her head in tight to the tree and clung to its broken limbs.

The voices argued nearby.

"She never come this far, Jack. She’s cut off into the woods somewhere back there. Hey, give it up, man."

"She’s here. Close by. I feel it. Goddamn her."

"I’m telling you she’s gone, man. We’ll never find her now. There’s other days. Let’s get on back, see how Bobby’s doing." The laugh, short and tough, was nonetheless uneasy. "You worked him over pretty good, Jack."

"Never mind about that, Mickey. You help me find my bitch, damn it. Time she-2-learned to heel."

She reached down then, carefully with one hand, and pulled a rock from the river bottom. Half rising, she hurled it out across the river’s expanse. It splashed with a heavy sound. She threw another, then sank back down.

"There! She’s swimming the river, damn her! Come on!"

"Jack, for Christ sake, use your head. The river’s up bad. That ain’t her, anyhow. She’d never try something that dumb."

"It’s her! She’s going over and then she’ll beat it up to Carruthurs’ place. Stay there with them ‘til morning. I know her, it’s what she’d do. Come on!"

"I’m telling you, the river’s up, and we’re piss-ant drunk. This ain’t the time, Jack."

"I’m going. Stay here, you chicken shit, or come along. It’s all the same to me."

It wasn’t, she knew. Not the same to him at all. Wherever Jack went, Mickey Fleming followed; that was the natural order of their world. She heard, "Aw, hell, Jack, show some sense for once," and then their splashing progress into the river, and then their whooping yells as the current sucked them away.

Immediately she dragged herself from the river and rushed back along the path, fighting the weight of muddy water and fatigue. At the pullout, she paused at Jack’s truck long enough to snatch the keys from the ignition and toss them into the underbrush.

Bobby’s old Chevy was still there, parked just in front of the pick-up. Bobby was still there too, lying beside the car, holding his head, twisting from side to side. He had thrown up, and vomit had mixed with the copious amount of blood on his shirt. His nose, now a spongy mass, still bled, as did his mouth and a vicious gash beneath one eye.-3-His eyes were swollen nearly shut. He was uttering a piercing one-note cry, but broke off when he saw her approaching.

"Thank God, Debbie! Help me! You got to get me to the hospital. I’m hurt bad, Deb, Jesus I’m hurt bad. Hurry, quick, before they come back!"

She remembered his words, earlier. Standing by the car, then retreating as Jack slowly advanced, a chunk of wood in one hand, saying, "Jack, for God’s sake, don’t be crazy. I was just sitting with her, necking a little, maybe get a poke in later on if I’m lucky, you know? What the hell do you care? She’s the town slut, ain’t she?" And Jack saying, "That part’s wrong, Bobby, you got that part wrong, she’s my slut, and I’ll see you’ll not forget it."

She walked past him now, and got in his car, no more mindful of his whining protestations than of a mosquito’s drone. Starting the Chevy, she gunned it forward then back, swinging it to make her turn. She scarcely felt the bump, and ignored the young man’s sudden shrieks. Without a backward glance she accelerated out of there, throwing gravel as she slewed onto the road.

It would be another hour before Bobby Marshall was found.

At home, she stripped, showered, then threw on jeans and an old cotton shirt. She began packing hastily, for the two of them, using one battered suitcase and a couple of trash bags. Her mother watched from the kitchen doorway.

"What is it? What’s happened?"

"Jack. He’s in town. Mickey Fleming with him, of course. They happened on us out at the river trail. Jack beat Bobby half to death. He came for me, but I got away. I’m -4-getting out."

"You stay here, Debbie. You’ll be safe. He’ll cool down in time."

"No. I’m going. He’ll kill me, Ma, sooner or later. I’ve got to get away."

She drove the Chevy to town and parked it behind Lucker’s Variety, slipping it in the narrow space between a string of dumpsters and an old wooden fence. Lugging her be-longings, she crossed over to the Greyhound depot, purchased tickets, then returned to the car to wait. Her daughter slept on the seat beside her, arms thrown wide in small-child abandonment.

They left on the 11:20 to Cincinnati. The town was dark and still, a small country town wrapped up tight against the night. No one marked their departure.

The child woke once, bewildered and afraid. She fretted. "Grammie. Grammie. Want Grammie." Her mother soothed her, and soon she slept again, lulled by the motion of the bus and her mother’s low murmur.

The bus trundled through the dark, pausing now and then in nondescript towns, moving always south, away from Jordan, towards the city, and safety.