Wicked Women and Other Stories
Page 13
The truck bounced over the rough road, meant to be used by heavy-duty logging equipment in low gear. As the grade increased, the going got tougher. The old Chevy engine coughed and sputtered as the truck strained, crawling upward. No matter, he knew they’d make it. “Look at this view, Rosie. Is this here beautiful, or what?”
Rosie looked down at the sheer drop below, and her eyes rolled. The truck’s tires looked to be only inches from the edge. “Dio mio, perfavore,” she said softly.
“Don’t worry, Rosie, I done this before when I was dead drunk, and in the middle of the night. No problem.” Mac glanced down at the rolling blue slopes. This might be the last time he’d ever see this place. “Chrissakes,” he whistled between his teeth. It couldn’t be, but it was. He saw a blue and tan state police car laboring up the logging road not too far below them. He knew the souped-up engines favored by the troopers. The old Chevy didn’t stand a chance. Without hope, he floored the accelerator. How in hell could this have happened? “Jett,” he muttered. “He’s the only sonnavabitch would think of this shortcut, showed it to me himself. Jett musta gotten hooked up with the State boys. Probably pissed as hell about the stuff we borrowed from his cabin.” Rosie didn’t answer, but she looked more scared than ever.
* * * *
Jett leaned out the window of the police car, yelling like crazy at the Chevy truck.
“Cool off, they can’t hear you,” Nate said.
“I’d forgotten all about this road. Only a damn fool would attempt it.”
“Yeah, well too bad we missed them at the church. We were only minutes behind them.” Nate shifted into a lower gear. “Bet that’s the most exciting Mass they ever had at St. Vincent’s. A couple of minutes earlier and we’d have grabbed those hoods in the Lincoln.”
“Nate, I’m just hoping the APB you put out will haul them in. At least they’re not on Mac’s tail anymore.”
“Well, we sure as hell are. We got them now.”
* * * *
Cresting the top of the mountain, the old Chevy truck started rolling downward, bouncing off fallen rocks and debris. “Whoa,” Mac shouted. “Maybe we can outrun them suckers. Just need a little luck.”
“Yes, you can do it, Mac.” Rosie was calm now. “It’s better to have the American police chase us than the Mafia.”
The Chevy truck rounded a hairpin turn and lady luck rushed up to meet them in the form of a gully-sized washout in the middle of the road. Mac floored the gas pedal. The old truck took off and actually sailed across, landing with a grinding jolt on the other side, but still moving.
“We done it, Rosie, we done it!” Mac grabbed her arm and pulled her close. His left arm steadied the steering wheel around the turns. “Keep checking out the rear window and let me know when them dumbass cops land in that washout. No way they’re gonna make it across.”
A few minutes later, the crash of metal and roar of the police car’s engine told the story. “We done it, Baby. We’re on our way to Canada!” Mac and Rosie were both hollering their heads off.
The Chevy truck bumped and jolted its way down the mountain, finally running into a secondary road that intersected the Interstate. They weren’t followed.
* * * *
The police radio crackled with an unintelligible reply. “I told you, get a car up here on the double,” Nate yelled. “Yeah, send a four-wheel drive. And be sure you get the description of the Chevy truck out right away. Check on the Interstate. That’s where they’re headed.” He slammed down the receiver.
* * * *
Barreling up the Interstate, Rosie and Mac were jubilant. She was still sitting close to him, and every so often Mac would give her hand a squeeze and lean down to kiss her hair.
When the dark Lincoln passed them, it must have been traveling at least one hundred miles an hour. Now the Lincoln had slowed down and was holding up the heavy traffic. It changed lanes and swerved in behind them, hugging the truck’s bumper.
“Will you look at that,” Mac said. “It’s the same two guys. They’re trying to force us to the side of the road. How in the hell did they find us?” Seeing his chance, he switched to the left lane and jolted over the median strip to the southbound lanes. The Lincoln was held up in traffic and couldn’t follow. In a couple of miles, Mac crossed the median again. Heading north, he spotted a Rest Stop sign and turned into the parking area. Time to pick up another vehicle, and what better place? He cut over the landscaped grounds to the back of the facility. Leaving the truck under cover of trees, Rosie and Mac dragged their gear toward the group of buildings.
