In which a woman’s search for freedom takes her on a road fraught with danger and unexpected twists and turns, ending ultimately with a sort of redemption.
It’s a hot, dry summer day. Reuben manoeuvres the truck slow and easy alongside the highway. Tires churn a lazy dust cloud from the stone and gravel shoulder. No need to rush. He doesn’t clock out for another four hours and what he’s looking for isn’t about to go anywhere. Stay focused, that’s the key. First indication is the dark swoop and flap of crows gathered in the distance. A murder of crows, Reuben thinks. What it’s called. Perversely poetic, given the circumstances. Like a wake of buzzards or an ostentation of peacocks. A skulk of foxes. A nuisance of cats. Funny. He pulls up beside, applies the brakes, shifts into park, steps out of the cab. The crows fire a sidelong glare then it’s back to business: Tear into the bloodied entrails. The prey, a fat raccoon, appears reasonably whole and in still-decent shape, despite the spill of guts. Unusual on the highway. The victims are generally struck during the night then continue to be run over repeatedly by further passing vehicles. By the time Reuben discovers them, they’re a tread-worn pulpy mess. Different story if they bounce off to the shoulder or land in the grass beyond. This guy was close enough to the asphalt’s edge that he managed to escape suffering too much damage. Apart from death, of course.
Meanwhile, the crows.
Reuben slips into a pair of work gloves and hauls a wide flat shovel from two hooks screwed to the wood slat side of the truck bed. He approaches the carcass, checks for traffic, bangs the end of the shovel against the asphalt, waves an arm and whistles through his teeth. The crows lift off. Reuben settles a corner of the shovel under one end of the animal and with a practiced hand slides and twists it onto the flat face, into the air and onto the truck in one slick motion. He divides the bed right and left, separates the general splatter from the more intact casualties.
He returns the shovel to its hooks, the gloves to a back pocket, jumps in the truck and grinds onto the highway. A portable CD player sits on the seat beside him. He grooves to Neil Young’s Cinnamon Girl, rocks his shoulders, beats the steering wheel with his fingers. Doesn’t take long before he spots what looks like the body of a deer nestled in the gravel ditch. He noses the truck to a stop, gets out, makes a quick inspection. It’s a buck, all right, and judging by its eight-inch antler spread, about eighteen months old. Reuben also estimates it weighs in the neighbourhood of 130-140 pounds. There’s no sign of blood anywhere on the hide. Probably hit hard and died of a broken neck. Reuben squats and strokes the animal’s rib cage. Beautiful creature, he thinks. A rotten shame. Nothing to be done, though. He grabs two ankles with one hand, two with the other, gives a grunt, pushes up with his legs and swings the deer around his neck. He stands there and takes a breath in through the nose and out through the mouth.
Reuben strikes an impressive sight posed there, the buck folded around his neck. He’s in his early thirties, about six feet tall, muscular with strong arms and hands. He sports a close-cropped beard, has brown skin, hazel eyes, roman nose and lanky black hair that falls from under his ball cap down to his collar.
He walks to the rear of the truck, spins and allows the buck to slide onto the bed. He reaches in, tucks his hands under the animal’s ribs and rolls it further to the front to make room. There were bound to be other unfortunates before his shift ended.
He wipes the dust from his hands onto his jeans and withdraws a cigarette pack from a shirt pocket. He taps a roll-your-own from the box, lights up with a silver Zippo, sucks short puffs and inhales deeply, allowing the smoke to settle in his lungs. He blows out through pursed lips and repeats the process. Done with the joint, he flicks the roach, pulls a thermos from a lunch box and pours himself a coffee. He leans his body on the driver’s door, one knee bent, the foot lifted off the ground, the boot heel grinding the paint. Through the open window, he listens to Neil wail: “Everybody knows this is nowhere.” He drinks his coffee.
A clash of bucks, he thinks.
A fesnyng of ferrets.
It has to end. What has to end? She isn’t sure, so, everything, obviously. What other choice is there, one thing part and parcel with the rest? How has she allowed it to go on this long? That’s the bigger million dollar question she asks herself over and over, though in her heart-ofhearts she knows the answer. She’s weak. She’s a coward. She’s a loser. She’s what her mother always says: lack of character; lack of backbone; lack of self-confidence/self-respect; lack of moral fibre; lack of inner resources. That and the medications, of course. Meant to keep her mentally and emotionally balanced. Un-disturbed. Help her avoid a nervous breakdown in a public space; avoid causing embarrassment to herself and others; avoid drinking herself half to death: One hour at a time, one day at a time, one step at a time. Instead, exist as a sleep walker, a pushover for the first kind word, the first available offer. Not to mention a pricey weekly shrink who quizzes her on where she buys her shoes, who does her hair, what particular shade of red is her lipstick. And like a fool she answers. A sucker born every minute. Not to mention regular AA meetings that make her want to puke. Don’t quit five minutes before the miracle happens. Fuck you, she replies. Fuck you and the horse you rode in on. In her head she says this; what she thinks; what she believes, yet, keeps her mouth shut, continues to attend religiously, nods her head obediently: yes, master; yes, master. We are only as sick as our secrets. And she admits she is a seriously sick puppy. Yes, all of this and more. Though most especially a coward, as … what will she do? Where shall she go? How will she end it?
