by Jeff Strand
The third call is from me. That is, my phone.
"Evan?" Harriett asks. "Evan? Are you hearing me? Evan? Am I doing this right? Can you hear this? Respond if you can hear this."
The voicemail ends. I immediately call her back.
My cell phone rings seven times before she answers. "Evan?"
"Harriett?"
"Evan?"
"Do you have my phone?"
"Where are you?"
"I'm at home."
"Are you hearing me? Evan?"
"Yes, I hear you."
"Evan? Am I doing this right?"
"Harriett, where are you? I'll come meet you."
"Evan?"
"Tell me where you are."
"Evan?"
"I can hear you."
I hear her speaking to somebody else, then there's a male voice on the other end. "Hello?"
"Hi, I'm Evan Portin. I think you've got my cell phone."
"Yeah, yeah, okay, your friend found it, I guess. We're at the Texaco station on North Griffin. Do you know that one?"
"I can find it."
Harriett says something to him that I can't hear. "She says that she's not going to wait for you, but that she'll be traveling west."
"Thank you so much. I'm leaving now."
In twenty minutes, I drive past the gas station and continue heading west. A few blocks later I reach a point where "traveling west" could technically be northwest or southwest. I go with northwest. She can't have gone too far, so if I'm wrong, I'll backtrack.
I chose correctly. She's walking along the road next to a Wal-Mart. I pull into the right-hand lane, stop beside her, and roll down the passenger-side window. "Hi!" I say. "Do you want to get in?"
She shakes her head.
"Okay, I'll pull into the parking lot."
I turn right and park in the space nearest to where she's walking. I get out of the car, shut the door, and realize that I've left the keys in the ignition. I'm filled with horror until I also realize that I didn't lock the door, so the issue is easily resolved.
Harriett has stopped walking. She's on the sidewalk, waiting for me. As I hurry over to her, I see that she's holding both my phone and my wallet.
"Here are your stolen possessions," she says, handing them to me.
"Thank you so much!" I open my wallet and am shocked to see that even the cash is still there. "How did you get them back?"
"The criminal followed me. Apparently he sought vengeance. It did not work out the way he hoped."
I pull a twenty-dollar bill out of my wallet and extend it toward her. "Here."
"I have plentiful funds. I don't need a reward."
"Yes, you do. You saved me about eighteen hours of standing in line at the DMV."
"DMV?"
"Department of Motor Vehicles."
"Right. DMV. The place where you're licensed to operate heavy machinery." She points to my car.
"Yes. And it's filled with unhappy people. I'm exaggerating how long I'd be standing in line, and actually some of the people who work there are nice and efficient, so I shouldn't be sharing that unfair stereotype, but still, I'm very glad to have my license back. Please, take the reward."
Harriet takes the bill from me. She unzips a small pocket in her backpack and tucks the money in there. "Thank you."
"How's your arm?"
"It felt better before it was cut."
"So how much more are you walking tonight?"
"Until I can walk no further."
"Then what?"
"Then I'll seek shelter for the night, and resume walking tomorrow."
"Well, you know, Harriett, if you let me drive you just a small way, maybe half an hour, I could put you a whole day ahead of where you are now. It would more than make up for the time you've lost."
"I cannot do that."
"I'm not gonna try anything. Not only am I mourning my wife, but I'm completely aware that you can kick my ass."
"I don't travel that way."
"Why not?"
"I just don't."
"Have you ever?"
"No."
"You've never ridden in a car?"
She shakes her head.
"They're pretty cool," I say. "I'm not trying to bother you. I really appreciate you getting my phone and wallet back, and I figured that since you've got such a long walk ahead of you, it might be nice to get twenty or thirty miles ahead."
"I was trained to travel by foot."
"All right. I was just offering."
We shake hands, and I start to walk back toward my car.
"Wait."
I turn back.
She pats her arm, under the stitches. "Perhaps there is an exception in cases of injury. The additional progress on my journey would be helpful."
I grin. "C'mon."
I pop the trunk, but she doesn't want her backpack out of her sight. I put it in the back seat, then open the passenger-side door for her. She hesitates as if about to enter a cage full of sewer rats, and then climbs inside. She flinches when I shut the door.
"What do you think?" I ask, getting behind the wheel.
"It's very claustrophobic. And it has a mild scent of regurgitated bread and cheese. The chair is very comfortable, though."
"Do you know how to fasten your seat belt?"
"I do not."
I fasten my own seat belt. She takes hold of hers and gets it right on the first try.
"My claustrophobia is worse."
I push the switch to roll down her window. "That should help. If at any point you're uncomfortable, let me know and I'll stop. I'll go slow."
I start the engine. Harriett clutches the sides of her seat. She squeezes her eyes shut as I back out of the parking space. She whispers something to herself that I can't quite hear, but it sounds like some sort of soothing mantra.
She lets out a soft yelp as we pull out onto the street.
"You okay?" I ask.