* * * *
The West Virginia State Police car slowed as it approached a dark Lincoln sedan pulled over on the shoulder of Northbound I-81. Location, a mile south of the Rest Stop. It matched the description on a recently posted APB. Reading out the license plate number over the radio, the trooper got a negative. But still, what was the car doing there? There were two men in the front, one talking into a cell phone. The police car continued up the Interstate. In a few miles this would be Maryland’s problem, the trooper rationalized.
* * * *
“Try to change the way you look,” Mac told Rosie as they parted at the Rest Stop’s main building. “Meet me by the picnic tables quick as you can.” Rosie nodded and disappeared into the Women’s Restroom.
In the Men’s Restroom, Mac searched through his gear for a razor. Quickly, he shaved off the short beard that Rosie had liked so well. He emerged having added a jacket, a bush hat he’d found in the truck, and sunglasses to his outfit. Moving through the weekend crowd, he looked for Rosie.
Surrounding the picnic tables, a large family group was celebrating. Mac edged closer. A heavy man with dark curling hair and beard held up a cake glowing with three candles. The whole gang was singing, bellowing away in some foreign language. The object of all this attention, a small blond girl, sat on the bearded man’s lap and clapped her hands to the song. It finished with a rousing, “Bravo, Renee.”
The man stood up. Balancing the cake in one arm and the little girl in the other, he started a slow, lumbering dance around the tables, accompanied by the rhythmic clapping and cheers of his audience. Mac was surprised at how short, but muscular he was. His bull neck ended with a ruff of black, furry hair at his shirt collar. His chest was square as a block of concrete in the flowered Hawaiian shirt. Moving slowly around the clapping onlookers, he finally came to a halt in front of a heavyset blond woman and Rosie. Was it Rosie? She had tied her hair back in a bandanna and had changed her clothes. Wait. Mac looked more closely. This girl was pregnant. A large, round mound swelled under his old plaid shirt. A small gold chain with a medallion dangled from her hand. She held it out to the child. More cheers and excited discussion followed. Just then, Rosie saw Mac and beckoned to him.
Mac hesitated, but from the corner of his eye, he caught sight of a dark Lincoln entering the parking area. Through the tinted glass, he made out two men in the front. One was very large. By now, Mac was already moving toward the crowd at the picnic tables. Smiling, he joined Rosie.
Taking his hand, Rosie introduced him first to the couple with the little girl, then to the others. He couldn’t understand a word of it, but smiled, nodded, and shook hands. Suddenly, she reached up and kissed him. The group responded with cheers of “Felicitations!”
“They’re French Canadians, going home to Montreal,” Rosie whispered. “I told them we were running away to get married—that my family don’t approve and may follow us. And our truck just broke down here at the Rest Stop.”
Mac stared at her, amazed. “Great story,” he told her. “Do you think we can hitch a ride with them? Because your ‘family’ is already here, in the parking lot.”
Rosie stiffened, but didn’t look around and kept smiling. She went over to the short, barrel-chested man she had called Louie. Trying to stay in the center of the group, Mac helped the women pack up the picnic baskets. They smiled at him, giggling and whispering in French to each other. Glancing aro
und, Mac couldn’t pick out the Mafia soldiers, but he knew they were there. Now he knew how a trapped animal felt while he waited for the hunter. He was sure that he could probably get away if he bolted now and left Rosie to take her chances. But no, if he had been going to cut out, he would have done it a long time ago. If nothing else, he’d promised to get her to that convent, although this whole gift thing mystified him.
Rosie returned and pulled him aside. “They’ll take us over the border…all the way to Montreal if we want. They’re on their way home from Florida, so they’re driving straight through.”
Relief showed on Mac’s face. He asked, “What about the border?”
“Louie said not to worry, to keep quiet and leave it all to him. He likes us.” She grabbed Mac’s hand. “They all like us. We have a romance story, yes?”
Over the top of Rosie’s head, Mac spotted a man walking with a slight limp. He seemed to be searching the grounds. Quickly, he turned his head and pulled Rosie toward the center of the group. “Ask them if we can help load up. We gotta get outta here fast.”