The answer to the first question is simple — who gives a rat’s ass? Whether type memos or wash dishes it all adds up to the same dull monotony in the final analysis: work to live or live to work makes no difference. Eat, shit, sleep, maybe go bowling once a week. First honey, then the knife. C’est fini! The answer to question number two? North! Isn’t that where everyone goes when they want to get lost? Not south where it’s nice and warm and sunny and anyone and their mother is happy to follow you just because. No, north, where there’s always a fair chance you’ll freeze your tits off or be eaten by ravenous beasts, so, goodbye Charlie! Answer to the third question? Being a coward, end it in a cowardly fashion, meaning … not with a bang but a whimper. No ending, no closure, no nothing. Not a note, not an email, not a text, no attempt at an explanation of any sort, because what explanation is there beyond the fact she is a royal pain in the butt to everyone around her and a complete and total screw up?
How else explain living with a man she doesn’t love, never loved, never will love and remains with because he happened to take an interest in her several years prior and said those magic words: “Will you marry me?” And promised you alone, forsaking all others for eternity? Or having an affair with a married man she doesn’t find particularly attractive either mentally, physically or personality-wise, does not find sexy in any way whatsoever and must (even) stifle her laughter when he undresses — something to do with the shape and/or colour of his penis — is years too old for her, yet agreed simply because he said he desired her? He “desired” her. Never mind the man is her boss, fer chrissakes. Or that to get her shrink back on track she devises mock confessions where she says she enjoys finger painting with her feces or has fantasies about sucking the cocks of young black choirboys or being finger-fucked on the sacred altar steps by an arthritic priest or has dreams of nailing her mother’s forehead to the ornamental teak dining room table. Interesting, the shrink goes, tapping her bottom lip with the eraser end of a pencil. Tell me more. Yeah, the more outlandish and horrific, the better. Meanwhile, omit items such as self-loathing, fear of intimacy and dissatisfaction with body image — breasts too small, ass too big or vice versa — issues which have become commonplace, almost normal, in our freak-obsessed society, talked to death by Oprah and others of her ilk, plus experts in psychobabble: Dr. Phil, Dr. Gupta, Dr. Ruth, Dr. Oz, and so, a colossal bore. Omit, as well, the items where she induces vomiting and cuts herself with a steak knife on her thighs and belly. Little more than a weak cry for help, yes, and, not so bad, she guesses, really, in the grand scheme of things, if it weren’t all so pathetic, lame and ultimately stereotypical. We are only as sick as our secrets. This being merely the tip of the cracked iceberg, just throw together a suitcase, a backpack and get the hell out of Dodge, pronto! Who’d miss her, anyway?
“Desired.” That one word, she knows. If she could only desire something or someone. Instead …
The truck bed drags beneath the weight of road kill. Reuben cruises, his foot heavier on the gas with the knowledge of another day’s work almost complete. By habit he continues to scan the surrounding area, highway ahead, lake to the left, to the right a blur of black spruce and alder. Beyond this, swamp. Higher up, white pine and trembling aspen. A few more kilometres and … what was that? He catches something out the corner of his eye, off the shoulder, part way into the trees. He cranks the wheel, hits the brakes, shifts into reverse. He cuts the engine, hops out and scouts the area. Maybe something, maybe nothing. Then, there it is. Body of a woman lying face up on the ground. She wears a man’s baseball cap with a Blue Jays logo on it, a blue denim blouse, dark blue cotton hiking shorts, one foot has a brown sandal on it, the other foot is bare. An oval patch of blood stains the right side of her blouse. Most likely hit by the headlight of a passing car, Reuben figures. Tore into her. She flew a distance, bounced, crawled; eventually gave in to the pain, the exhaustion, and rolled over. That, or she was hit, knocked a mile, landed on a sharp branch or rock, bounced, crawled, rolled over. Definitely crawled as there are drag marks in the dirt and grass. The missing sandal landed or twisted free several yards behind her. Also a backpack situated in close proximity.