"I've never done anything this unnatural."
I'm always a careful driver, but now I'm even more attentive. I can't imagine how much it would suck to convince her to accept a ride and then get into an accident.
"So tell me about this Cyclops," I say, to get her mind off our twenty-miles-per-hour velocity. "Nothing you say will leave this car, I promise."
She doesn't open her eyes. "You don't believe that it exists, so there's no need to discuss it."
"I never said that."
"I'm perfectly aware that I sound insane to the outside world. I have no intention of trying to convince everybody that I am right. You're not one of the people who needs to believe."
"What exactly do you mean by Cyclops? When I hear that, the first thing I think of is the guy from the X-Men who shoots lasers from his eyes, but I'm pretty sure that's not who you're off to kill."
"Who are the X-Men?"
"Second, I think of a mythological creature. Giant-sized, one big eye in the center, maybe a horn."
Harriett says nothing.
"Is that it?"
She opens her eyes just to glare at me.
"You're off to slay a one-eyed giant?"
"I have trained my entire life for this journey. So when you mock me, you're mocking my life."
"I'm not making fun of you, I swear. I'm just asking questions. I've lived in Florida since I was six, so how would I know if there are Cyclopses in Arizona or not? Who trained you?"
"My parents."
"Where are they now?"
"They're dead. I don't wish to discuss it further."
"Okay. We don't have to talk. Do you like music?"
"Yes. But I didn't bring an instrument."
"That's fine." I turn on the radio. I flip through several stations but only find commercials, so I switch to the CD player.
My musical tastes are pretty broad. The last time I listened to a CD, I was in a death metal mood. The not-so-melodic strains of "Bodily Fluids Are Yummy" by The Rotten Eggs blast through the speakers.
"Is that
music?" Harriett asks.
"Technically, yes," I say, turning down the volume.
"It sounds like they're in the midst of a mass slaughter."
"I think that's the point."
"This relaxes you?"
"It helps me blow off some steam, yeah."
"Interesting."
"What musical instrument do you play?"
"The flute and the harp."
"That's cool."
"I never thought I was an accomplished musician, but I may have underestimated my abilities."
"One more question. What's with the dress?"
Her face falls. "You don't like my dress?"
"No, it's an awesome dress. It's just not what I'd expect somebody to wear on a cross-country journey to slay something."
"I'm a trained warrior. That doesn't mean I can't look nice. I have more practical clothing if I need it, but I enjoy looking feminine."
"Makes sense. I was just curious."
Harriett looks out the window. "You're right. This is a much more efficient means of travel."
"Yep. Cars rule."
"How much further are you willing to take me?"
"Oh, I don't know. I don't have anywhere to be. I'm happy to drive you for another hour or so."
I notice that her hand has now tightened on the pole.
"How about further than that?"
CHAPTER FOUR
Am I being kidnapped?
I can't quite tell. I suppose I should just ask.
"Am I being kidnapped?"
"Yes," she says.
"Seriously?"
Harriett considers the question. "No. I don't know. No, you are not being kidnapped. I apologize. I stopped thinking properly for a moment. This has been a stressful beginning to my journey, and I should not have done that. I would never kidnap somebody. If you want to drop me off by the side of the road now, I completely understand."
"Yeah, I think I'm gonna do that."
"I completely understand."
I pull into the parking lot of a burger place. Harriett tugs at her seat belt.
"Press the button," I say, pointing to it.
Harriett presses the button and her seat belt pops free. She figures out how to open the car door without my assistance and gets out, taking her backpack and pole.
"I am truly mortified by my behavior," she says. "I hope you'll remember me for other parts of our interaction and not those few seconds of poor judgment."
"It's fine. You got my phone and wallet back. I'll remember that part."
She nods, closes the door, and resumes her walk.
I drive off.
I call to re-activate my credit card and don't even get put on hold first. Though it's been a pretty terrible day, I certainly can't complain about my customer service experiences.
I can't help but feel guilty about abandoning a woman after dark, but she's in a perfectly safe part of town. If she chooses to walk into a less safe part, it's really not my concern. My responsibility for her ended at the moment she threatened me with her death-stick.
I mean, she didn't really threaten me. It was pretty damn subtle as far as threats go. Still, there aren't all that many steps between "How about further than that?" and "How does this hunting knife feel in your neck?"
I have no moral obligation to drive a delusional lady around. As far as I'm concerned, we're even. Yes, she legitimately saved me while I only tried to save her, but she wouldn't have needed to save me if I hadn't tried to save her first. I also wouldn't have had anything stolen if I wasn't trying to be a nice guy, so it all balances out, I think, maybe.
Yeah, I still feel like a jerk, but I'll get over it. Better to feel like a jerk than to find myself lying on the side of the road, impaled by her pole, thinking, Y'know, Evan, the red flags were there...
She really should not be walking to Arizona by herself. That's insane. And, yes, she's insane, so the logic of the quest makes sense on her side, but—impressive battle skills notwithstanding—she's going to end up seriously injured or dead or worse.
