Wallace Stroby - Gone 'Til November

“About what? He talks to me almost every day.”

“About me.”

“Nothing I haven’t already told you,” she said and felt guilty for the lie. “Do we have to discuss this now?”

“Just wondering.” He rubbed her back through the robe. “Sometimes it feels like they’re telling me one thing but thinking another.”

“Who?”

“The sheriff. Elwood. You.”

His hand slid down to the belt knot, played with it, drew on it until it was loose.

“I just don’t want to get blindsided by anything,” he said. She felt his warm hand on her bare stomach. It crept up, cupped her left breast. His thumb found her nipple, and it grew hard under his touch.

“If there was something else going on,” he said. “If they were trying to nail me to the wall, and you knew about it, you’d tell me, right?”

“Is that why you’re here?”

“No, of course not.” His hand slid to her other breast. “I came here to see you.”

She caught his hand, took it out of her robe.

“What’s wrong?” he said.

She sat up, pulled the robe tight, knotted the belt.

“I’m sorry,” he said. He touched her hair. “Don’t get up.”

“You need to get dressed,” she said. Her feet found the floor.

“Come on. Don’t be like that.”

She got up, went to the window, looked out. It was raining, drops spotting the glass. Low thunder in the distance.

“Sara,” he said.

She didn’t turn.

“I shot that boy because he drew down on me. You know that. You were there.”

She didn’t respond.

“He was a bad guy, Sara. I’m lucky he didn’t nail me first. It could have been me laying in that ditch.”

“That sounds practiced,” she said without turning.

“Sara, you know the way I feel about you. And I know the way you feel about me.”

“Do you?”

“I used to, at least.” She heard him get out of bed, his footsteps on the carpet. The rain was picking up, blowing against the window.

She felt him behind her. He pushed her hair aside, kissed her neck.

“Get dressed, Billy,” she said.

He drew his lips away. “We were always good together, Sara. We could be that way again.”

She turned, met his eyes. He was watching her, waiting.

“Hey,” he said softly. “There’s no reason to cry.” He reached as if to brush her tears away. She stopped his hand an inch from her face.

“Please. Go.”

He took his hand away.

“So that’s the way we are,” he said.

She didn’t answer.

He went back to the bed, found his jeans and T-shirt on the floor.

“Thanks for your support,” he said.

He pulled the jeans on, sat on the edge of the bed, reached for his boots. She looked back out the window.

He was taking his time, waiting for her to tell him to stop, not leave. Eventually, she heard him open the bedroom door and go out.

She followed him into the hall. He had the front door open, was looking out through the screen at the rain. She stopped in the hallway, leaned against the wall. He heard her, turned. She didn’t look away, pulled the robe tighter.

“Okay,” he said. “Then I guess that’s the way it is.”

He opened the screen, went out into the rain.

She went to the door, watched him sprint to his truck. When he reached it, he turned and looked back at her, sheets of rain moving down the street. After a moment, he opened the truck door, climbed up. She heard the engine start, saw his headlights go on.

You’re gone now, Billy. You’re someone else. You’re out of my reach. Maybe you always were.

She watched him pull away. Then she shut the door and locked it.

He made Virginia the first day, keeping his speed under seventy, though the Monte Carlo’s big V8 wanted to do more. Other cars passed him in a blur.

He didn’t stop for food, ate two of the chocolate bars instead.

When his eyes grew tired, the white line double, he found a motel off 95. The fat white man at the desk wanted identification. Morgan turned away, was leaving the lobby when the man called him back. When Morgan handed him seventy in cash, the man counted it twice.

In the room, Morgan spread the map on the bed and traced his route. He’d try to make Savannah tomorrow night, would drive as late as it took. Then into Florida the next morning.

His cell buzzed on the bed. He picked it up, saw it was C-Love’s number.

“Yeah.”

“Take this down,” C-Love said.

“Hold on.”

He went to the writing desk, got a sheet of motel stationery, a pen. “Go ahead.”

“Where you at?”

“Place called Emporia.”

“Where’s that?”

“Virginia.”

C-Love read off a ten-digit number. “Woman’s name is Simone. She knows you’re on the way. Hit her on that number when you get down there. She says she got some information for you.”

“Anything I should tell her?”

“You don’t need to tell her shit. Just find out what she got, take it from there. They released the body, so she getting ready to fly back. After you hook up with her, call me. Big Man’ll wanna talk to you.”

“After I hear what she says, I’ll handle it my way, whatever I think is best. He knows that, right?”

“He knows. He just want to talk, see what your sitch is. See if you need some help.”

“No help,” Morgan said.

“Might change your mind when you get down there. Can’t never tell how that shit’s gonna play out.”

“I’ll call after I talk to her. Tell him that.”

“I’ll do that. You stay in touch, bro.”

Morgan pushed END. He was feeling the miles, the ache in his back and hips.

He checked the lock on the door, set the chain. He felt vulnerable without the Beretta. He turned the TV on, the sound low, just to have another presence in the room. He folded the map, switched the lamp off, lay on the bed fully clothed, the TV light flickering on the walls. In a few minutes, he was asleep.

Crossing into Georgia, Morgan had the windows open, Bunny Sigler on the tape deck. Warm air blew through the car. Forest on both sides of the highway, green and thick. Then suddenly, on his left, a wide river running parallel to the road, the sun sparkling on its surface. After a few miles, the river turned, winding back through the forest like some primeval scene, a painting from a book.

He’d bought a pair of sunglasses at a Stuckey’s in South Carolina and put them on now against the glare. He wore a gray pullover, sleeves pushed up, the leather coat folded on the backseat. The sun and breeze felt good. He hadn’t taken a Vicodin that morning, hadn’t needed it. He felt awake, alert, the highway unfolding in front of him, the air sweet. Newark felt like another world, another time.

He drove past billboards for pecan logs, fireworks. Past Waffle House and gas station signs mounted on high poles visible from the elevated roadway. Every few miles, he passed pieces of torn-up truck tires on the shoulder. He’d push as far into Georgia as he could, until the fatigue was too much, then stop for the night.

Tomorrow he’d cross into Florida, head west on 301, the route that would take him around Gainesville, then south again. I-75 part of the way, then local roads past Lakeland, deep into the heart of the state. He’d marked Hopedale on the map, had picked a town named Arcadia to stay in. It was in a different county, an hour northwest. Close enough to get in and out easily, far enough away that his presence wouldn’t be known.

He turned the volume up. Bunny telling his woman he’d be home soon. A phone call from a bus station. Only a few more hours to go.

The trees dropped away on both sides, gave way to rows of white-tipped plants stretching forever, like a carpet of snow. Cotton fields, he realized. He drove on.