by Hannah Tinti
“Fucking hellcat!” The girl’s teeth had gone right through the skin, and now King was bleeding on his baggy suit. Hawley listened to her heels running away and then the bell rang over the door.
“You don’t need that money,” said Hawley.
“This doesn’t have anything to do with you.”
“It does.” He hadn’t meant for the words to come out like that, but they did. And as they did, Hawley knew they were true. This knowing was different from before, when his body had sensed the bullets coming for him. It was more like the meteor shower he’d told the girl about, a trail of cold rock suddenly burning to life. He’d unlocked something, a possibility, and the entrance was here, in this thin aisle of space before him, between the booths and the counter and a row of spinning stools.
Ed King’s eye was twitching, the nostrils of his broken nose wide open. He leaned back and then his fist flashed forward, as fast as when he grabbed the girl’s arm. But Hawley had been waiting for it, and he dodged just enough for King to miss and topple over onto the table. The dishes went smashing onto the floor, pie tossed in every direction.
The cook stuck his head through the kitchen window. “What the hell is going on out there?”
It distracted Hawley just enough so that King’s next punch connected, a strong blow to the chest and then another quick to the jaw, and before he knew it he was on the floor of the diner. King had the satchel and he was crossing over him and Hawley reached up and took hold of the man’s legs and threw him to the ground and scrambled on top of him and then he started beating him with all of his might.
It was what he was meant for.
Hawley’s body recognized every turn, like a well-worn path—the adrenaline, the heat of his shoulders working, the shifting of weight, the tumble of skin and hair, the blows to the ribs, the ache of breathing, the familiar sensation of his knuckles crunching, and it felt wonderful, the flood of it like some smooth, dark air flowing from a deep cavern. He grabbed the Smith & Wesson from the back of his pants and stuffed it into King’s mouth.
The cook stepped out from the kitchen carrying a shotgun. He still had his hairnet on. “That’s enough!” he shouted. “Drop it.”
Hawley slowly removed the revolver from between King’s teeth. He had been so close to killing that his fingers shook. It wasn’t the way he’d meant to go and now he backed away from the edge, his heart beating and the blood roaring through his hands, even as he lifted them over his head. The cook walked around the counter, keeping the shotgun level, and backed over to the entrance. He cracked it open.
“Barbara! Get in here!”
The waitress came in, smelling of cigarettes. Her eyes went wide as she took in the mess. “Jesus Christ!” she said.
“Call the police,” said the cook.
“You don’t have to do that,” said Hawley. “Nobody’s hurt.”
“You were going to murder that guy,” said the cook. He made Hawley give him the revolver. Then he sent the waitress over to the pay phone by the bathrooms to call the police. She didn’t have any change and had to take it out of the cash register.
Hawley stood up, slivers of pain shooting from his knuckles to his wrists. At his feet King groaned and rolled to his side. There was pie all over the floor. Peaches and pineapple and blueberries and whipped cream were smeared across King’s suit. His hanging door-nose now swung in the opposite direction. Hawley kept his eyes on the cook. His nerves ached. He took a step closer to the duffel bag.
The waitress hung up the phone. “They’re coming,” she said, and went to stand behind the counter. The cook remained in the aisle between the counter and the tables, the shotgun poised.
“I don’t want any trouble,” said Hawley, “but I’m going to leave now. I’m going to walk out real slow. I won’t bother anybody.”
“You’ll stay and talk to the police,” said the cook.
“Sorry,” said Hawley. “I can’t do that.” He checked the mirrors, gave one quick glance at the parking lot. Then he reached down and picked up the duffel bag and the satchel with Jove’s money and took a step toward the old man.
“Stay where you are,” said the cook.
“I’m going to walk past you,” said Hawley, “and then I’ll be gone. You’ll never see me again. All I want is to go through that door.” He moved down the aisle. He could smell something burning on the stove. The neon clock was flickering overhead, the light bouncing off the edges of the chrome. It was so quiet he could hear the buzzing current that moved the hands of the clock, sweeping the thin black line past the numbers.