For her own protection I should call the police.
That's the right thing to do, isn't it? Call the cops, explain everything that happened, and let the professionals decide if she's mentally fit enough for a cross-country journey. I'd feel horrible if they put her away because she told the authorities that she was on her way to kill a Cyclops, but maybe she should be detained, to keep her safe.
Hell, maybe she's an escaped mental patient.
Maybe she's a really messed-up and deranged mental patient, and she left a trail of corpses between the asylum and the park where I found her. Maybe she was able to sew up her wound so easily because she's used to sewing the skin of her victims onto her own face.
Obviously, I'm reaching a bit.
Still, am I a crappy human being if I don't let somebody know what happened? Can I cope with the possibility of Harriett turning up dead in a ditch?
I don't know. Calling the police truly seems like a dick move.
What I'd like right now is some sort of sign. I don't believe in signs, but one would be appreciated anyway. It doesn't have to be bright lights across the sky spelling out, Hey, Evan, You're Right, Calling The Cops Would Be A Total Dick Move; just any kind of guidance from a supreme being or the fates or whatever the hell forces are in the business of giving signs to people who need them.
There is no sign.
So I drive home, feeling like a complete scumbag. I should feel relieved that I'm not currently being held at pole-point in my own car, but I don't. I feel as if I've let her down.
Which is nuts. Even if I decide to chauffeur her all the way across the country, this journey is a waste of time. The best possible outcome, the ending where we have achieved the maximum realistic degree of success in this mission, still involves reaching Arizona and having her say, "Oh, shit, I guess there's no Cyclops here."
That's the important thing for me to remember as I wallow in guilt: I'd be helping her with a task that does not actually need to be completed. There is no real Cyclops to slay. She's walking two thousand miles for nothing.
And I, being a complete emotional wreck, am not the guy who is going to successfully talk her out of this nonsense.
So I've done my part.
As I pull into my driveway, it begins to rain.
This doesn't count as a sign. I'm in Florida. It rains here. And I asked for a sign twenty minutes ago. If the rain had started immediately after my request, I might have said, "Whoa, somebody is trying to tell me something!" but this is purely a coincidence.
The only thing it means is that Harriett is walking alone at night in the rain.
Crap.
I turn off the headlights.
Crap.
I turn off the engine.
Crap.
I unfasten my seat belt.
Crap.
Go inside, all sense of reason tells me. She's not your problem. There's alcohol inside your home—use it.
I refasten my seat belt.
What the hell did I just tell you? asks my sense of reason. Take that seat belt off. You've got much more important things to deal with. Remember how you quit your job today? How about we rank that a little higher on the priority scale?
I turn on the engine.
Are you frickin' kidding me? I know you've been through a lot, but dude, this isn't the way to handle your breakdown. If you want to do some sort of charitable service, why not volunteer at a homeless shelter or plant some trees? No good can come of this. Lots of bad can.
I turn on the headlights.
Fine, whatever, I'm not your mother. You're not gonna be able to find her again anyway, so if you want to waste gas, that's your decision. Have a nice life, dipshit.
I'm not going to spend very long looking for her. I'll pass the burger place and spend, at most, fifteen minutes driving around. If I don't find her, I'll return home with a shiny clear conscience.
I genuinely don't know why I'm doing this. I could ne
ed the distraction in my life, or I could be suicidal, or it could be any of a thousand points in-between.
It's pouring outside. I'm sure she's found shelter for the night.
I call Marjorie and tell her that I'm hanging in there. I decide not to tell her about quitting my job or Harriett. Marjorie is a good sister-in-law and would want to discuss both of these issues at length. She felt terrible flying back to Seattle so soon after the funeral, but though my brother-in-law Chip is a good guy, their three young children are hyperactive and exhibit no evidence of concern for their personal safety, and every day that he was alone caring for them increased the chances that she would return home to one or more dead kids. I can hear them screaming in the background right now. Marjorie doesn't protest when I cut the call short.
I drive by the burger place. Harriett will have gone at least a couple of miles past that, but if she's still walking in the rain and has stayed on this particular street, I may find her.
Hopefully I won't find her, because this whole situation is ridiculous.
Okay, says my sense of reason, I thought I was done, but I'm going to make one last plea. Go home. Go. Home. Home is where you should be. If Becky were alive, do you think she'd think this was an intelligent thing for you to be doing?
Becky was a lot more rational than I am. She would have called the police right after the mugging, regardless of any inconvenience it may have caused Harriett.
But let's fast-forward through all of that and stop at right here, right now. What would Becky do?
She'd say, "We can't just leave her out in the rain."
Damn it, you're right. Carry on.
Luck is with me. Whether it's good luck or bad, I don't know, but there's Harriett, walking in the rain. She's got a black umbrella that is thrashing around in the wind. I pull up next to her, stop the car, and lean over to open the passenger-side door.