Reuben regards her, like: This is not your regular sack of potatoes. As he considers possibilities, a snake appears, slithers over the woman’s arm and coils itself in the middle of her chest. The snake is grey with a row of large rounded black blotches down the centre of the back, three smaller rows of alternating spots down each side and the immediately recognizable vertical pupils. A massasauga rattler. Poisonous and seeming pretty cocky for a creature on the threatened species list. Reuben crouches, gives the snake a gentle nudge with the back of his hand to move it along, lifts the woman under her knees and neck and straightens. Light as a feather, he thinks. He carries her to the truck, instinctively goes to the tailgate, stops, regards the woman, regards the steam of carcasses, turns, sidles to the passenger side, opens the door, slumps her into the seat, carefully shuts her in. He retrieves the backpack, jumps into the driver’s seat, drops the pack at the woman’s feet. He uses two fingers to remove a CD from the player and snap it back into its jewel case. He drums the CD holder, puts his hand on one plastic case then another. He makes a soft sound in his chest, chooses a new disc and sets it playing. It’s Lucinda Williams: Car Wheels On a Gravel Road.
He lifts the gearshift toward him, drags it into drive and hits the gas.
When it comes down to the nitty-gritty, backed into a corner, balls to the wall, strange how few things one really needs to pack up and go. She climbs into her beater Ford Escort hatchback, winds her way through mid-morning traffic to the 400 north and doesn’t pull off the highway until she hits Barrie. She gasses up, checks the oil and wiper fluid, cleans the windows and empties the floor of city detritus: used parking vouchers, empty plastic water bottles, paper coffee cups, fast-food wrappers, bags and so on. Having seen too many cop shows where the person of interest is tracked through use of a debit or credit card, she pays the station attendant cash. Of course, these same shows tell us that a person can’t be reported missing to police until 24 hours have passed. Turns out this is bogus. Especially if the missing person is mentally unstable and/or there’s fear of self-harm. She certainly qualifies on both these scores.
She bounces into a TraveLodge, arms herself with a basic provincial highway map plus a handful of tourist information brochures, finds a local Tim Hortons, orders a coffee and toasted cinnamon raisin bagel and sits and peruses the material. Sault Ste. Marie, she nods. Why not? She knows nothing about the place aside from the fact it has a romantic ring to it — the Soo. The Soo. She repeats the word aloud several times, mantra-like, intending to imbue it with a sort of mythic quality. The Soo. Besides, if it doesn’t work out — the Soo — there are plenty more places further north: Thunder Bay, Rainy River, Kenora, Weagamow Lake, Sachigon Lake …
Plenty of wide open space in which to disappear and start over again. Tabula Rasa. A clean slate. Just drive, he said. Who said? Steve Taylor. Jack Nicholson. Robert Creeley. Something about darkness surrounding us and what can we do against it. Something about buying a car. A goddamn big car. “drive, he sd, for christ’s sake, look out where yr going.” Or not.
From what dark swirl has she dragged these fragments of ephemera? She shakes her head, reads her brochures and chews on a bite of bagel.
Reuben heats water in a large metal pot on the stove. As the water nears the boiling point he squirts in a shot of green dishwashing liquid, removes the pot from the element, tests the temperature with a dipped finger, drops in a clean washcloth and sponge, carries the pot a few feet and sets it on a metal stool seat. He unbuttons his cuffs and rolls his sleeves. The woman is laid out on the kitchen table. A blue rubber mat cushions her body against the wood tabletop. Her head rests on a small blue pillow. She is perfectly still. The ball cap is gone as is the sandal, already discarded into a heavy-duty, black plastic bag along with the other sandal and the backpack. Reuben sets to work. He releases the woman’s belt buckle, unsnaps and unzips her shorts, slides the shorts and panties as a single unit down her legs, tosses them into the plastic bag. He unsnaps her denim blouse, notices it sticks to her skin where the blood has dried. He soaks the area with the hot, soapy water, allows it to sit a minute, carefully peels the material away. The bra snap is in front, making it a simple job to undo, remove one arm then the other from both garments simultaneously, give her upper torso a slight lift, subtract the bra and blouse, crush them into a ball and deposit them in the bag along with the rest.
