“Cookie!” she cries at the top of her lungs. “Cookie! Cookie!”
As Annie calls out that ridiculous word, she starts to cry. The tears and the rain cover her face, as she runs and yells, “Cookie! Cookie! Cookie!” like some demented Muppet mantra. Annie careens around the hill calling for her dog, looking under the industrial garbage bin, peeking behind rocks, confronting the notion that her entire life has been an exercise in foolishness.
Here, now, at the lighthouse, in the storm—her dog missing, jail looming, Sammy, Johnny, and the FBI all coming at her from different angles—her own foolishness is brought home to her. Able to run no more, at the end of the line, she sits on the grass and cries harder. She had been unwise to stay out on the point so long. She’d been thoughtless to expose her dogs to danger.
Long ago, she’d been a selfish girl doing reckless things that got her friend and her boyfriend killed. She’d been stupid to hide out, then, in fear of Johnny Buscemi. She’d been rash to go along with Sammy’s ridiculous plan. Dreaming to think she had really escaped Fate, that she had truly made a new life and a new person out of herself—neither Susan nor Annie but another entity entirely.
As she sits in the rain watching it all melt before her eyes, she sees, for the first time, that she is a foolish person chasing futile dreams.
Swept up in the drama of the storm, Annie buries her head in her hands and cries louder. No one can hear her. No one can see her.
Just as she had predicted, the storm soon blows off to the west. Little Calpurnia has crept back and is sitting at her feet. Annie absently reaches out to stroke her sodden fur, but her mind is focused on the impossible choices she needs to make.
And make today.
56
Time: 7:40 p.m.
Annie huddles on the ground with her dog on her lap—both of them soaked to the bone. She looks up to see Sammy slogging toward them. He is no dryer than they are.
The sun glows red out of the western sky, its beams changing colors as they bounce off the beads of water still saturating the air. Black clouds are visible, farther along, to the left of the setting sun. It is a Turner sky, dark and light, hopeful and hopeless, hellish and heavenly. Chiaroscuro.
“Shall I pick you up and carry you home?” Sammy is nothing, if not gallant.
“I thought you said you weren’t well.”
“Never too ill to rescue a damsel in distress.”
“I appreciate the thought, but a piggy back ride won’t save me at this juncture.” Annie wipes her face and looks up at him. “And we don’t want to have to call nine-one-one if your heart goes. We’re both kind of fugitives of justice.”
“Madame, you have become quite practical.” Sammy reaches out a hand to offer Annie assistance in rising.
“I suppose I have,” she says as they begin the trip back to her house. “And who ever would have expected practicality from the likes of me?”
“You have surprised me more than once.”
When they arrive at the door of Gull Cottage, they nearly smack into Helen. She wears rubber boots and a rain slicker and is determinedly on her way out. “Mrs. Ford! You are very wet!”
“Yes, Helen, I am very wet.”
“I was coming to look for you.” Helen eyes Sammy suspiciously.
“Well, I’m back,” Annie says, but she can see that this does not satisfy Helen.
“You need dry clothes. Him too.”
“Yes. Yes,” Annie says but she does not move.
Helen and Sammy wait awkwardly.
“Follow me,” Helen commands Sammy.
Sammy seems grateful for some direction and the chance to get out of his wet clothes. He grabs his suitcase and follows Helen as Annie slowly mounts the stairs.
57
Tuesday, October 9, 1979
Suburban Detroit
Today was the day when Sammy would cut and color Annie’s hair, advancing her transformation from brunette Annie Nelson to blond Susan Bentley. Sammy had sent Jacob to purchase scissors and hair dye, stressing that it shouldn’t be too blond—not Marilyn Monroe, just regular blond—more like Farah Fawcett. Jacob listened patiently without comprehending. In the end, he purchased ten boxes of varied Clairol blonds and left them at their clandestine pickup spot in the basement. Sammy and Annie stood in the bathroom studying the boxes, debating which blond was most like Susan’s blond.
“Should I be ash blond or honey blond?”
“How about honey?”
“What about strawberry blond?”