In ten minutes Mac and Louie had shoved the last of the coolers and baskets into the back of a large panel van. Rosie and Mac climbed in and found places to sit among the luggage. Before closing the door, Louie grinned at them and said, “Demain matin, Montreal.” Rosie translated, “Tomorrow morning we’ll be in Montreal.”
A white Tarus station wagon and a Ford Explorer made up the rest of the French Canadian caravan. As they pulled out and headed north up the Interstate, Mac caught sight of the limping gangster and his hulking, fatass pal standing by the Lincoln. They looked puzzled and mad as hell. Mac grinned and nudged Rosie. “Idioti,” she sneered and made an Italian style hand sign.
Mac started to laugh. Soon they were both howling with laughter. “Don’t seem like a very nun-like way to act,” Mac said. She shrugged and moved closer to him. Putting an arm around her, he continued, “But you can act any way you want as far as I’m concerned. I gotta hand it to you, Rosie. You got us outta this one.”
“It wasn’t really me. When I was in the Women’s Restroom changing my clothes, I found a chain with a medal of St. Ursula. I asked around outside and found out it belonged to Louie’s wife. It was the little girl’s birthday gift. I just returned it and they were very grateful. But Mac, now I’m sure we’ll make it to the convent. This was a sign from St. Ursula herself.”
“Yeah, the convent. Well, they gotta have convents in Canada. These Frenchies should know.” He shot her a puzzled look. “Do they all think you’re pregnant?”
“Not now. After Louie agreed to take us, I told him I was just trying to disguise the way I looked. Louie laughed.” Rosie reached under the plaid shirt and pulled out the old student backpack. “This was the bambino.” She grinned. “Of course, just to be sure Louie wouldn’t say no, I offered to pay him.”
“Pay him? With what?”
Opening the backpack, Rosie pulled out stacks of one hundred dollar bills, held together with rubber bands. “Uncle Vito’s gift to the Ursuline Convent.”
“You’re kidding. You’ve had this all along?” Mac inspected the stacks of bills. He was shocked and just a little angry. Things would sure have been a lot easier if he’d had this money. He glanced at her. Didn’t she trust him? Should she? He started to laugh again. “You’re one hellava woman, Rosie. One surprise after another. How’d you get all this money?”
“Well, back at Uncle Vito’s garage.” She looked serious now and a little scared. “You remember I told you that he and I were in the storage room counting things. When he saw the Mafia car drive up, he got very upset and went to a secret place in the little room. He came back and handed me a box. He said if anything happened to him, it was mine. Never to forget to pray for him. Then he told me to run and hide. Later, when I knew he was dead, I did what he said. I took my lunch and book out of my backpack, and just shoved the stacks of bills in there. I knew the only way I could take this money was to give it to the Sisters. They would pray for Uncle Vito’s soul. It was all I could do for him.”
Looking relieved, she smiled that slow, beautiful smile of hers. Then she leaned over and kissed him, a real kiss this time—a long, lingering kiss. “Here, Mac,” she handed him a stack of hundreds. “This is for you, Uncle Vito’s gift. He would agree you’ve earned it. It can take you far in Canada, or it can be his wedding gift to us. You have to decide.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Sally Walker Brinkmann was born in Washington, D.C. She attended George Washington University and graduated from Shepherd College with a BA in English. She worked eight years as writer and editor of The Sandpiper, an employee newspaper of U.S. Silica Corporation, a mining operation in Berkeley Springs, West Virginia. She also taught English in West Virginia for seventeen years.
Several of her shorter stories have been published in local anthologies. Four of her plays have been produced by the Morgan Arts Council Theater Project. She has won awards in the West Virginia Writers’ annual competitions for both drama and fiction.
Her first novel, Rebel Traveler, appeared to acclaim in 2013. Her second novel, Between River and Mountain, a Civil War story set in Morgan County, is due to be published by Wildside Press in late 2014.
Much of her writing is about survival, as it’s always been an issue in the hill country. The unique local dialect and rhythm of speech are part of her writing.