A cursory glance reveals the woman’s otherwise pallid skin randomly stained by pinkish-red bruises tinged with purple. Reuben pokes at one or two almost absentmindedly. He bends at the waist, lays an elbow on the table and studies the gash in the woman’s side. He traces the outline with his fingertips. A clean cut, he thinks. Not wide, but deep. He sponges the entire area, squeezes water from the sponge into the pot, repeats the process until he’s satisfied the dried blood is removed. He goes on to wash the rest of the woman’s body, sponging her ribs, chest, breasts, under her armpits, over her shoulders, down her arms. He uses the washcloth to scrub her hands and fingers; her neck, face and ears. He erases any trace of make-up, which is minimal, anyway. There’s no polish on her nails, either fingers or toes.
He dumps the dirty water down the sink, rinses the sponge and washcloth, refills the pot straight from the hot water tap this time and returns to the woman. She fits perfectly comfortable on the table, with a few inches to spare on either end and at the sides. This is a good thing, thinks Reuben, to be comfortable. He guesses she’s five-three or five-four. Narrow build, perhaps too much so, with bony hips that look sharp enough to cut a man in the throes, do real damage, if he wasn’t careful. Reuben holds the sponge above the woman’s belly and allows it to hover there. Something has caught his attention. There are pale thin scars located on her flesh below the navel and across her abdomen, which continue in almost ladder-like patterns, rung by rung, to halfway down her thighs. The scars are healed, so obviously not due to the recent accident. Reuben presses a tip of the sponge against one scar and rubs, as if to wash it away. It doesn’t. He takes a deep breath and releases it slowly. He dips the sponge, squeezes it, knocks off the excess moisture and returns to the task at hand.
He sponges her belly, hips, thighs, the pubic mound. He notes the hair is light brown here while on her head the hair is a richer, darker brown with traces of red, suggestive of a visit or visits to a salon. He gently parts her thighs and wipes the labial lips: minora and majora. He sponges her legs, which are slim, firm and slightly bowed. He pays particular attention to her knees as there are small scrapes from crawling along the ground. He clears away traces of dirt, grime, blood, grass stains and other foreign matter. He switches to the washcloth for her feet, takes his time, being sure to get between and clean each toe individually. He uses his thumbs through the wet cloth to massage the balls of her feet, the soles and heels. He rinses the cloth several times.
He turns the woman over to reveal more bruising. He sponges her up and down: calves, backs of thighs, buttocks, lower back, upper back, shoulders, until her skin gleams. Once complete, he flips her again and covers her with a plain white sheet. He refreshes the water a final time in order to wash her hair. He pours shampoo into his hands, massages it into her scalp, builds up a lather and rinses her hair clean. He rubs it dry with a terrycloth bath towel and combs it out across the blue pillow.
He slips the comb into his pants pocket, carries the pot to the sink, empties the water, rinses the sponge, the washcloth, the pot, places it all in the dish rack, rolls down his sleeves, buttons the cuffs, goes to the fridge, grabs a bottle of beer, twists the cap, spins the cap onto the sink, takes a healthy swig, wanders past the woman into the living room and stretches out on the couch. He picks up the TV remote and hits the power button. The weather station comes on. No change for tomorrow. Hot and dry through the weekend. Zero percent chance of precipitation. Sweet.
Espanola, the woman reads. Population 6,000. Notable facts? In 2001 the town set a record for the longest continuous ice hockey game: three days. This record later broken and broken again, as all records are meant to be broken in time. Was home to the TV series Adventures in Rainbow County featuring Lois Maxwell, who later became Miss Moneypenny in the James Bond films. Also home to Domtar Pulp and Paper Mill, one of the most stringent zero-emissions pulp bleaching processes in the world. This, after a toxic spill in the early 1980s killed fish by the thousands in the Spanish River. Impressive, thinks the woman, though it can’t erase the mill’s stench which continues to dance through the town and surrounding area depending upon which way the wind blows. Also used as a German prisoner of war camp during WWII. Huh, who’d’ve guessed, way up here?
It’s late afternoon and the woman decides to celebrate her impending freedom by having a small drink at the local. She’s on meds, but it’s a low dose and how much can it hurt? There’ll be AA in the Soo — there’s AA everywhere: Be part of the solution, not the problem — and she can get back to her routine. She sits at the bar and orders a dry martini with olives. The bartender tells her it’s Happy Hour and for an extra buck, she can make it a double. A double it is, says the woman. To Lois Maxwell — shaken not stirred! She finishes the first and orders a second.