“Not with your skin tone.”
“Really, Sammy?” Annie smiled. “Listen to you! I’ve never met a man who knew about skin tone.”
“I think the last guy you dated was a caveman.” The lighthearted mood was broken. “I’m sorry, Annie. That wasn’t funny.”
“It’s okay. I know you were just trying to make me laugh.”
Annie’s face had improved. Her bruises had faded from black and blue to yellow and green. Sammy teased her that these new colors made her look like a walking science experiment, a Petri dish growing mold for penicillin. Even in their current circumstances, they laughed. Despite the deaths and their cloudy future, Annie and Sammy were young and very much alive.
“I think we should cut your hair first and then dye it. That way, we’re not dying all the hair we’re just going to cut off.”
“How short was Susan’s hair?” Annie held both hands to her skull like a helmet. “I hate short hair.”
“Well, my dear, you don’t really have any choice.” Sammy picked up the scissors.
Annie was wearing one of Sammy’s shirts, a white button down, and nothing else but panties. They had wrangled one of the kitchen stools into the bathroom, so Annie could sit up high and see herself in the mirror. Sammy said it was a mistake. He thought he was better able to make a detached decision away from Annie’s scrutiny. He feared she would balk.
But Annie had prevailed and there they were—crammed tightly into the tiny bathroom—Annie on her stool and Sammy standing next to her. They talked to each other—as hairdresser and client do—looking not at each other face to face, but at each other’s faces in the mirror. Annie had grown used to the look of her abrasions and was no longer self-conscious at her own image.
They had considered placing a photograph of Susan in the bathroom, one they had found in her boxes. But it was too unbearably sad to have Susan’s face staring back at them as they further obliterated her from the face of the earth. They knew what she looked like. They could do this without visual aids.
“Move your hands, please, mademoiselle.” Sammy picked up a lock of Annie’s chestnut hair. She had worn it long her entire life and was rather vain about it. In fact, she regarded it as one of her best features. Small price to pay, she recognized. Not remotely the sacrifice Susan had made.
Annie gritted her teeth, closed her eyes and surrendered. “Do it,” she said.
Snip. They had begun. Snip. He took another strand. Snip. It was getting easier. Annie opened one eye to see half of her head looking a little scruffy. Both eyes popped open.
“I think it’s uneven!” Her arms flew up to grab at Sammy’s wrists.
Sammy deftly dodged. “Just give me a minute here. I’ll even it out at the end.”
“That’s what my mother said when she cut my bangs when I was little! She kept evening it until I looked like Mamie Eisenhower!”
“Was that bad? I don’t remember what Mamie Eisenhower looked like.”
“Trust me, it was awful.”
“Okay, I’ll be careful.”
Sammy cut while Annie critiqued.
“Why don’t you close your eyes again?” Sammy requested. “You’re making me nervous. If I make a mistake it’s because you made me nervous.”
“Don’t blame me for your mistakes!”
“I haven’t made any yet. Close your eyes and be quiet. I’m concentrating.”
Annie tried, but soon was peeking out from under her eyelashes. “I loo
k like Joan of Arc.”
“I thought you had your eyes closed!”
“I’m seeing with my mind’s eye that I must look like Joan of Arc.”
“I’ll give you Joan of Arc.” And Sammy tickled her a little. Just a little.
And so, they continued in the tiny bathroom of the apartment, the safe house, in Southfield. For today, they had mostly forgotten what had brought them here. For today, they were a boy and a girl, in close proximity in a very small room.
“Now for the color!” Sammy suddenly announced, much to Annie’s surprise.
“That’s it? That’s my haircut?”
“Well, I’ll clean it up after it’s blond.”
It was the coloring process that nudged Sammy and Annie over the line. It was a messy, wet, sticky undertaking that involved water and splashing and spilling. It was the hair dye that got all over Sammy’s T-shirt, which caused him to lift it over his head and toss it aside. It was the water that soaked the front of Annie’s shirt that made her cold and itchy. It was Annie who told Sammy to turn away while she unbuttoned it to take it off. It was Annie who asked Sammy to hand her a towel to wrap around her nakedness. It was Sammy, turning back to her, who did not hand it over. It was Sammy who stood staring, just staring, at Annie.
