Frank De Felitta: For Love of Audrey Rose

Bill’s forehead wrinkled with an effort. He looked troubled. The driver swallowed, tried to estimate the kind of passenger he had.

“Do you have any money, sir?”

“Yes. Yes, I found some in her stocking drawer.”

“Show me.”

Bill pulled a fistful of bills from his overcoat pocket. The driver’s eyes widened. Gingerly he helped himself to several notes.

“See? Ten dollars.” He held up the money. “Unless you want to tip me.”

Bill stared at him, frightened. Quickly the driver added two dollars. Bill leaned forward. The driver recoiled, slamming against the steering wheel.

“Do you think my daughter… will recognize me?”

“Sure. Sure, mister. You’re her father, ain’t you?”

Bill nodded, gratified. He stepped from the taxi. Then he went to the front door, leaned in, and said, “God bless you.”

The driver smiled sadly. He recognized the manic look of Bill’s eyes, though few who had that look also had the money to ride in taxis and buy expensive black coats. A flicker of sympathy passed between them.

“God bless you, too, sir.”

The taxi pulled away.

Bill walked into the Allegheny Airlines Terminal, carrying hundreds of dollars in his fist. First he went to a coffee shop, ate five doughnuts and drank two glasses of orange juice. The startled cashier picked the money from his fist. Bill walked away before she could give him change.

He bought a ticket to Pittsburgh. One way. He ran on pure instinct now, as he had since escaping from the sanitarium. Only now the instinct was running down, growing confused. He did not know what would take over when the instinct went haywire.

“If you hurry, sir, there is a three o’clock flight boarding now. Gate seventeen.”

“Where is gate seventeen?”

“Follow the red carpet, sir.”

Bill walked into a narrow corridor, felt the air grow thick and the lights overhead press down upon him.

Ahead of him, two stewardesses waited with clipboards. It seemed like a thousand miles into the airplane. Even when he sat down, it felt unlikely that he would escape New York. Below the window the snow fell, whirled in monstrous eddies by passing vehicles.

There were few passengers. Already some of them slept. Tiny rays of light beamed onto their laps from the overhead luggage racks. Bill sank into his seat. All at once the exhaustion came — like a wave, it ravished his limbs, reduced them to sodden rubbery appendages, and his eyes grew instantly heavy. He thought he was blacking out.

“Not now,” he prayed, mumbling aloud. “Please God, not now.”

But he felt the lights going out inside the plane. The stewardess came to buckle his seat belt. She turned off the overhead beam of light, smiled and left. She did not see the panic on his whitened face.

The roar of the engines, like the demented gongs of a Himalayan temple, stirred his blood with power.

Then he laughed, but the laughter turned harsh and crude. The pain of the last three years flooded into him, a vile, black poison that spilled into his bones, and he choked on his own tears.

Fighting for control, he called on the one-eyed god of Tibet. The whisper of the jets soothed him. He closed his eyes.

Pittsburgh was iced, buried under a foot and a half of snow. Except for the turnpike and a few central roads, there was no traffic. Even from the air, it looked weird and peaceful. No taxis were available. The buses remained at garages. And there were no more flights until the work crews could clear the runways again.

Bill stared disconsolately across the terminal. It was cold, nearly deserted. Only an occasional menial worker strolled by, with brooms, dustpans, rags, and window cleaner.

Before him was a white booth with an Avis logo. There was no one behind the desk. There was no bell to ring. Bill slammed his fist on the desk.

A group of ground crew workers turned. They wore orange slickers and matching trousers, heavy black boots thick with melting snow.

“Hey, Herb! You got a customer!”

“Oh, hell.”

A thin, rat-faced man with a small smile came out from the group, straightened his black knitted tie, and slid easily onto a stool behind the desk.

“Nice time of day to visit Pittsburgh,” he said. “What can I do for you?”

“I need a car.”

The man reached for a triplicate form.

“I’ll have to see your driver’s license, and I’ll need a major credit card.”

Bill stared at him blankly, then pulled out his roll of bills and thrust it at the man.

“No, no. Money’s no good. I’ll need to—”

With an animal grunt, Bill snatched back the money, wheeled brusquely, and stalked across the foyer toward the exit doors.

A blast of frigid air smashed into Bill’s face as the doors opened automatically. Pressing forth into a strong wind, Bill spied a long line of cars parked beneath the Avis canopy. The area was deserted but for an attendant who was gassing a mud-encrusted white Dodge Dart. The attendant slapped his arms vigorously against his body for warmth. His back was to Bill, who watched him furtively from behind a pillar.

His chance came when the attendant cradled the hose, capped the gas tank, then hurried inside the terminal with the meter reading.

Bill approached the Dodge cautiously. With trembling fingers, he opened the door. The car smelled of fresh upholstery. He had trouble finding the key in the ignition switch. Then he had trouble finding the hand brake. Finally, he eased the car onto the main road, swerved, dipped into the snow at the side of the road, and then very carefully, very nervously, following signs, maneuvered toward the city.

There was little traffic. The car felt strange, immensely smooth, quiet, and powerful. After a few moments he began to relax. Then he found the light switch and turned on the headlights. The landscape rolled swiftly past. It was exquisitely cold, exhilarating. Bill drove with the windows wide open.

The signs diverged. A lane went up a long, curved ramp toward Harrisburg. Bill wiped the windshield, continued on toward Pittsburgh. Far away a cluster of lights gleamed over freshly fallen snow. Half a dozen trucks, massive headlights blazing, illumined an Arco station.

He skittered down the off-ramp, turned the wrong way onto a one-way street, circled, and stopped in the midst of the trucks’ lights.

“Closed, mister,” a trucker called. “No gas tonight.”

A group of truckers looked idly in his direction from the gas station door. One of the vans had jackknifed against the wall. The men drank coffee.

“Closed,” the trucker repeated. “Whole town’s shut down. No gas anywhere.”

Bill, blinded by the headlights, the reflection of the snow, glass, and metal, held his hand up in front of his eyes. He turned in all directions. The enormous filaments glared at him in a hideous crossfire. Then a trucker walked slowly to his window.

“You looking for something?” he asked, sipping coffee, his breath billowing into the brilliant cold.

“There’s a children’s clinic. On Tanner Street.”

The trucker shook his head.

“This here is Fitzwilliam Street. Cross street there is Cummins Avenue.”

“My daughter— Please…”

The trucker sighed.

“Just a minute, friend.”

The trucker ambled back to the group. Then two of them went inside the station. They argued over a map taped to the rear of the door. Then a different trucker strolled to the Dodge.

“Go down Fitzwilliam,” he said, “to Ninety-fifth. All the way. To Colman. Should be open. Turn right to Tanner. It’s a real small street. A kind of industrial zone.”

Bill eased the Dodge to Fitzwilliam Street. Snow whirled from the rear wheels, the rear end swung heavily, bumped against a hidden curb, and the car jerked into the middle of the road and stalled. Bill had trouble starting it again. Then it cruised easily along the quiet, snow-softened street.