The cook did not lower the gun, but he backed into one of the booths and let Hawley pass. And as soon as he did, it was as if Hawley had entered a dream. Like he’d done all of this already in another life, and knew the cook was going to let him go because he had already let him go, long before. Hawley had never felt so certain, so clear of what would happen next. He reached for the handle. The bell rang as he pulled the door open. He could feel the sun warming the pavement outside, smell the gasoline, taste the exhaust of the highway, and beneath all of this he could hear a whirring. There was a grove of pine trees behind the diner, the entrance to a clutch of woods that traveled up a rocky ridge and then spread out across the hills into the distance. He had not noticed the trees on his way in but now they seemed to be hissing directly for him, the needles combing the wind. And then he heard something else. Hawley turned a fraction of an inch, just enough to see Ed King’s fist coming toward him.
The blow was the kind the boxer was known for, the kind that split men’s minds in two. Hawley could feel parts of himself pulling away from each other. Dividing the man he was from what he might be. I was almost there, he thought. I almost made it. And then there was an explosion of shimmering noise, and the world closed in like he was falling backward into water, the light far above the surface moving out of reach, and then darkness swept forth and extinguished the rest.
When Hawley came to, he was just inside the entrance to the diner. The glass door was smashed where he’d fallen against it. He shifted and felt all the tiny glimmering pieces roll off his chest. There was a pounding in his head and blood dripping from his ear. Somewhere behind him King was shouting at the cook. Hawley didn’t know how long he’d been out. He looked up through the broken door at the bright-blue sky. The wind had picked up and the clouds were passing quickly.
Hawley tried to stand. His vision spun, so he concentrated on the line of seats by the counter—red seats fixed in place and still. Over by the cash register, King and the cook were wrestling over the shotgun. The old man tried to keep the boxer off but King bent quickly and jabbed him in the guts. The shotgun went off and blasted a hole through one of the windows, sending more glass across the diner tables and a spray of shot that hit Hawley in the thigh as he turned away.
The waitress screamed and dropped behind the counter. With one hand King wrenched the gun from the old man, spun it around and cracked him on the side of the head with the barrel. Hawley’s leg burned. He pressed his fingers against the wound. It was birdshot but it was bleeding badly. He could hear the waitress sobbing. The old man groaned on the floor. The hairnet had slipped off. King leaned against the counter, breathing heavily, his suit covered in blood and eight different kinds of pie, his tongue moving inside his mouth like he’d tasted something sour. He turned the gun back around and pumped the handle. The empty shell flipped out of the chamber, hit the floor and rolled across the diner toward Hawley.
Flashing lights—red and blue—flooded the windows. Then a siren started up outside. King cursed and lowered the gun and crouched behind a booth. Hawley got to his hands and knees, his head still spinning, the glass crackling beneath his palms. The car he’d stolen in South Carolina was parked on the far side of the lot—there was no way he was going to make it past the police. Still he tried to crawl out the door, dragging the duffel bag and the satchel behind him.
A truck pulled up in front of the entrance, emergency lights sp
inning, siren blaring, and a giant snowplow attached to the grille. The driver’s side opened and the girl jumped out. Her feet were bare but she was wearing the same black dress and she still had the little hat pinned at the top of her head. She raced to Hawley and caught him under the arms and lifted him.
“Get up, asshole!” she said.
Hawley had to lean on her to get to the cab. She pressed her big hip against him. They moved quickly together across the lot and scrambled into the truck. Hawley glanced at the diner and saw King sighting the wheels from the window.
“He’ll get your tires.”
“They’ve got chains,” said the girl.
The shot blasted the cab but didn’t penetrate the metal. The girl threw the snow truck into gear and peeled out of the parking lot. Hawley turned to see King running after them. Then he tripped, the shotgun clattering out of his hands and into the street. The diner and its giant pig fell away into the distance. The girl turned off the siren. In three turns she had them on the highway and dropped the speed down. Two police cars sped by in the opposite direction, their lights going.