It was Annie who moved toward Sammy, the ever-so-short distance that separated them and kissed him with her bruised and tender lips. It was Annie and Sammy who fell on each other with all of the hunger, pain and loss they had experienced in the past thirty days. It was Sammy and Annie who made love on the bathroom sink, with Annie’s hair all over the bathroom floor.
It was Sammy who whispered the name, Susan, softly in Annie’s ear, not meaning to hurt her, hoping she hadn’t heard. It was Annie who cried afterwards and Sammy who tried to soothe her. It was Sammy and Annie who were sealed in a pact of survival. It was the two of them who would escape, would go on, would put this summer and its deaths behind them.
It was Annie and Sammy who would live.
58
Wednesday, October 31, 1979
“Trick or Treat!”
Annie jumped out at Sammy from behind the front door, causing him to spring a foot in the air and drop the paper bags he’d been carrying from the pickup spot in the basement. Canned goods, oranges, apples and pears spilled all over the floor. Intent on stopping the rolling foodstuff, Sammy did not at first observe that she had fashioned herself a Halloween costume.
“Jesus Christ, Annie!” he blurted from all fours. “You scared the life out of me. Don’t scare the guy you’re hiding out with, okay? You could get yourself hurt.”
Sammy continued to crawl around on the floor, cramming items back into bags. When he finally looked up, she saw him register the black leotard and tights that she’d pilfered from Susan’s dance wardrobe. His eyes traveled down to the black tail hanging from her behind and up again to the two black ears that she’d made with Susan’s construction paper. His eyes finally landed on the black whiskers and nose that she’d drawn on her face with eyebrow pencil.
“You look like a cat,” he said.
“Yes, goddamn it! I’m a cat! It’s goddamn Halloween and I’m a goddamn cat!” and she flounced out of the room, slamming the bedroom door behind her.
Sammy and Annie had been holed up in the apartment in Southfield for nearly eight weeks. Caught in the unreality of their life in isolation from the world, they found themselves playing house in more ways than one.
Every day, Annie read Susan’s books. Sammy couldn’t bear to. Five times a week, Sammy taught Annie French. The cruel punch line that French lessons were delivered via Sammy instead of Susan was not lost on Annie.
Together, Sammy and Annie created a schedule of lessons for Annie, lessons in becoming Susan. The material was all there, in the boxes, on the floor—the guide to becoming the girl.
“Annie.” She heard him gently knock. “Annie, I’m sorry. I forgot it was Halloween. May I come in?”
Annie was lying on the bed, crying, and did not answer.
Sammy turned the knob. “Annie, don’t cry. I’m sorry.”
She looked up at him, as he looked down at her, and they did what they did all the time now. Every night and every day. They slowly undressed and made love. Her body was nearly healed but the pattern was established. He touched her with trepidation. She lightly touched him back. No force was used between them—like bodies of ether, the skin of one slipped across the skin of the other.
“Annie, I need to tell you something,” Sammy said afterward, as he twisted little strands of her hair.
“That sounds ominous.” She leaned up on her elbows. “First, I need you to tell me about you and Susan.”
“Oh, I…I don’t think that’s a very good idea.”
“Please, Sammy. I loved her too. I know I had a piss poor way of showing it. It’s just…I don’t know why I acted the way I did.” Annie sat up fully. “But I loved her too.”
Sammy hoisted himself up to sit. He looked at the wall, not at Annie. He remained still for a good, long while, before he answered.
“I picture her that last night when she was wearing the nightgown, just like Wendy in Peter Pan. I saw that play once, in London. She walked around the car and the light from the streetlamp caught her hair and the nightgown and everything was iridescent and shining back at me.
“And I picture her smiling. I know she was not actually smiling. But it helps me to imagine her that way. Because the other image that rises up in my head, the one I cannot shake off, is what expression was on her face at the end.”
