John and Ruth Halverson were coming home from a church social that night. Just a little gathering and because the social was held in the church’s basement and because of the kind of people the Halversons were all they had had to drink that night was fruit punch.
It was a clear night and warm and the moon was full and the trees and the fields and the river were all silver under it. Out John’s window were the tall elms standing against the river and out Ruth’s were the fields. Out over the fields was a thin fog like lace and like tiny gunfire within the thin fog were hundreds of lightning bugs. It was late and Ruth commented on it: Been years since we’ve been out this late.
Goin a pay hell in the mornin, John said.
You watch your mouth, John Halverson, she said.
The old truck pittered down the dirt road. Ruth leaned to turn on the radio. Began fiddling with the knob. John leaned over the wheel and looked up at the sky.
Thought it might rain tonight, he said. Look at all them stars.
He rolled down his window and put his elbow there. The air was thick and sweet and smelled like moss and limestone and slow-moving water. The frogs were wailing down near the mud and the crickets were trying to keep up. Ruth was going back and forth across the bandwidth and John said: Cain’t yeh jest settle on somethin already?
I want to find something romantic, John. Maybe we could pull over and do some dancing under the stars.
He did not answer but he smiled and that settled it.
The road made a bend down the way at one of the sloughs and when they got there John slowed the truck and the headlights washed across the pale trunks of the trees and the green grass of the ditch and then back to the dirt road and before he could shift gears the naked girl came into view and John slammed on the brakes. Ruth was still looking down at the radio.
Ruth, he said.
From the radio came a Glenn Miller song. She looked up at him.
John, what are you doing?
Ruth.
Like his eyes were tethered to something out there, she followed his gaze.
Oh my God, she said.
The girl looked like a ghost standing in the road. Her skin was colorless in the headlights. Her hair was hanging down over her face and wet-looking. Her arms were folded up over her chest.
That’s one a them Dahl girls, John said. Ain’t it?
That’s Hannah, Ruth said.
John reached behind the seat and took up a blanket.
Here, he said. Go get her. She’ll know yer voice.
Ruth opened her door carefully as if to not scare away a wild animal. She called her name. The dome light lit up the cab and John held his hand like a visor. Ruth said the girl’s name again. Hannah turned, and like a deer, took off in the opposite direction. Ruth followed after her, calling her name, and with the passenger door still open John popped the clutch and killed the engine and said, Goddamnit!
He turned the key and the engine turned over and over and finally caught and he ground the transmission into gear and chased on after them.
It was a quarter mile down the road before the two of them came into sight. They were seated in the road, right there on the dirt. Ruth had the girl in her lap, wrapped in the blanket, rocking her like an infant. John stopped the truck and got out and stood there looking at his wife who was looking at him and nothing was said and it was completely still except for the wailing frogs and the Glenn Miller and the quiet roar of the slow-moving river.