“I thought you’d left,” said Hawley.
“I was waiting for you to come out. Then I saw that guy clock you. You looked like you were dead.”
“I thought I was.” Hawley’s face was already starting to swell, his eye growing bigger by the minute. He watched her hands twist on the steering wheel, her bare foot circled by stars and pumping the clutch. “Why’d you wait for me?”
“I don’t know.” Her eyes checked the rearview, then the side mirrors, before glancing over at him. “You’re bleeding.”
“He shot me,” said Hawley.
“Does it hurt?”
“Sure.”
She put on her blinker and got in the right lane and took the next exit. They drove off the highway and entered a suburban neighborhood, with schools and churches and supermarkets, normal streets and normal houses and families. The girl took a right and then pulled over under a maple tree and parked.
“Let me see.”
Hawley lifted his hand and a stream of blood washed over his jeans.
“You need to go to a hospital.”
“I can’t.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” She reached for his belt. She tugged hard on the buckle, shifting his hips. She yanked the leather free from his belt loops, then wrapped the belt around his leg and tightened it above the wound. The girl was half his size but she had a grip like iron and he was in a daze just from the feel of her fingers on his thigh. He looked down at the back of her head as she worked on him, the way her hair came to a point at the nape of her neck. He could still smell the hint of strawberries on her breath.
When she was finished her hands were covered in his blood. She wiped them on her skirt, leaving streaks across the black dress. Then she leaned back in her seat and looked at him hard.
“What’s in those bags?” she asked.
Hawley felt like he was going to be sick. “Don’t,” he said.
Before he knew it, she had the duffel bag open and her hands were going through his life. She took out some of his clothes, his toothbrush and the newspaper he’d been reading. Then she found his father’s rifle and the ammunition.
“I’ve got a license for that.”
“Sure.” She reached inside the bag again and wrapped her fingers around a jar of black licorice. She unscrewed the lid and pulled out a roll of bills. Hundreds layered together and held tight with rubber bands. She opened another jar and found the same. All the while her face stayed impassive, as if she saw that kind of money every day. Then she put the cash back and sealed the jars tight and returned them to the bag. She let out a sigh as she pulled the zipper closed. She’d kept a piece of candy, and now she slipped it into her mouth like a piece of black spaghetti.
“I’ve always liked licorice.”
Hawley felt all his strength go out of him. Something must have shown on his face because she reached over and touched him underneath his jaw, searching for his pulse. She stroked his neck and then pressed down, and the new start he’d been looking for opened up before him. The girl had found it with the very tips of her fingers, a thread of life hidden all this time underneath Hawley’s skin.
He watched her lips counting softly.
She let go.
Outside there were trees and sidewalks and picket fences. Inside the engine ticked. The girl reached over Hawley’s shoulder, pulled the seatbelt across and buckled him in. She buckled herself in, too. She turned on the ignition. The truck rumbled and shook. “I’m going to take you to the hospital now. Okay?”
“Okay,” said Hawley. Her eyes were green with flecks of gold. He tried to concentrate so he wouldn’t forget.
She flipped the switch that started the lights. Flashes of color streaked down the length of the windows. She checked the mirrors and then she pulled onto the road.
“So let’s decide now,” she said.
“Decide what?” Hawley asked.
“What kind of accident this is. For the hospital. They might be looking for you, so we should cross the state line.” Her hand went to the gearshift and she shifted, then shifted again. They drove for a few blocks in silence.
“What’s your name?” Hawley asked.
“I don’t know if I should tell you that. You’re probably a criminal.”
“Well,” said Hawley, “now you’re one, too.”
“All right.” She cleared her throat. “It’s Lily.”
“Lily,” Hawley said, rolling the word in his mouth. “Lily.”
“That’s me,” Lily said. Then she turned on the siren and all of the cars pulled over, and even the red lights turned green.