Annie said nothing.
“I saw myself in Susan,” Sammy continued, “a younger version of myself. We dreamed a similar dream of beauty and art and sweet, sad moments. Melancholy. That’s a good word for it. I saw a strain of melancholy in Susan that I have within myself. The difference was, I thought she could get out. I’m trapped by responsibility, habit, clan—but I thought she could get out.”
Sammy turned to look at Annie, the flesh-and-blood girl who was next to him on the bed.
“But you’re different, Annie. You don’t have a melancholy bone in your body. You’re strong and fierce. You’re the most alive person I’ve ever met. And, now that you’re off of drugs”—he winked at her—“you’re becoming tolerably nice.”
Annie did not know if she regretted asking the question. It was clear that Sammy loved Susan but there was another thing, as well—some sort of misalignment with the two of them. Maybe a man like Sammy and a woman like Susan could not really be together. Maybe she, Annie, would be a better fit for Sammy. Maybe there was a real future for them, outside of the four walls of this apartment.
Annie could not help but fantasize.
She stood up with the sheet wrapped around her. Her cat face was smudged, but still there. She went into the bathroom and returned with a washcloth. “What did you want to tell me?”
“It’s almost time to go, Annie. My cousin says they’ve stopped looking for anyone who might have survived that night. Jacob will arrange your ticket to New York and my ticket to Baghdad. I’ll go there for a few months. He’ll bring us to the airport.”
Annie sat down with a plop, on the floor, right where she’d been standing, the air rushing out of her in an audible whoosh. “Now?”
“I think he means in a few weeks. Not right now.”
Sammy rose and moved to Annie, wearing nothing but the skin God gave him. “We still have a few weeks.”
And, again, because that is what they did in those days, in that apartment, they made love on the floor. Because it made them feel alive.
Because it kept their dead at bay.
59
Thursday, November 22, 1979
The time had come to say goodbye. Sammy’s cousin, Jacob, had picked Thanksgiving Day to send them packing, to end their idyll, to flush them out of the womb in which they’d been living for two and a half months. Perhaps he’d reckoned that all the thugs would be home with their families, saying gr
ace at the table for the bounty that lay before them. Not looking for the girl who got away. The girl who was dead, after all.
Annie thought it was particularly insensitive to send her away on her favorite holiday. She realized that she and Sammy would not have been roasting a turkey. But why did Jacob have to choose this day to send her off into the abyss?
When she was a child, Thanksgiving was the one holiday they’d spent at Grandma Annie’s. Christmas, they had to have at her house, with her mother and stepfather presiding over the whole sorry spectacle. On Christmas, there was always a fight. Something would go wrong. Her mother would burn the roast, or the lights on the tree would stop working; something would trigger what inevitably came next—her stepfather getting angry and picking a fight.
Thanksgiving at her grandmother’s house was happy. Her stepfather behaved better there.
As a little girl, Annie would stand at the kitchen storm door and draw pictures with her fingers in the condensation. Little ice-crystal flowers were clustered in the corners of the glass, but the center was steamed over from the heat of the roasting turkey and the boiling potatoes and the baking pies. Annie would draw pictures and write words and Grandma Annie, no matter how busy she was getting that meal on the table, would always take a moment, here and there, to walk over and say something nice.
Now, here she was—unable to see her grandmother or have one last Thanksgiving or hear a single kind word—being hustled into Detroit Metropolitan Airport by a couple of Chaldeans.
They sat in the car, Annie, Sammy, and Jacob, in front of the terminal. Annie’s flight was first; Sammy had a hellish series of connections that wouldn’t begin for several hours. Annie was almost late, but she wanted a minute alone with Sammy to say goodbye. She had been alone with him for so long now that she barely remembered how to talk to another person.
She did not know how she would survive in New York, how she would make it on her own. She had never before done it. Sammy had given her money and she had selected some of Susan’s clothes, a few books, Susan’s address book and her journal. Sammy had told her about a place, the Barbizon Hotel for Women, that he said would be a good place to start. She had that address in her purse.
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