A guy half in shadow perches on a stool in one corner of the bar. He’s in his mid to late forties, heavy-set, bit of a paunch, wears a brown suede sports jacket, bolo tie, white Levis shirt, blue jeans, cowboy boots. He nurses a beer and keeps his eye on the woman as she parts her lips and uses her teeth to nibble an olive from the plastic spear. Well, he thinks, why not? Better to be shot as a wolf than live as a sheep. He picks up the remains of his beer and walks over. Hi, he says, grinning. Interested in some company? And if I said no? I’d be disappointed. Ah, that’s so sad. Why, because you’d miss the pleasure of my sharp wit and sparkling personality? She recognizes the effusive effect the booze has on her and she enjoys it. A sort of Blanche DuBois feeling: I’ve always depended upon the kindness of strangers, and so on. Half in the bucket; warm and silky. Something like that, he says. The woman pulls a face. Well, we can’t have that now, can we? Please, be seated. Though I must warn you that I’m leaving soon. Uh-huh? Me too. Where you headed? The Soooooo. She drags the word out for the sound. Any particular reason? Do I need one? I guess not. She takes his left hand and examines it. Wedding ring? Yep. Kids? Three. Wanna see pictures? He reaches for his wallet and she stops him. S’OK. A no bullshit kind of guy, is that it? Oh, plenty of bullshit, just not about that. You’re funny. She spears the final olive into her mouth. I was thinking about ordering up some wings or something. You wanna join me? Big spender. That was a fer instance. Order what you want. Steak, seafood, vegetarian …? No, wings are good. I like wings. I like ‘em spicy hot. Good. Me too. Really hot. Fantastic. Suicide it is. Meantime, you need a top up? He indicates her empty glass. Yeah, though I better switch to white wine. Why? You look terrific in a martini. Haha, thass hilarious. Good one. You mean, like, drowning not waving, huh? She takes a deep breath, plugs her nose with a hand, bulges her eyes and cheeks, gives a weak wave with the other hand, sinks her head and shoulders.
The man isn’t sure how to respond. He looks at her curiously. No, I mean, like it suits you. Or you suit it. The way you toy with the olives before you eat them. Sexy, slightly dangerous. Oh, I see. Smooth, she says. Very smooth. OK, one more martini, plus wings, then it’s toodle-oo, off to the Soooooo S’aright? No pressure, no strings, no hanky-panky. The man throws his hands in the air and crosses his heart with a thumb, like: Wouldn’t dream of it! And … I pay my own way. No need, he says. I have a company expense account. She taps a finger on the bar. I-pay-my-own-way. S’aright? The man smiles and shrugs. S’aright. He twirls a finger and the bartender drops two fresh drinks. Easy as that.
She manages to open her eyes a crack and attempts to make sense of her surroundings. Her eyelids blink heavily, like malfunctioning venetian blinds. Her head is foggy and her vision is blurred. She knows she’s lying on her back. She knows this. She knows that directly above her the plastic blades of a ceiling fan spin in a creepishly retarded fashion. She doesn’t feel the slightest movement of air and wonders what’s the point? On the other hand, she doesn’t feel much of anything, neither too hot nor too cold nor too hard nor too soft. The single term that sticks is: comfortable. She feels comfortable. Though she’s uncertain as to what this means. She just is.
She’s somewhat aware of music playing faintly in the background. Voice of someone singing. Willie Nelson, maybe. The lyrics are difficult to make out and the title of the tune eludes her.
There seems to be something happening in the region of her upper left arm, a pressure. She drops her chin and tries to focus her vision in that direction. The figure of a snake wrapped around her bicep captures her attention and she wonders if it isn’t a piece of jewellery or a decoration of some sort and, if so, how did it get there? She wonders if maybe she isn’t reliving a past life experience where she was Queen Cleopatra or the goddess Isis? Though, in this case, the snake isn’t gold; it’s grey and stares intently at her through vertical pupils while a slender forked tongue darts in and out of its fanged mouth.
Apparently, we’re not in Kansas anymore, Toto.
She allows her head to roll further right. Her eyes are met with a low rise of white breasts peaked by two brown nipples. Beyond this, a glimpse of knobby knees and bare toes, at the end of which she spots a big black crow patrolling her feet, its wings alternately spreading and folding, its black head bobbing behind an animated black beak. Further right, higher up, a man looms over her. He wears an Indian war bonnet. His face is striped with paint. A necklace comprised of beads, bones and feathers hangs from his neck. He holds one arm in the air and shakes an egg-shaped rattle in his fist. His chest is bare except for more painted stripes. The man chants something in a language she can’t understand. She follows the line of his breastbone downward and discovers he’s naked below the waist as well as above. He holds his erection with one hand and guides it slowly, gently inside her open wound. She wants to raise her own hand to say no; stop, but she’s unable to make a move; unable to say a word or make a sound. The man thrusts his pelvis rhythmically against her hip, slides his cock in and out; harder, faster. His chants turn to moans. She doesn’t feel him come inside her; doesn’t feel his cock withdraw, though she assumes as much, given his spent expression. He squeezes out a further thick spray of semen and rubs it into her thighs, stomach and breasts.
