The world bumps and flashes by outside the Jeep. Earl has turned on the heat full blast but the wind whips in the windows to chase it away as soon as it leaves the vents.
“There,” Earl says, pointing ahead. I don’t see anything at first but then there’s the shine of the diner. The wide white expanse of its parking lot opens up in front of us. Veronica. I’m here, baby girl. The snow has tried to swallow her, but she hasn’t given in. Her burnt orange armor shines through the snowdrifts.
The front of the Jeep faces the front of Veronica.
“I’ll leave the Jeep running,” I say. Earl and I step out of the Jeep and sink in up to our ankles. “Do you know how to make it work?” Earl asks, looking at the tight coil of a steel cable.
“In theory,” I say. Veronica’s bumper kisses the top of the snow. “Problem is if I can dig her out enough to hook her to the winch, we are going to do a ton of damage getting her up and over the snow.” I put my palm on Veronica’s snout. “How long do we have before George arrives?” I ask Earl.
Earl does not answer.
When I turn to him, I see that his legs are shaking from the bottom up like a slow-growing earthquake. The shaking moves into his torso, his arms, his neck, and head, and then it stops completely, giving me enough time to whisper his name before he collapses. His limbs pooling loosely around him in the snow.
Once on the ground Earl doesn’t move, not even a twitch, but the white-white snow surrounding him gains depth and texture. Earl’s dirty-blond hair spaghetti thick and sticky.
I move forward and kneel down to him quickly, scanning the forest for George.
Earl’s eyes flick open, but my face does not register in his pupils. There’s spittle bubbled up at the corners of his mouth, and he makes soft sounds, barely even groans. I brush his hair off his forehead.
“Earl? Can you hear me?”
I pat Earl’s cheek, finding only scabs. Remnants of his former self. When they fall off, he’ll snake-shed his past. Start again.
Earl’s hand closing over mine startles me, and I meet his suddenly wide-open eyes.
Earl opens his mouth to speak, but the noise that comes out is garbled and painful to hear. He puts his hand to his throat.
“Can’t talk?” I ask. “You got your tongue this time?”
I help him around to the side of Veronica, unlock the passenger door and lift him inside. “Just shut your eyes for a minute.” Earl shakes his head no but then shuts his eyes anyway. He coughs, a small drop of blood leaks out of the corner of his mouth.
“Open up. Wide.” Earl does as told. His mouth is full of blood and saliva. “Spit, come on. Into the snow. Lean forward. Now spit.” I shift to support Earl’s weight so he can dribble red into the snow. It splashes back onto my hand hot. “Don’t you worry,” I say. “We’ll stay right here until you feel a little better.”
Earl coughs again, this time I hear a small squeak escape. I wipe the blood from the corners of his mouth.
“Let me put a little snow on your tongue. It’ll keep down the swelling.” I slide in a small amount, and Earl winces, then swallows. I repeat it, and this time Earl holds it in his mouth to let it melt before he spits out a hot wad of bloody snow and phlegm. “Open again.”
Earl does as he is told and sticks out his tongue. It’s mangled, but not so much from recent events. He’s bitten into the left side. His molars leaving their almost-perfect indentations.
A gunshot. Loud and booming. Earl and I both jump.
A second shot. This time I hear it hit something with a thwap.
“Get in,” I say, pushing Earl into the van and stepping in beside him. I slam the door shut behind us.
Earl makes a scribbling gesture with finger to palm.
“A pen?”
Earl nods yes. I move up to the front of the van. George is a dark shape against the brilliant snow, gun pointed at the sky. He’s standing still at the tree line, bulking himself up.
I rip open the glove compartment, letting the door slam down with a thunk. I dump its contents onto the floor until I find a scrap of paper and a pen. Earl writes quickly. I take the paper back. Hands steady. Earl’s written: Do you know to use the gun?
He’s left out the word “how,” but it doesn’t matter. I know what he’s asking.
“I can, but there are no more bullets so it hardly matters.”
Bullet in the diner, he writes.
“No way. Why didn’t you say?”
He shrugs.
I’m almost mad, but I can’t think of what that would accomplish. I pull the formerly useless gun from my own pocket and examine it.
“How do you know the bullets will even fit this gun?” I ask.
He writes: I stole some from you.
“Where are they?” I ask, but move back to the front seat before he can write an answer. George is coming toward the Jeep. He’s lowered the rifle in front of him and moves grudgingly through the snow. One heavy foot lifted then sunk back in then lifted again. He does not move with any sort of ease but he is still terrifying. The hulk of him defying injury.
Earl rattles his scrap of paper at me until I take it: Baking cupboard.
“The bullet is in the baking cupboard? I don’t know where that is.”
He points toward the diner, impatient.
“I know it’s in the diner. I just don’t know where the baking cupboard is.” I turn my attention back out the window. He will be to the Jeep soon. And then what? He’ll shoot Earl? He’ll take the Jeep? Nothing good will come of it.
Earl is nudging me, impatient. “We need a plan,” he says, managing to form sounds close enough to words.
