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Jim drove me in his pickup truck for some twenty miles or so. The ride lasted long enough that I began to wonder if he had forgotten the original point of my request. Each mile we traveled caused a new doubt to rise in my mind that he was even taking me to a telephone. At last, we pulled into the small gravel parking lot behind a yellow building with a paint-peeling sign hanging out front. Some of the words were missing. It was the Something-or-Other Bar. I couldn’t tell whether it was closed because of the early hour or because it was no longer in business. The place was surrounded by pasture and farmland, with bulky Holsteins on one side of the road and endless rows of knee-high corn on the other.
“We come out here once in a while to let off steam,” Jim explained. “I bet I’ve driven every inch of Wisconsin, traveling around with Hinkle.”
A glass phone booth was behind the building, next to a big propane tank. Crushed cigarettes dotted the ground nearby, dropped, I guessed, by earnest drinkers needing to make sudden calls. I pictured a person wearing wide-legged jeans and a satin shirt, looking much like Jared, with terrible wispy facial hair, leaning down to light a match off the tip of his boot, smoking, and telling someone his story into the mouthpiece.
My relief at finally being delivered to a telephone and my elation at being able at last to provide my account of the night before was short-lived, however. I couldn’t fit into the phone booth. Jim had left me to make my call and was leaning against the passenger’s-side door, looking out into the endless landscape, his back to me. He couldn’t see my predicament and had no way of knowing how difficult simple interactions could be when everything was so small, so clearly designed for someone else. I pushed open the door and fumbled with the handset. Maybe my arm could reach far enough to dial Mrs. Schendel’s number because, if it couldn’t, then I would have no choice but to ask Jim for his help.
“Jim,” I called, wishing again that I knew his last name so that I could address him as Mr. Something because, regardless of what had taken place between us, I couldn’t shake the impertinent weirdness of calling a man so many years my senior by his first name. “Hey, excuse me.”
“I’m sorry,” I said to Jim when he walked around the front of the truck, the cigarette stuck to his lip. “We probably should have used that phone in the office because I’m having trouble dialing the number here. And you know, I guess I didn’t think to bring any money.”
“Jesus Christ,” muttered Jim. He pulled a handful of change from his front pocket then shook it on his open palm so he could fish out a dime. “All right,” he said. “I’ll put in the dime and dial the phone, and you can stand out here. The cord probably stretches far enough that you can wedge in your top half and talk real loud.” Jim went into the booth and lifted the handset. The phone dinged. “What’s the number?”
I stayed rooted to the spot, afraid to tell him the number or to have him hear my conversation.
“Sarah, the dime already dropped. Tell me the number.” He could just drive away and leave me because he didn’t want to waste any more time on me. I told him the number.
And then Jim got out of the phone booth and passed me the handset. By standing sideways and bending a bit at the waist, I was able to almost cradle it against my face. I hoped Jim would walk back to the other side of the truck to smoke another cigarette, but now he seemed intent on standing right in front of me to listen to my conversation. We could both hear Mrs. Schendel’s line ring. I could picture her in the kitchen, wiping her hands on the dish towel slung over her shoulder before she reached out to touch the receiver on the wall.
“Hello,” she said. Her voice was loud and breathy, as if she had had to run to answer the phone. “Hello?”
I tried to say something, but all that came out was some stupid, mangled choking sound. The intensity of Jim’s gaze scared me, making my mouth dry and useless. My indrawn breath sounded like a wheezing harmonica.
“Sarah, is that you?” Mrs. Schendel’s voice was scared, panicked, shocked. She must already know what had happened with Jared. “My God, where are you? Oh, honey, Missy found Jared dead at the house. You weren’t there. And...”
“Wait,” I said. “Don’t tell me anything yet.” The wind blew up some dust around my feet while Jim leaned forward to try to peer into my face. I should hang up the phone. I should have just written a letter. The plan I had perfected in the quiet places of my mind wasn’t unfolding the right way out here in the real world, in the wide-open space with no walls to keep me safe or hold me back or to stop my imagination from running wild.
“I have exciting news.”
