The Great Escape: A Novel

by Susan Elizabeth Phillips

  As Panda sauntered toward her, he took in her outfit, from trashy top to platform flip-flops. He cocked his head toward the garage. “Let’s go.”

  “Go?” She casually unclipped her nose ring and slipped it in her pocket.

  “You know the routine.”

  “That doesn’t mean I have to go along with it.”

  “I have a job to do.”

  She tilted her head and tugged on one of her dreads. “Screw your job.”

  “Big mistake.” He caught her arm and forcibly steered her through the shadows at the side of the house toward the garage. When they reached the warped side door, he kicked it open. “Inside.”

  “I don’t want to go inside. I want—”

  “I don’t care what you want.” He slammed the door behind them.

  Murky rays of afternoon light struggled to ooze through a cobweb-draped window. The cluttered garage held old furniture, boxes, broken beach chairs, and a leaky canoe. The air smelled of dust and motor oil, while Panda smelled of blueberries and heat. He turned her and, settling his hand between her shoulders, pressed her to the wall. “Spread those legs.”

  “You’re scaring me.”

  “Good.”

  “I have no contraband on me. I swear.”

  He gave her his nastiest, most intimidating snarl. “Then you don’t have anything to worry about.”

  “I— I guess not.” She set her palms against the rough boards but kept her legs together.

  He kicked them apart. “Don’t play ignorant. You know the drill.” His breath ruffled the hair brushing her ears, and his voice was a soft rasp. “I don’t like it any better than you.”

  Not much, you don’t.

  Her eyes drifted shut as he slid his hands along her sides, from her armpits to her thighs. “I told you,” she said. “I’m clean.”

  “Why don’t I believe you?” He reached around her, his hands stopping just under her collarbone. And then he lowered his palms and cupped her breasts.

  She looked at him over her shoulder. “Don’t say what you said last time.”

  “What was that?” He nuzzled her ear.

  “You said, ‘There’s nothing here.’”

  He smiled, slipped his thumbs inside her bra cups, and found her nipples. “I was so wrong.”

  By the time he stopped tormenting her breasts and moved to new territory, her knees were weak and her skin hot. He made a play of running his hands over her hips and thighs before he found his prime target. “I think I feel something.”

  He wasn’t the only one. “This is illegal,” she said, wiggling her hips.

  “Resisting arrest.” His hands tugged at the zipper on her shorts. “Now I’ll have to do a body cavity search.”

  “Oh, no. Not that.” She couldn’t have sounded less convincing.

  “You brought it on yourself.” He kneed her legs together and tugged off her tight shorts along with her panties.

  “I try to be a good person, but it’s hard.”

  “You have no idea.” He pressed against her to make his point.

  It was amazing how many places he found to explore. Enough for her to offer a weak protest. “A candy bar would never fit there.”

  “Always a first time,” he said hoarsely, his breath coming as fast as her own.

  “Police brutality,” she managed as he fumbled with the front of his shorts.

  “This will only hurt for a minute.”

  It wouldn’t hurt at all. As for the “minute …” Not likely. Panda had enormous staying power.

  “Brace yourself.” He tilted her hips.

  “Wait …”

  “Too late.” He took her from behind.

  His groan drowned out her gasp. He pressed his lips to the nape of her neck. She pushed against him as he braced her body in his big hands. Surrounded by the dust and debris of other people’s lives, they played their game, their bodies locked as they used each other, gave, used again. It was primitive sex. Raw and raunchy. Bad-girl sex. Exactly the way she wanted it.

  “DON’T LOOK AT MY STOMACH,” she said as she pulled her panties back on.

  He brushed her cheek with his finger. “Because?”

  “It’s round.”

  “Ah.”

  “You don’t have to say it like that.” She shoved her legs in her shorts, sucked in her stomach, and zipped them. She’d started the whole strip-search thing when she’d dragged him into the garage after he’d made a quick trip into town. She’d told him she’d gotten a tip that he was trying to smuggle Slim Jims. He said there was nothing slim about his Jim. She’d backed him against the wall and said that was for her to decide. Eventually she had to concede he was right.