Is she dreaming, she wonders? Is she dead? Is she dreaming she’s dead? How does that ancient Japanese story go? A man dreams he’s a butterfly dreaming he’s a man? The old chicken or egg dilemma, as: What came first? Or a stone so heavy even God can’t lift.
One hour at a time, one day at a time, one step at a time.
Bit late for that now, she thinks, and, is it humanly possible to cram another archetypal image into this one fucking scene?
It is Willie Nelson. He croons from somewhere in the foggy background: la-la, something, something … “redemption and leaving things behind” … something … “Mendocino County line …” something, something, la-la … whatever …
It’s all too much. Her head hurts. She drops off.
She knows she’s had too much to drink and shouldn’t be driving. You’re in no shape, the man told her. Besides, what’s your hurry, we just met? Have another drink. We’ll get a room and crash for the night. Separate beds.
Right. Been there, done that, bought the T-shirt. Wasn’t it Dorothy Parker who said, three drinks I’m under the table, four I’m under the host? No, better (safer) to hit the road. There was still some light and it was only about two hours and change to Sault Ste. Marie where she could check into a cozy motel room with a cozy bed and a cozy hot shower all to herself. The main thing? Stay alert: hands on the wheel, eyes on the road, keep to the speed limit. Not much chance of a road block, though she doesn’t want to give a passing cop any reason to pull her over. She lowers the window, sucks in the evening air and gives her head a shake.
She turns on the headlights as she nears the outskirts of Massey. About midpoint to Blind River, she feels the front passenger side tire blow. The car veers to the right, careens off the asphalt, across the gravel shoulder and bounces toward the trees. The woman manages to guide the car into what might be a motorbike or ATV dirt trail and pumps the brakes to a slow halt.
Fuck, she says. Fucking hell! Why does this have to happen to me? Why now? She reaches for her backpack, unzips a compartment, fishes for a plastic medicine container. Her hands shake as she pops an Ativan. One per night and otherwise as needed. This is definitely a time of need, she thinks, and pops another. She feels her heart race. She considers her options and realizes none of them are good. She unzips another compartment, takes out a Blue Jays’ baseball cap and pulls it on her head. Of all things, why had she packed this, her husband’s cap? Meanwhile, she’d stashed her cell phone turned off in the top drawer of her bedside table, scotch taped to her wedding ring, likely to remain there undiscovered for days, if not months. Stupid!
She hauls the backpack out of the car, slips her arms through the straps, treks to the highway, stands there and considers: walk or hitch? If she walks, she estimates she can make it to Blind River in two hours or less. That is, if she’s not eaten by bears or abducted, raped and murdered by a psychopathic serial killer. The possibility of attack by a serial killer only more inviting if she sticks out her thumb. After all, the highways are alive with the sound of bloodshed, right? THE EYEBALL KILLER. THE SHOE FETISH SLAYER. THE VAMPIRE OF SACRAMENTO. THE MIDNIGHT MARAUDER. THE WEEPY-VOICED KILLER. THE GREEN RIVER KILLER. THE BOSTON STRANGLER.
At least, that’s what the television shows would have us believe. Two or three serial killers brought to justice each night of the week whereas evidence shows there are only about 30-50 active types in the entire country at any given time. Never mind that, while violent crime has increased by over 600 per cent in the past ten years on TV, it has decreased by about thirty per cent in real life. Facts that should set the woman’s mind more or less at ease, though they don’t. And how do these monsters rate such romantic nicknames? Do the killers themselves create them? No, they are conveniently provided by members of the media. Or the law enforcement agencies. THE BUTTERMILK BLUEBEARD. THE LIPSTICK MURDERER. POGO THE CLOWN. JACK THE FUCKING RIPPER.
She pictures her mother reading about her in a missing person’s blurb on the back of a cereal box. Or on a flashing screen in the subway. She thinks about being the unlucky one out of one hundred, wrong place, wrong time, picked up, violated, her severed parts bagged in plastic, wrapped in duct tape and scattered along miles of lake shore. What did she read about Blind River in the brochure? The discovery of uranium in 1955, sure. What else? Oh yeah, in 1991 an elderly couple was shot and killed at the local rest stop just off the highway. The case was profiled on NBC TV’s Unsolved Mysteries: “The killer may still be among us!” Shit! Her hands continue to shake. She feels the terrors entering her body. She reaches behind and pulls out another pill bottle. She gives the label a look: Hey doll, she says. Do your magic. She takes a Haloperidol, swallows, starts walking.