“Here,” I say. “You have the switchblade? Take the gun too and run for the diner. I’ll distract George. Go now.” Earl shakes his head no so I move around him, throw open the side door so the snow and cold whirls in fresh around us. “It’s a straight shot to the door,” I say, and it is. Van door to diner door to baking cupboard. George is on the other side, attention focused on the Jeep. Earl will make it, just.
Earl shakes his head no again so I pry open his fingers, plant the gun in his palm, and push him out into the snow.
“Run! Now!” I push back to the front of the van and get in the driver’s seat. I lay on the horn. Good job, Veronica, I think. This is it. The sound is certain, loud, and George turns his attention from the Jeep windows to me. I honk once more, then wave, a friendly little hello as if this is all just me trying to say hello.
George waves back. A grim little wave that ends with a smile.
“Shit,” I say. He lowers the rifle and shoots before I can duck. The bullet hits the windshield. Glass sprays inward, the shards sparkling brighter than the snowflakes and clouding my vision before I can cover my face with my arms.
I am blind. I drop between the two front seats and begin to crawl toward the back, to where the air is entering the van. The glass crunches under my palms and sticks to my skin, some of it shaking off to salt the floor again. The world is dark and I move by feeling. Glass shards cutting palms easing into the metallic floor of the van. My knees bang the metal and the cold air whooshes in through the side of the van telling me I am close and then I am stumbling out. The snow feels like a blessing on my wounds and I bury my face in it. Let it settle into a mold before I pull back an inch and try to open my eyes. They burn and blur. The snow looks red but that could be a trick of the light of my mind. I can see well enough to move so I am up, launching myself toward the diner, toward Earl.
“Stop.” It’s one word. Just the one but I hear everything in it. His intent. His sense of righteousness. His willingness to do whatever feels like the next right step.
I stop.
“Turn toward me.”
I turn toward the sound of his voice. My vision is blurred, tear-filled but both eyes working. He is a lump of a man. A gruff shape come to find me.
“What the fuck do you want?” I ask.
“What do you think I want? My kid. My Jeep. My damn dignity back.”
“You’ll have to shoot me then,” I say.
My body aches.
“Where’s my kid?”
“Not here.”
“Liar,” he says.
I sway, afraid I’ll vomit again. He lowers his rifle, then hangs it over his shoulder. Lets it swing there freely. Flaunting.
He stands in front of the diner door, backed up to it with his grim face still aimed at me when he says, “This is my home. You leave now on your own or you leave dead.” He turns quickly and is disappearing inside the diner, shoving the stubborn diner door closed.
Rage races from my tailbone to my neck.
I’m not fucking afraid of you. I stride toward the diner. Take the steps in one stretch and throw my side into the door. It bangs open and I’m suddenly right behind him. He spins on his heels to face me and we’re close now. I inch my foot forward, just so he knows I’m not afraid to walk through him. He’s doing it. Folding. Questioning. Leaning back to get some space from me.
“Leave,” he says.
“No,” I say.
He steps back. Actually lifts bootheels. He has the rifle and yet he’s the one weakening.
Earl is nowhere to be seen, and if I can keep George from searching the kitchen, maybe we’ll make it out of here.
“Fuck. You. Thief.” He takes the rifle strap off his shoulder, begins to raise it. He steps forward. The rifle barrel will touch my belly once he raises it. Not good. Before I can stop myself, I take a step back. I stumble.
“Earl is not here, you shit of a human being.”
George moves closer still, too close.
I’m breathing in short shallow sips, willing Earl to stay in the kitchen. The tip of the barrel hits the zipper of my jacket.
“Maybe I should touch you? Hmm? We can play a little.”
The rifle is easy to grab. It’s right there and my right hand wraps around the barrel, shoving it to the left until it is clear of my body. George does not pull the trigger. He looks startled instead and then in pain. The surprise push of me on the rifle and the rifle on his arm inflames an injury he wasn’t expecting to worry about. I push so hard and fast that the gun clatters to the ground. The two of us pausing to look at it down there and then up at each other.
He moves first. The blurry-pink of his fist comes at my face. His knuckles to my cheek. I sail back. Butt-to-floor reality zooming in. My back hits the diner’s front door. My jaw shuts, molars fit to molars, front teeth rattling against each other, threatening to chip.
George leans in, grabs my jacket, twists his hand into leather, and swings back. Flat slaps my other cheek, unlocking my teeth and zigzagging them against each other. I feel the soft cotton of his shirt on my palm. Daddy used to wear white cotton T-shirts; they smelled like detergent.
Then something incredible happens. A little Christmas miracle. A noise. Sharp. Familiar. George looks genuinely surprised. Mouth pops open. Eyes bulge, and I turn away, afraid his eyeballs are going to fall out of his head. Then he collapses at my feet. A George paperweight to keep me from fluttering away in the breeze. He gives this little disjointed gesture, a mocking seizure move and then he begins to scream. He shrieks like a stepped-on puppy. There’s holiday-season red spreading out under him. Smooth. Lovely. Thick, finger-paint red. I understand. My stomach twists, my belly scar throbs.
There’s Earl. In the kitchen doorway. The gun in his hand.