“Sarah—”
“No! You—please, be quiet and listen. I’m in New York City. I mean, I’m going there. I’m on my way there.” I stopped, realizing too late that the compulsion to provide huge amounts of information was the mark of a liar. “Just hang on, please. Okay?” I made my voice calmer. “I’m going to go live with my grandmother.” I struggled to push more of my upper body into the telephone booth to ease away from Jim because I wished I could whisper the words I wanted to say.
“How on earth would you get to New York City? Sarah, I need you to listen to me now.” Mrs. Schendel was steady and calm, but there was an undertone to her words, a snappy briskness meant to stop me from talking so much. “Honey, Jared is—”
I raised my voice to talk over her so that her words wouldn’t be left hanging in the air for Jim to hear—for me to hear. “No! Stop. That’s not what happened. I’m in New York. I mean I’m at the train station, at a place.”
“Be quiet. I need you to stop talking for just a minute. Missy went to the house this morning. She found Jared on the kitchen floor. I ran over there, too, when I saw the rescue squad and the police in the driveway.”
At this point, Jim angled himself so he could stare directly into my face and watch me, gauging my reaction to the words he heard loud and clear.
Mrs. Schendel paused. “What’s going on, Sarah?”
I squeezed my eyes shut, scrunching the fat of my face into pleats. “Nothing. I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I lowered my head, struggling to stand, to breathe, to find the right words. “I’m here. Jared is fine. I know he’s okay.”
“Honey, you have to come home right now. My God, I didn’t even know where you were or what had happened. I thought you might be dead too.” She was crying, and Mrs. Schendel never cried.
“Just listen to me, then. I’m fine. Everything is fine. New York is wonderful. My grandmother is actually a really nice person.” I cleared my throat and opened my eyes. “You know I hate to say it”—here I managed to insert the merest sliver of an unsteady laugh—“but you were really wrong about her. She said she didn’t even mind about my being so fat and that she knows now that Dad was a good man. Okay?
“And don’t worry about Jared, all right? I made him his dinner last night. He ate it all up, then I just came right out with it and told him I was going to New York City. He couldn’t understand it at all because you know how he is, but in the end, he told me to just go. And he didn’t even say it in a mean way.” My hand left a humid smear on the handset.
“Okay, okay, Sarah,” Mrs. Schendel said in a quiet, calming voice as if she were soothing a nervous horse, the tone she had used when my father died, when she had held the full weight of my head on her lap, her fingers brushing my bangs from my forehead again and again. “I don’t quite know what to make of all this. Everyone is really confused and sad, too, I suppose, about Jared, but we can figure all that out when you get here. Sarah, you’re going to need to sign some papers and take care of arrangements. I’ll help you get back home...”
Was it because she loved me that she didn’t understand or wouldn’t believe what had happened between Jared and me? Or was it because she couldn’t imagine something so horrible? Or just because, like everyone else, she didn’t believe I was relevant enough, angry enough to fight back?
“I’m very sad about Jared. I mean, I really do feel horrible about this.” I bit my lower lip hard so I wouldn’t cry. “But I’m not coming back.”
Mrs. Schendel tried again to tell me something or other, but this conversation had already lasted too long.
“Just remember, when I left, Jared was alive. He was in a good mood, even though he had been drinking. I don’t know what happened after that.” Finally, I had managed to tell her what I needed to say. “That’s what you need to tell people.”
I wished I could slam down the receiver, but instead, I pushed it into Jim’s hands, sending away the rising tide of Mrs. Schendel’s voice, which was sharp and high-pitched with confusion and urgency. Walking away, I pretended I was home in the backyard, pulling a clean sheet off the clothesline, breathing in the sunshine that had it baked it dry. Only that sensation of freshness—of newness—existed. My thoughts twined in the soft cotton.
Jim dug his fingers into my forearm. He probably wanted to whip me around to face him, but no man—not even my father or Jared—was strong enough for that. “Turn around, and look at me, Sarah,” he barked. He held my arm too tightly, his hand sinking deeper and farther down, wanting to grab the hidden bone. A small, hot splash of urine trickled out of me.