About an hour in, a car pulls over. A man calls through the open window. Hey, what happened? Are you OK? Where’s your car? She bends to get a better look. It’s the man from the bar. What happened? he repeats. The woman keeps mum. C’mon, get in. He reaches across and opens the door. She swings around, climbs inside, clutches the backpack on her lap. She shuts the door. Again the man asks, what happened? Flat tire, she says. A ways behind. We can go back, he says. Change the tire. I was already riding the spare, she says. Uh-huh. You OK? She nods.
He lifts the lid of the storage container that separates the bucket seats to reveal a small bottle of Jack Daniels. Take a drink, he says. It’ll settle you. He hits the gas pedal and the car lurches onto the highway. Alcoholism is an equal opportunity destroyer, she mumbles. What? Nothing. A joke. She takes a swig from the bottle, then another. She passes it to the man who does the same. Are you in the habit of picking up strange women on the road? Not so strange. I recognized you. Her back stiffens at this. She slowly unzips a lower compartment of the backpack and slides her hand inside. She grips the wood handle of a steak knife. What do mean, she says, recognized me? You know. Your general shape. Five-three or four, slim. The blue hiking shorts, sandals. Your ankles. My ankles? Yeah, thin, slightly bowed. I could tell it was you. Pretty observant. Part of the job. Sales, y’know? Gotta keep your eyes open. Though the baseball cap threw me. I never would’ve thought. Have another shot. Do you good.
The bit about the ankles is perhaps slightly more than she can handle. It goes beyond mere casual observation so far as she’s concerned; it borders on intimacy. It approaches observation with intent. She accepts the bottle and drinks. Her brain is on fire, yet she can barely stay awake. Her head drops then snaps to attention. Where’s the seat belt? she blurts. Why doesn’t the alarm sound? The buzz, buzz, buzz. The seat belt issue is suddenly allimportant to her. Deadly important. She’s unsure why. Meanings within meanings and so on. Accumulation of events. You’re sitting on it, he says. I do it up so I can pile shit in the front seat. Product and such. Display folders.
The woman scans the inside of the car. There’s nothing. Makes it easier. Yeah, I bet it does, just go down, open his pants and perform the obligatory blow-job. Or else he climbs on top, hikes her skirt, lowers her panties and … Bob’s your uncle. Nothing to interfere. Here, let me release it so you can buckle up. His hand fumbles for the catch and brushes against her hip and ass. She yanks the knife from the bag and lunges at him across the seat. She presses her face to his and holds the knife to his throat. What are you doing? he says. What does it look like? This isn’t funny. It’s not supposed to be. What’s the matter with you? The matter with me? What’s the matter with you? Not exactly what you were expecting, huh? What are you, crazy or something? Put that knife away. I’ll put it away all right. I’ll shove it through your gullet.
She’s close enough he can smell her boozy breath. Get off me! Get off me, you drunk bitch! I’m tryin’ to drive. He shoves her away and she flies back at him. You wanna piece of me, she snarls. You wanna fuck me up good and proper, huh? Is that it? You’re crazy, he screams. You’re crazier than a shithouse rat. You better believe it, pal. Now tell me, what does the name Charles Albright mean to you, huh? How about David Berkowitz? Or Ricardo Caputo? What? I don’t know what you’re talking about. Sit down, fer chrissakes. Put the knife away. I can’t see the road. She keeps in his face. Ted Bundy? Gary Ridgway? Huh? Ring a bell? How about a non-descript, late model, four-door sedan, blue or green, with out-of-province license plates? How about an average-looking travelling salesman with a wife, three kids and a dog living in the suburbs and a penchant for killing prostitutes? And I’ll give you a hint — it’s not a joke. I don’t know what you’re talking about. I offered you a ride, that’s it. He attempts to get an arm between himself and the woman. Will you let me drive? I can’t see with you … He fires a finger toward the windshield. Christ, what’s that?
She doesn’t have time to react. The impact knocks her against the passenger side door and she feels the serrated knife blade penetrate her flesh. She jerks the knife out and drops it on the rubber mat floor. What the fuck? The man spits. We hit something. What the fuck? Are you fucking nuts, or what? Do you wanna kill us both? She scrambles for her pack, blindly searches out the car door handle, grabs, pulls, bangs her shoulder into the door and ejects herself from the still-speeding vehicle. She bounces and rolls across the shoulder and lands on the grass. The car barrels down the highway, its taillights fading to pinpricks in the distance. The woman’s backpack lands several yards away from her. She stretches her arms forward, digs in with her knees and crawls toward the trees. She loses a sandal, manages to push a few extra feet. Finally, she gives up, turns over, stares up at the sky.