Weathervanes
EVERY SUNDAY LOO WOULD PICK Marshall up in the Firebird. She enjoyed waiting, parked down the street, knowing that he was just inside the white house on the corner, combing his hair, tying his shoes, brushing his teeth. It was like the world was holding on to something enormous, something secret and amazing, all while she sipped at her paper cup of Dunkin’ Donuts coffee.
After graduation, they’d both convinced their parents they needed a year off before starting college. Marshall because he was planning on volunteering for Greenpeace, and Loo because she’d skipped a grade and was still only sixteen. Hawley was more than grateful for the delay, and was so proud when Loo walked across the stage in her cap and gown that he’d taken her picture and added it to the bathroom wall, taping it next to the photographs of her mother. With the help of Principal Gunderson, Loo had applied for an internship at the Museum of Science in Boston that would start the following January. In the meantime she was waitressing, and Marshall was collecting signatures for his mother’s petition, and the rest of the summer months stretched before them with all kinds of possibility.
The front door opened and Marshall stepped out in his shirt and tie. Behind him was his mother, wrapped in a Sawtooth apron. Loo had asked Principal Gunderson to schedule them on opposite days. This week Mary Titus was on the lunch shift and Loo had worked until midnight, hefting trays and buckets of ice. Agnes was six months along now, and needed more help. She had started wearing thrift-shop muumuus and resting her feet in the walk-in cooler, so Loo had taken on some of her tables. In exchange, Agnes showed Loo how to apply liquid eyeliner, standing side by side in the Sawtooth’s bathroom mirror, elbows braced to steady their hands. It was the same way that Loo’s father had taught her to hold a gun.
“You look beautiful,” said Agnes, flashing the stud in her lip.
The black lines made Loo’s eyes seem different, although she was not sure they were beautiful. It was more like she was meeting a stranger who had stolen her face. This stranger talked back to the chefs, joked with the customers more easily and worked harder than Loo had ever worked before, the frenzy of the weekend crowd swirling like fireflies that she danced around and slid between and guided through to the end of the night. In the morning she felt tired down to her very bones, and only coffee
and the prospect of seeing Marshall kept her awake.
From the car she watched Mary Titus hand over a stack of pamphlets and say something to her son, an urgent look on her face, then kiss Marshall’s cheek and close the door. The boy hurried down the stairs, his wing tips slapping the sidewalk, his sketchbook hidden beneath the clipboard, his face breaking into a smile, bit by bit, as he got closer to the Firebird. Once he reached Loo he glanced back, to make sure his mother wasn’t watching from the house, and then the car door opened and the car door shut and they were sealed inside together.
Loo handed Marshall the coffee she had bought for him. “Got the map?”
The boy dug into his coat pocket and shook the folded paper. “Phone book?”
She nodded at the backseat. Marshall grabbed the directory and flipped through the thin white pages. They had checked off each name as they added it, printing the addresses that were closest to each other, street by street. It had been Loo’s idea to re-create the petition that had been lost. Marshall had figured the details, estimating the hours, the miles he would have walked, the doors opened, the possible names. Together they forged the signatures. Now it was like a project from biology lab, each of them contributing their part.
They drove to Dogtown, carefully taking side roads so they wouldn’t pass by Mabel Ridge’s house. Loo still wasn’t ready to go back yet. She’d told Marshall about her grandmother, but had left out some of the details about the car (borrowed) and the lace gloves (stolen). Marshall had called the gloves sexy when she’d tugged them over her fingers to drive, and she didn’t want to say they had belonged to her mother.
The woods had become their regular spot. A place where they were least likely to run into anyone they knew from school; a place where they could be alone together without feeling they were doing so on purpose; a place where there was always something to see and point to—bird nests or giant mushrooms, beaver dams or wild batches of ferns; a place that filled empty spaces with the sounds of the forest; a place with just enough dangerous history that they felt they were taking a risk each time they walked down the path and the trees closed in behind them.