Gone South

by Meg Moseley

  Five? Made sense. The windows were still dark.

  But it didn’t make sense. George must have left his motel room in the middle of the night.

  He’d called late last night after the car broke down in a small town on the way home from the car show. An electrical problem. He’d fixed it, but he was too tired to drive the rest of the way. He’d planned to spend the night there and leave early in the morning so he’d be home in time to open the shop—and to talk to Mel about the missing Corvette. Tish had called him after the police left, and they both knew Mel was involved somehow.

  The whole town knew. Even Mrs. Nair had hobbled across the street after Mel and Hayley drove away. Mrs. Nair had heard the rumor from her daughter.

  Tish closed her eyes in the dark and opened them again with a groan. She needed to tell her mom what was going on, but where to start?

  The engine’s grumble grew fainter as the car drew farther from the house. In a minute or two George would start walking back through the yard, past the house, and back toward Main in the dark.

  She wanted to run downstairs and intercept him so they could talk things over, but he had to be exhausted. Mel and her problems could wait until daylight.

  Had she even come home?

  Tish lay awake, listening to the steady thrumming of the furnace. As many times as she’d moved in her life, she’d always liked to get acquainted with the sound of each new furnace. Each one had its idiosyncrasies. If she knew them well, their clunks and shudders in the middle of the night couldn’t make her think they were the footfalls of an intruder.

  An unreasonable fear crept into her thoughts. Just as she’d already learned the voice of the furnace, she’d learned the voice of the Chevelle.

  The Chevelle wasn’t what had disturbed her sleep.

  George wasn’t back from the car show. Neither was his car.

  “No,” she whispered in the darkness. “No, no, no.”

  But her suspicion wouldn’t go away. She threw off her covers. She had to know.

  She turned on the light and put on her robe, then picked up her purse from the chair by the door and reached into it for her keys. Searching for the padlock key, she shook her head. The key had to be there.

  She started over, one key at a time, all the way around her key ring. The key to the garage was missing.

  Tish dropped her phone into the pocket of her robe and went downstairs. Remnants of the birthday décor remained. The balloons had begun to shrink, the crepe paper streamers drooped, and the banner had come loose on one end and hung straight down from the doorway.

  “Happy twenty-first, you little thief,” she said softly.

  She flipped on the hallway light. Mel’s door was open. Daisy was asleep on the bed. Alone.

  In the kitchen, the flashlight was missing from the top of the fridge.

  She put on her Crocs and left through the back door. The sky was still dark, and a chilly wind bit into her. She maneuvered her way through the yard, nearly running into several bushes but staying on track. She rounded the line of camellias and saw a sliver of light at the bottom of the garage doors.

  As quietly as possible, she walked to the garage. Putting her ear to the door, she heard Mel’s voice.

  “You are so stupid,” Mel said clearly. “Stupid, stupid Mel.”

  Tish placed her hands on the heavy sliding door and prepared to push it to the side. She braced herself, gave it one hard shove, and stared at the shiny rear bumper of a classic, sky-blue Corvette.

  Mel gasped, standing precariously on Calv’s tall stool with a folded newspaper tucked under her arm. She wore a roll of duct tape like a bracelet on her left wrist, and she wore red gloves—the ones Tish’s mom had passed on to her.

  Mel gaped down at her. Tish gaped up—and then at the car again. Her mouth went dry at the beauty of the machine and the insanity of what Mel was attempting. Either she didn’t know right from wrong, or she had her own definitions.

  Tish stepped into the garage and shoved the door closed again. “What are you doing?”

  Not that she needed an answer. It was obvious. Mel had covered three windows with newspaper, and she was working on the last one.

  “I’m covering the garage windows.” Mel’s voice sounded breathy. Panicked. “So nobody can see the car.”

  “I thought so.” Tish marveled at her own calm. “And you … borrowed my gloves so you wouldn’t leave prints?”

  “Uh-huh. Don’t worry, I was gonna give ’em back.” Finished taping the paper across the top of the window frame, Mel ripped off another length of duct tape for the left side.

  “I take you in, I trust you, and you steal a car and hide it in my garage?”

  “I didn’t.” Mel taped the right side.

  “Who did, then? Was Hayley involved?”

  “No! My dad stole it from me!”

  “Shhhh! Keep your voice down, Mel, you’ll wake the neighbors.”

  Tish reached out to touch the fender of the Corvette. Sixty grand, George had said. Sixty thousand dollars’ worth of stolen property.

  She imagined herself in prison. Then she imagined herself pulling her phone out of her pocket, right now, and calling the police. Being a hero.

  Mel taped the paper across the bottom of the window frame, lowered herself to a seated position, and slid off the stool. “I’ve got to get out of here.”

  “And leave me holding the bag? How dare you! No, you’re taking it back. Right now.”

  “No way!”

  “It’s only a fifteen-minute trip. We’ll be there before daylight.” Tish held out her hand. “Give me the key.”

  Mel reached into her pocket and produced the padlock key.