Crazy as a shithouse rat. She grins. Look who’s calling the kettle black.
We are only as sick as our secrets.
Damn straight.
She blinks once and everything goes dark.
It’s a media frenzy: Abandoned car hidden in trees along a lone stretch of highway sniffed out by dogs belonging to early morning hikers, license plate belonging to missing Toronto woman, mysterious disappearance, foul play not ruled out, packed suitcase in back of car, area known for previous instances of road-side murders, rumours of a possible serial killer at large. All the lurid elements of a sensationalistic story in the making. Victim’s mother offers reward for information leading to the whereabouts. Victim’s husband goes on camera to make a plea for the safe return. Victim’s psychiatrist paints ominous patient profile including hostility toward herself and others as well as sexual fixations which leave her open to abusive relations. Do not discount Stockholm Syndrome. Further agrees to provide grief counselling to those closest should the situation arise. Fee negotiable.
Further rewards are offered by special interest groups as well as more local concerned citizens and businesses requesting information that may lead to the arrest and conviction. Police claim they are doing everything possible, warning that the longer it takes, the less likely are the chances of the missing woman’s survival and safe return. The usual suspects are being gathered and interrogated. Bolos and APBs are being issued. DNA from hair and fabric samples is being analyzed. Promises and assurances are being made: There is no need to panic. If a heinous crime has been committed we will apprehend the sick sonofabitch responsible. ABC, NBC, CBC, CNN, CTV, FOX, CP24, CityTV and the like, delve deep into similar past cases and re-broadcast these along with recent interviews, commentary and thought-provoking analysis in order to allow the viewing audience the opportunity to share and enjoy as much information and participation as possible under the circumstances. Contact numbers have been set in place to enable anyone to easily offer information, opinions or points of view via telephone, email, Twitter, Facebook, Blogs, Livestream and so on.
Be part of the solution, not the problem.
The lines of communication are open 24/7. The boards are lit with callers.
What does the woman remember? Very little, if anything. Most of it is gone now, relegated to the part of the brain that stores useless information and empty memories. The rest is simply vague impressions: a car, a highway, an accident of some sort. Hard to say. She seems to recall a wound in her side. She feels for it with her fingers and there’s nothing. Skin smooth as silk and not even the hint of a scar. None of this matters. What matters is here and now — lying on a table in a strange room, staring up at the slow revolve of a ceiling fan’s dusty blades. She’s naked and can feel the cool air drift across her skin; stiffen her nipples; bristle her pubic hair. She lowers her eyes and recognizes the same black crow positioned at her feet, beak open, wings spreading and folding. The woman wiggles her toes. Around one wrist is the coiled weight of the grey snake, vertical pupils fixed on her. She spots Reuben across the floor, putting a CD in the player. Like her, he’s naked. He hits the play button. It’s The Tragically Hip with Killing Time. Gord Downie sings: “I need your confidence, need to know you’re mine, when it gets right down to the killing time.” She wonders if everything has meaning beyond itself or if it simply is what it is and anything further is pure misguided human folly, wishful thinking or blind coincidence?
Chicken or egg? Background become foreground? A stone so heavy even God can’t lift? Black rainbows followed by white rainbows?
Words, words, words.
Reuben walks toward her and puts out a hand. She takes it, sits up, climbs off the table onto the floor. He studies her. Her skin sparkles; it absolutely glows. Not a mark, not a blemish. He leads her to the back door, wraps a hand around the handle. He steps to one side and swings the door open. The woman is struck by a flash of blinding sunlight. She covers her face with an arm, then slowly drops it as her eyes become accustomed. She gradually takes in the scene. The sky is filled with big, fluffy white cumulus clouds sliced through by brilliant golden beams. She seems to recall a similar picture in a book she once owned as a child. Beneath the clouds grows a beautiful garden complete with cascading stream, waterfalls and a quiet pond surrounded by leafy tall trees, beautiful blooming flowers, the whole diorama alive with all manner of birds, insects and animals roaming freely and cohabiting peacefully one with the other: a deer grazes within inches of a lazing timber wolf; a raccoon playwrestles with a coyote.
Lions among lambs, foxes among hens and so on.
The woman squeezes Reuben’s hand.
Don’t quit five minutes before the miracle happens.
Reuben kisses her forehead and she smiles. From somewhere close by, the desultory sound of a lone guitar emerges. Man in black intones: Hallelujah, Hallelujah!
What brave new world is this?
The two step forward. They exit the house and enter the garden, their naked bodies haloed in a blaze of brilliant white light.