Christopher Sorrentino - The Fugitives

“Was the flight just terrible?”

“No dramas. No movie. No food. The pilot sounded extra-blasé when he announced the weather in Cherry City. The stewardess sounded extra-hysterical when she talked about making connections.”

“They do all the real work.”

“Oh, I don’t know. The pilot did land the thing in the middle of this total, what? Slurpee.”

“True. So.”

“Sorry I didn’t call first thing.”

“I was going to say. But I didn’t. See?”

“See what?”

“Well, that I’m not always, you know.”

“You have your moments of lucidity. Anyway. I called as soon as I settled in. The drive from the airport was the hardest part. The roads suck.”

“I was going to ask.”

“Just local guys putting plows on the front of their pickups, I guess.”

“They haven’t even started here, yet.”

“Is it coming down?”

“It’s pretty serious. There?”

“Like a snow globe.”

“Awww.”

“Anyway. I’m really tired. I think I’m going to turn in, if that’s OK with you.”

“Kat.”

“Yeah?”

“I’m sorry. The things that I said. I was just upset.”

“We’ll talk more tomorrow.”

“I just want to make sure we’re OK.”

“We’ll talk tomorrow.”

T HETV news said record snowfalls. It said power outages affecting hundreds of thousands in the United States and Canada. Shelters established in high school gymnasiums and National Guard armories. Air travel suspended everywhere. Police and sheriff’s deputies going door-to-door to check on the elderly and disabled. School closures, of course; for some it was just a snow day with snowmen and snow forts and snowball fights, while for others it was a harrowing encounter with nature’s fury. Then Kat watched footage of weather-related car crashes for a while, crude amateur videos that seemed to be coming in to the station so rapidly that it was airing them unedited, perhaps unseen. After a while the newscasters stopped commenting on the videos. TV silently regarded the footage it had appropriated from ordinary viewers. It was the purest spectacle. Kat watched a snowplow smash into the side of an SUV. She watched a car rear-end a pickup truck stopped at a railroad crossing. She watched a large older sedan jump the curb and crash into a gray municipal-looking building. She watched a city bus glide slowly, pinwheeling, down a hilly street before crashing into a lamppost. She watched a garbage truck skid into a hatchback and push it down a hill before crushing it against a wall. She watched a minivan drift across two lanes of traffic on an overpass and clip the back of a pickup. She watched a Jeep rear-end a parked panel truck and push it into the middle of an intersection, where two sedans crashed into it. She watched one station wagon crash head on into another while a passing car lost control, spun into the opposing lane, and smashed into an oncoming car. She watched a police cruiser skid out of control while attempting to park behind a car pulled over to the shoulder, smashing into it and then rolling into a ditch concealed by the snow. She watched an articulated bus jackknife repeatedly as it came out of a curve leading into the mouth of an underpass, violently whiplashing its rear end against the walls on either side. She watched a car, filmed from above, spinning, spinning, spinning along the length of the street, clipping cars parked on either side and the occasional car moving along the road, the camera panning to take in the long skid, which carried the car through the intersection to where it bounced against a lamppost at the corner, caromed into the side street, and then slid, helpless and backwards, down the street and out of view.

She hadn’t driven in snow like this in years. The main roads had been manhandled by the plows pretty well, demon boys like those she remembered sitting smoking in the cabs of their pickups, in baseball caps and down vests, recklessly barrel-assing along the asphalt furrows they’d dug, plows raised or lowered depending on how much noise they felt like making, but a lot of the side streets were blocked by white knolls of snow, the stuff that had been cleared from the adjacent roads and new snow that had covered it, and on those streets that were passable the car drifted and slid, only barely under her control. A few lengths ahead of her, she spotted an enormous 4x4 SUV spin out as it took a right turn, skidding sideways and broadsiding a car parked on the opposite side of the street. The sound of impact was dull, hushed in the snow, making it seem less violent than the televised accidents she’d been watching, although the sight of it cured her of any residual temptation she felt to take chances. She crept along, hearing the snow crunch under the tires and scrape along the undercarriage as she went. Snow still fell; it rose by inches on the scantest of surfaces, impossibly extrapolating the contours of the objects it adhered to.

The librarian had cheerfully said that the library was open “for business” when she’d called, but Kat was still somewhat surprised to find the lot cleared and full of cars. Two kids were having a snowball fight in a far corner where the plows had pushed the snow. She got out of the car and glanced at her phone. Ten fifty. Becky should be up by now. She dialed and got the kid again.

“Is this Brandon?”

“Who’s this?”

“Your mom’s friend. Kat. I called the other day.”

“Oh yeah. What.”

“Can I talk to your mother, please?”

“I guess. She might be not home.”

“Can you check?”

“I guess.” He put the phone down. Kat could hear the tone of the room, the sound of a television program. Then nothing. She looked at the screen: the call had dropped. The signal read as very weak. She walked, picked up a bar, dialed again.

“I was going to say, she better. Calls me out of bed and then hangs up? She better call back, damn. How you doing, honey? What’s up?”

“Becky. I’m going to see Salteau. If I can get a picture of him, can you tell me if it’s Saltino or not?”

“Wait, see him where? He’s in Chicago?”

“I’m here. In Michigan. Cherry City.”

“Cherry City? Are you shitting me? He wouldn’t show his face in Manitou County.”

“Yeah, you’d think, ennit? But he’s here, if it is him.”

“You think maybe it isn’t?”

“No. No, I’m guessing it probably is. Hello?” She strode out toward the middle of the lot, checked the screen, made a sharp turn, checked. “Hello?” She was about to redial when the phone rang. “Becky, this is a really terrible—”

“Kat.” It was Nables. “Before you term ate this con ation, ple sider the inciples I am attemp uphold in unicating with you. Communi ting, I might add, with forebea , ience, suppor or you goals if no cessarily the means by which you tain m, yet wi anding of the nee you pro y casionally feel to perate outs gular channels. I—”

“You’re breaking up,” Kat said.

“ at’s that, Kat? hat did ou s y?”

She hung up on him. “Makes you sound blacker, somehow,” she muttered. She spun around and her legs shot out from under her. She landed hard on her side and remained there for a moment, carefully awaiting additional pain. A man stood over her. Her first thought was that she hoped he hadn’t overheard her intemperate remark, but he merely offered his hand. She said, “I’m all right,” and got slowly to her feet. She rubbed her elbow. “My butt got the worst of it.”

“Are you sure?”

She took him in for a second, nodding. He had the same big dumb yokel look as lots of the people you encountered in the boonies, but his clothes were expensive, and so new that she wondered that the price tags weren’t still dangling from them. He was holding out her phone.