  “It’s your fault I’m gaining weight,” she said. “Having nothing but diet fucking food in the house makes me crazy.”

  His eyebrow gave a gratifying lift, but he didn’t comment on her obscenity. “What about all that crap I feed you every night in the boat?”

  “Exactly,” she said. “If I had decent food, I wouldn’t be gorging myself on your junk food stash.”

  “You’re right. It is my fault. I promise. No more chips. No more licorice whips. I’m cleaning up my act.”

  “Don’t you dare.”

  He laughed and pulled her into his arms, as if he wanted to kiss her. But they only kissed when they were in bed—deep tongue kisses that mimicked what was happening with their bodies. Sex with Panda was like being in a porno movie but without a third party involved. He let her go and wandered over to inspect a pile of junk. His restlessness had returned. Unlike herself, the island’s enforced confinement was chafing at him. He wanted action.

  She slipped back into her platform flip-flops as he studied a mirror framed in broken seashells and asked, “Didn’t this used to be in the downstairs bathroom?”

  “No.” She loved lying. It was a whole new experience.

  “Bull. This was there yesterday.”

  “Really, Panda, you have lousy powers of observation for a cop.”

  “Hell I do. Stop rearranging my house. And stop messing with my pig.”

  “You didn’t like the eye patch? I think it’s—” She broke off as she saw Panda pick up a folded piece of yellow notepad paper from the grubby garage floor. She hurried toward him, hand extended. “Must have fallen out of my pocket when you ripped my shorts off.”

  “I didn’t rip— What the hell is this?” Like the suspicious person he was, he’d unfolded the paper and started to read.

  “Give that to me!” She tried to grab it from him, but he held it out of reach and read over her head.

  “‘Reverse bucket list’?”

  “That’s private.”

  “I won’t tell a soul.” He scanned the page and grinned. “Frankly, I’d be embarrassed to.”

  When he finally lowered the paper it was too late. He’d read everything.

  REVERSE BUCKET LIST

  Run away from home*

  Dress like a skank*

  Sleep around

  Use f-word whenever possible*

  Get drunk in public

  Make out in public

  Smoke a joint

  Pick a fight*

  Prank call*

  Go to bed without taking off makeup*

  Swim naked

  Sleep late*

  Scratch, burp, etc.*

  “Go to bed without taking your makeup off.” He blew a long whistle. “That’s living in the danger zone.”

  “Do you have any idea what kind of damage that does to your skin?”

  “Any time now, I’m sure you’ll work up the nerve.” He jabbed the paper with his finger. “What do all these asterisks mean?”

  Good Lucy would have tried to change the subject, but Viper didn’t give a damn what he thought. “The asterisks mark things I’d done by the time I was fourteen but sadly abandoned. I intend to rectify that, and if you think it’s stupid, that’s your problem.”

  The corners of his mouth twitched. “Stupid? Make
prank calls? Now why would I think prank-calling is stupid?”

  “I probably won’t do that one,” she said innocently.

  He took in her tie-dyed bra top. “You’ve got ‘dress like a skank’ under control. Not complaining, mind you.”

  “Thanks. I had to order a few things off the Internet, but it’s working out for me.”

  “Definitely.” He snapped his fingers at the paper. “Smoking pot is illegal.”

  “I appreciate your concern, Officer, but I’m sure that didn’t stop you from doing it.”

  He scanned further down. “You never swam naked?”

  “Sue me.”

  “You’ll let me know, won’t you, when you’re ready to try?”

  “If I fucking remember.”

  “If you’re going to use the word, at least use it at the right time. You sound ridiculous.” He frowned. “‘Make out in public’? Not with me you won’t.”

  “S’okay. I’ll find somebody else.”

  “Like fucking hell,” he growled. “And you can mark off ‘sleep around,’ since you’re doing that with me.”

  “No way. ‘Around’ implies more than one partner.”

  “Already forget about Ted?”

  “Doesn’t count. He proposed.”

