Brian Garfield: Necessity

Now then. What’s the plan?

Are they back there? Tracking?

Maybe. Maybe not. You can’t do anything about it so quit thinking about it.

Can’t be too far to the Interstate. Keep walking east you’re bound to find it.

What then?

God knows. Worry about it when we get there. One thing at a time. Too tired to think.

Let’s see what we’ve got in here, kid. You want Gerber’s applesauce or Gerber’s apricot? Where’s the Goddamn plastic spoon?

Here, quit making such a mess all over your face. You handle the mouth, let me handle the spoon, all right? Try to get the food inside the mouth, right? That’s the idea.

Now stop looking at me like that. Like I’m taking food out of the mouths of babes. In the first place the damn things are too heavy to go on carrying. And in the second place Momma needs nourishment too, you know. One jar of Gerber’s apricot isn’t going to make that much difference in your life, kid, take my word for it.

God, it tastes good. I think I’m going to start eating baby food for a regular diet. If we ever get out of this mess alive.

She finds a narrow blacktop road and walks east on the shoulder. Every time she hears the rumor of an approaching vehicle she takes cover off the road.

The baby is delivering herself of long closely reasoned monologues in a language known only to herself.

It probably isn’t very far in miles but she hasn’t been able to move at a very good pace. By the time the country road takes her across another hill from which she sights the superhighway below her, the sun is setting; by the time she stumbles to the overpass the last of the twilight has dimmed to dusk.

The blacktop road isn’t important enough to rate an interchange. It crosses on an overpass above the Interstate. She goes down along the right side of the hump of landfill and parks herself and the baby on the sloping grass fifty feet above the highway, protected from view by the bulk of the overpass.

Cool here. Cool now and it’ll get cold soon. Wish we had a blanket-although God knows how I’d have carried any more weight.

Cars go by at infrequent intervals, headlights stabbing the road, but by the time they come in sight they are broadside to her, heading away. No chance of being seen unless she steps out onto the shoulder.

She lies back-aching everywhere but it is good to stretch out. She holds Ellen close. Is there anything we can do other than take the chance of hitchhiking?

If only my brain weren’t so fogged. Just reeling.

Got to protect the baby. That’s number one. Got to keep us both out of Bert’s clutches; that’s number two. Got to get out of this area; that’s number three.

Might as well go down there and stick out a thumb. Can’t think of anything else to do. Can’t think period.

Rest here a few minutes. Gather a bit of strength. Then go down and thumb-and be ready to leap back out of sight if you see anything that looks like the square silhouette of the Bronco.

Remember too-they may have alerted every sheriff and local cop and highway patrolman; every big rig with a CB radio. Knowing Bert and his capacity for rage he’s perfectly capable of turning this into something no less noisy than the Lindbergh kidnapping.

Funny image: show some flesh; stick out a leg-make like Claudette Colbert in It Happened One Night -imagine the shock on some lecher’s face when you step into the light and he gets a good look at you like a critter out of some low-budget horror movie all scratched up with ripped clothes and matted hair and this little E.T. in your arms talking to herself earnestly in a language from another planet.…

She awakens having no idea how long she’s slept. Stars glittering overhead.

Ellen!

She’s fine. The baby’s fine. Snuggled right here in my arms. Poor kid’s nose is running. Find something to wipe it-here, this’ll do.

So stiff. Can hardly move. I’d give anything for a drink and a couple of aspirin. Anything except my kid.

Haven’t seen a single car go by since I woke up. It must be very late.

She holds the watch close before her eyes and tries to turn it to pick up reflections of starlight. Very hard to make out the dial. Can’t be sure but it looks as if either it’s ten after twelve or it’s two o’clock.

Either way, kid, past your bedtime. Let’s see if we can’t commandeer you a nice car seat to sleep on.

Which way? North or south?

South, I expect. He’ll certainly have people watching the border crossings into Canada. We’ll have a better chance to get lost in the crowds if we try to make it down to Albany or maybe even the city.

Of course nothing comes with guarantees. If only Charlie hadn’t deserted us.…

The short descent to the bottom of the slope seems more painful than the entire afternoon’s walk. The baby seems to have gained a lot of weight. The blister is raw and burning; the knees keep wanting to buckle; the small of her back feels broken; there are aches in all her ribs; her arms are like weights; her neck is in agony; she can’t stand the smell of herself.

Whiplash Willie, where are you now that I need you?

For a long time she stands by the side of the road. All she can hear is the baby’s breathing and the occasional halfhearted whoo-whoo of an owl.

A single headlamp appears on the hill to the south and approaches soundlessly. Can’t tell if it’s a motorcycle or a one-eyed car. Anyway it’s in the opposite lane heading in the wrong direction. Better hunker down anyway; don’t take chances. Make the lowest possible silhouette.

There’s a wide grass divider between the roadways here; not much chance of being seen from way over there. The headlight turns out to be a boxy old car with one lamp blown out. It thunders under the overpass, throwing back a raspy broken-muffler echo; it rushes away into the night, tail-lights glowing an angry red. The silence it leaves behind makes things lonelier than before.

High beam headlights bear down, blinding her, and she stands in the garish brightness with her arm raised, palm out, cradling the baby in the other arm and thinking: If this is Bert or some cop then we’ve had it but we can’t stay here forever.

Aren’t those lights very high off the ground?

When she hears the first hissing sigh of air brakes she knows it’s not a car.

He’s braking hard and gearing down but it takes more distance than that to stop such a huge object and the juggernaut goes rumbling past her at a pretty good clip, turn indicators flashing. Semitrailer rig. Eighteen wheeler. Big high square monster. It’ll be a way down the road before it stops. What do we do now-climb out of sight? Run for it? Hide?

I can’t. Too tired. The bones and muscles just won’t do it any more. I just can’t.

She looks back along the road. Anything else coming? No. No reprieves there. Not a light in view.

With the handbag appended to her forearm from its strap and the sack of baby things over her shoulder like a hobo’s swag and Ellen’s weight sweetly painful in her arm she walks forward to catch up to the truck and find out what fate awaits her.

She trudges into the light with a stoic readiness to accept whatever will be.

He jumps down from the passenger side of the truck-a tall narrow stick of a man. His back is to the light so she can’t see his face. He’s got shaggy hair like a hippie from the sixties; he’s bony and angular in some sort of windbreaker.

She says, “Thanks for stopping. We could use a lift.”

He’s getting a look at her now. “What happened to you?” His voice is soft and pleasant; no special accent but he talks very slowly, measuring the words.