He held both arms now and shook me, but I was no rag doll and barely moved. It was his body that rocked back and forth, which only made him more angry. “Goddamn you, girl. What the fuck are you mixed up in?” Jim stopped trying to flop me around and eased his grip a small fraction. He, at least, appeared to think me capable of anything.
My skin under his hands burned, so much so that I worried he might really break my arms if only to relieve the mounting pressure of his anger. His face was red. There was no way skin could burn that brightly and not explode. I wanted to say something, to provide some sort of explanation, but my mind was a sheet snapping in the wind. My mouth hung half open, my words stunned, my face frozen with shock, dazzled by his anger and the unending cascade of events, the forever-falling domino chain of the last twenty-four hours.
“Goddamn, fuck, fuck, motherfucker.” Jim let me go and walked away while I pressed my back against the truck, both hands wrapped over my head, as if that gesture could block out Jim’s rage. Jim circled back and stood in front of me.
“Fuck,” he said, his voice still angry but cooler. “Do you know what it means to bring heat like that on the carnival, Sarah? The goddamn police are always looking at us for one thing or another. How fast do you think they would shut us down if they thought we were hiding a fugitive—a killer?”
“It’s not like that. Not like that at all.” I cleared my throat to be sure that Jim could hear me. “I’m not a fugitive. No one is after me. And certainly... I’m no killer.” I said the last words with a quiet intensity, staring straight into Jim’s face, willing him to believe me.
“Jesus Christ, I don’t need this.” Jim looked up at the sky, hands on his hips. “I should just leave your fat ass here and save myself the trouble.”
His statement was so matter-of-fact that a dark-purple panic, like the blooming spots behind my eyes, threatened to stop my breathing. What would become of me if he left me out on this lonely road? When would the Something-or-Other Bar open? Would anyone find me sweating and reeking, stained with pee and dirt, having to explain why I couldn’t call for help as I cringed on the ground next to a public telephone booth?
“You can’t leave me. Please. I beg of you.” The sun burned into my scalp as the salt of my tears dripped onto my lips. I tried to imagine snow. Quiet, cold flakes, falling like secrets on my flaming skin.
“Motherfucker,” Jim said again but with less conviction this time.
As he looked down at me, Jim’s expression wavered, his anger mixing with pity, apparently, at the sight of my desperate tears. I leaned harder against the side of the truck, waiting because I needed Jim to tell me in so many words that he wasn’t going to leave me to fend for myself.
He reached behind my head to massage my neck roll. “It’s just that this is a big deal, you know?” His fingers were dry and rough, shiver making.
Now that Jim appeared calmer, more like the easygoing man of the night before, I had to appeal to his sense of reason, to convince him that I was worth the trouble. “I know it’s a big deal. I understand that, but I can still be a good fat lady. Gigi gave me some tips, and it’s not like you can find a five-hundred-pound woman around every corner.” That final assertion was irrefutable fact, at least.
To my complete surprise, Jim laughed softly at that last comment. “You’re unique, all right.” He took the truck keys from the pocket of his jeans and jangled them in his hand. “Let’s head back, then,” he said.
My body sagged with relief that Jim wasn’t going to drive away without me. I represented a risk for him and the carnival, certainly, but Jim apparently lacked the detached cruelty, the calculated heartlessness required to leave someone as endangered and needy as me to suffer an unknown fate in an empty landscape. Somehow, the high heat of our emotions, underscored as they were by the mention of death, the possibility of abandonment, and the danger of discovery, had created a greater intimacy between us, a closeness that made me feel seen.
Jim must have experienced something similar because he kissed the top of my head, holding his lips in place for several moments. “How about I treat you to lunch?” he murmured into my hair. “We’ll go back to the carnival, and you can hide out in my trailer and get cleaned up, and I’ll bring whatever you want to eat. There’s everything you can think of. Hamburgers, corn dogs, funnel cake, cotton candy, caramel corn.” The remorse he felt was apparent in his voice, as if he loathed his own rage. Where only moments before he had seemed monstrous and uncaring, now he appeared soft and contrite.
“Whatever you want,” he said. “As much as you want.”