  Panda looked like he had something to say about that, but didn’t. Instead he pointed to a doodle she’d made in the margin. “What’s that?”

  Damn. She slapped on her new sneer. “Hello Kitty.”

  He grinned. “Badass.”

  THE BASIL PLANT ON THE baker’s rack was getting a little droopy. She hopped up from the chaise to water it, pulled some dead leaves off the geranium, and then resettled. She wiggled her pen between her fingers and started to write.

  My mother’s dedication to children’s causes had its roots in her teenage years when she visited sick children in hospitals and refugee camps …

  Something Lucy’s grandfather was writing about in detail and wouldn’t appreciate Lucy duplicating.

  She tore up the page, pulled her reverse bucket list from her pocket, and jotted down a new item.

  Blow off homework.

  Then she added an asterisk.

  BREE HAD NEVER FELT MORE out of place. It was fine for African-Americans to attend white churches—it gave white congregations a pleasant feeling of inclusiveness—but being the only white person in the island’s sole black church made her uncomfortable. She’d never enjoyed standing out. She liked to blend. But as the usher led them down the center aisle of the Heart of Charity Missionary Church, she didn’t see another face as pale as her own.

  The usher handed them bulletins and gestured toward a pew in the second row. So much for her plans to sit in the back.

  After they were seated, her discomfort grew. Was this how it felt to be a black person going solo into the white world? Or maybe her own insecurity was at play, and all her reading had made her more racially conscious than she needed to be.

  Heart of Charity Missionary was the second oldest church on the island, a squat, red brick building that would never win points for style, although the airy sanctuary looked as though it had been recently remodeled. The walls were ivory, the high ceiling paneled in blond wood. A purple cloth covered the altar, and three silver crosses hung on the front wall. The congregation was small, and the air smelled of perfume, aftershave, and stargazer lilies.

  The people sitting nearby smiled in welcome. The men wore suits, the older women hats, and the younger women bright summer dresses. After the opening hymn, a woman she assumed was the minister, but who turned out to be a deacon, greeted the congregation and announced upcoming events. Bree felt herself flush as the woman looked at her. “We have some visitors today. Would you introduce yourselves?”

  Bree hadn’t been prepared for this, and before she found her voice, she heard Toby speak up. “I’m Toby Wheeler,” he said. “And this is Bree.”

  “Welcome, Toby and Bree,” the woman said. “God has blessed us bringing you to join us today.”

  “Whatever,” Toby muttered under his breath as the congregation delivered a chorus of “amens.” But unlike her cynical ward, Bree felt herself begin to relax.

  The service began in earnest. She was used to cool, cerebral religion, but this was hot religion, loud in supplication and praise. Afterward, she lost count of the number of people who came up to greet her, and not one of them asked what a paleface like herself was doing in their church. A woman talked to Toby about their Sunday school program, and the minister, a man Bree recognized from the gift shop in town, said he hoped they’d come back.

  “What do you think?” she asked Toby as they headed back to her used Chevy Cobalt.

  “It was okay.” He pulled his shirttail out of his pants. “But my friends are at Big Mike’s church.”

  The only friends he talked about were a set of twins who weren’t on the island now. Myra hadn’t done him a service by keeping him so isolated. “Maybe you could make some new friends here,” she said.

  “I don’t want to.” He jerked open the car door. “I’m calling Big Mike and telling him I’m going to church with him next week.”

  She waited for the familiar weight of defeat to claim her. But it didn’t happen. Instead she grabbed the car door before he could slam it shut and leaned down. “I’m the boss, I like this church, and we’re coming back next week.”

  “That’s not fair!”

  He tried to wrestle the door away from her, but she held on, and in the same tone she’d heard Lucy use, she staked her ground. “Neither is life. Get used to it.”

  “ALL SHE CAN THINK ABOUT is black, black, black,” Toby complained to Lucy, those thickly lashed golden eyes flashing in outrage. “Like that’s all I am. This black kid. Not even me. She’s prejudiced. She’s a ray-shist.”

  “Racist,” Bree called out from behind the counter where she was nailing a new set of shelves in place after moving her precious bumblebee Christmas ornaments to safety. They’d been such a success that she’d placed a second order.

  “A racist,” he repeated. “Just like Ames in Roots.”

  “The sadistic overseer.” Bree popped up long enough to explain.

  “Right.” Lucy smiled. Bree had been watching the old miniseries with Toby this week, and it was hard to say which of them was more caught up in it. “Kids need to know about their heritage,” Lucy said. “Being African American is part of your heritage just like it is my brother Andre’s.”

  “But what about the white part?” Toby countered. “What about that?”

  Bree’s head reappeared. “I told you. Your grandmother’s people were Vermont farmers.”

  “Then why don’t we study Vermont farmers?” he retorted. “Why is one part of me more important than the other?”

  Bree held her ground. “Not more important. But significant.” She ducked behind the counter again.

  Despite their squabbling, Lucy detected a change in their relationship. They looked each other in the eye and talked more frequently, even though their conversation was often adversarial. She’d also noticed changes in Bree. She stood straighter, smoked less, and spoke with more confidence. It was as if the therapeutic powers of her honey were giving her strength.

  So far that day, Lucy had tried to convince Temple to stop exercising five hours a day and consider Lucy’s “Good Enough” approach, but not surprisingly, Temple wasn’t buying it. Lucy had more success with the bread she’d baked in Bree’s kitchen. Now she was helping Bree finish painting four old Adirondack chairs in Easter egg colors of periwinkle, light blue, peach, and nursery yellow. They would offer a comfortable place to relax in the shade of the old oak that sheltered the farm stand. Bree also hoped their cheerful colors would attract the attention of drivers passing by.

  Maybe the chairs were working because she heard a car stop behind her. She turned and saw a dark gray SUV with Illinois plates. Her heart gave a little leap. As far as she knew, this was the first time Panda had stopped here on any of the sorti
es he’d made into town since he’d loosened the reins on Temple. Now he got out and ambled toward her. “So this is where you’ve been spending your time.” He nodded at Toby. “Hey, Toby. Lucy make any more bread today?”

  Toby had begun to feel at ease with Panda. Last week they’d even gone out on the kayaks together. “Whole wheat. But it’s still good.”

  “I know. I like the heels.”

  “Me, too.”

  “Done.” With one final slam of the hammer, Bree rose from behind the counter. “Oh, sorry,” she said as she spotted Panda. “I was making so much noise I didn’t hear a car. Can I help you?”

  Lucy stepped forward. “Bree, this is Patrick Shade, aka Panda. Panda, Bree West.”

  “West?” The smile on Panda’s face faded. He grew unnaturally still. He gave a brusque nod and, without another word, got in his car and drove off.

  Chapter Eighteen

  THE SUV DISAPPEARED FROM SIGHT. Bree quickly turned back to the shelves that lined the farm stand and began rehanging the bumblebee Christmas ornaments on the tree branch display she’d erected above her pots of lip balm, beeswax candles, and flower-shaped soaps. She hung them crookedly, not trying to balance the arrangement.

  As Toby went off to get a drink, Lucy tried to figure out what had just happened. “Do you and Panda know each other?”

  The branch display began to tilt precariously. Bree grabbed two of the ornaments and moved them. “I’ve never met him.”

  “But you know him?”

  Bree shifted another ornament. “No.”

  Lucy didn’t believe her. “You’d think by now you could trust me a little.”

  Bree moved the soap basket a few inches to the left. Her shoulders lifted as she took a deep breath. “I used to live in his house.”

  Lucy was stunned. “The Remington place?”

  Bree fumbled in her pocket for her cigarettes. “Sabrina Remington West. My full name.”

  “Why didn’t you ever mention this?”

  Bree gazed toward the trees in the general direction of her old house. She was quiet for so long that Lucy didn’t think she was going to answer. Finally she said, “I don’t like talking about it or even thinking about it, which is crazy, because I think about it all the time.”