  Tish took it. “Thanks, but now I want the key to the Corvette.”

  “Why? Are you taking it somewhere? Where are you taking it?”

  “You are taking it to its rightful owner, and you’re going to apologize to your father.”

  After a heart-wrenching sob, Mel dug deeper in her pocket and pulled out a small, ordinary key. Tears rolled down her cheeks. “It was Grandpa John’s key. When I took it, it wasn’t so I could take the car. I only wanted something of his to take with me when I moved out.”

  “When you left home? You’ve had the key since then?”

  Mel nodded. “To remember Grandpa John by. But when I got into their house—”

  “Whose house? When?”

  “My parents’ house. On Friday night when I knew they wouldn’t be home. I walked there to get some clothes, but then I peeked in the garage and the car was still there, and I already had the key with me. So I—I started it up, and I kind of kept going. It’s an awesome car, you know? I could’ve driven a thousand miles. But I didn’t take it far. I hid it in an old barn outside of town and I walked home.”

  “Do I understand this right? On Friday night you put the car in a barn somewhere, but now you’ve moved it here? Why?”

  “Robot Face said he would turn the county upside down, but he won’t check the garage again because he already did.”

  “Don’t count on it. He’s not stupid.”

  “But God will help me again. I prayed, and He answered. First I asked Him to get you out of the way on Friday, and He did—”

  “No, that was your doing. You pressured me into going to the garden club.”

  “But I couldn’t make you go. That was God, see? You actually went. And I asked God to keep the cops away when I took the car on Friday, and He did, and He kept the neighbors from noticing. And when I walked to the barn after Hayley dropped me off, I asked God to keep the cops away again, and He did. It took five whole minutes to get it here, but I didn’t see a single car. Not a cop car. Not any kind of car.” Mel stopped her breathless recitation to wipe her eyes. “It was a miracle.”

  Tish shook her head. “I can’t believe God wanted to help you hide an extremely expensive car that belongs to someone else.”

  “It’s mine,” Mel said fiercely. “Grandpa John said it was. George d
id too. He said if Grandpa John honestly meant to give me the car, it should be mine.”

  “Should be. But legally, it isn’t.” Tish walked to the door and shoved it open, then returned the padlock key to Mel. “I’ll pull the car out and turn it around. You turn out the lights, lock up, and hop in.”

  She climbed into the driver’s seat before she could change her mind. Before Mel could argue.

  It was a three-speed. Piece o’ cake. Driving a Corvette couldn’t be too different from driving any other car. Gas, brakes, clutch. Headlights. That was about all she needed to locate. Oh, and ignition.

  She found the ignition, depressed the clutch, and turned the key. The engine started right up, the noise hammering the walls. She could only hope the neighbors would think it was George, inconsiderately firing up his Chevelle at five in the morning.

  Biting her lip, she focused on finding reverse. There it was. Checking the rearview mirror for the camellias, she backed the car out of the garage. She swung the car around—with some difficulty, because it didn’t have power steering—and waited.

  The garage went dark. A minute later, the dome light shone on Mel as she opened the passenger door and climbed in. She was crying softly.

  “Do you want to drive, Mel?”

  “No! I don’t even want to go!” Mel slammed her door and turned up the volume of her weeping.

  “Please be quiet and let me think.”

  Again, Tish eased up on the clutch and fed the engine some gas. The Corvette leaped forward, its headlights shining on the sandy track that had once known the beat of horses’ hooves. She could understand why Mel had kind of kept going. It was an awesome car.

  “We made it down Main Street without any trouble,” Tish said, not expecting an answer.

  Mel huddled in the passenger seat in the dark, alternating between weeping and whimpering. Once in a while, she issued petulant orders.

  Tish hadn’t driven a stick shift in several years, but it had come back to her, as easily as riding a bike. It wasn’t a smooth ride, though. Nearly sixty years old, the car didn’t have modern suspension or power steering or power brakes. Boy, could it move, though. It throbbed with barely restrained energy.

  Tish nearly laughed, remembering how she’d tried to be sweet and respectable and inconspicuous at the garden club. How she’d never taken produce boxes from Kroger without asking the manager first. Now she was driving a very loud and very stolen Corvette through town in the predawn stillness.

  If they were caught, she could forget that job in Muldro. She could even forget George, who’d ditched one of his girlfriends for shoplifting, as he certainly should have.

  “Go faster,” Mel pleaded.

  “No. The police are on the lookout for this thing, and I don’t want to attract any more attention.”

  “Oh, so you want to be on the road longer?”

  Tish checked her speed. Forty. Maybe there was some wisdom in shaving a few minutes off their time. She’d already decided against taking the back roads, in the interest of time. On this side of town, at this hour, even the main roads were empty of traffic.

  “We’re nearly there,” she said to reassure herself as much as Mel.

  Then they would have a long walk home. At least Mel was dressed for it. Tish sure wasn’t.

  “I’d better call George,” she said, digging in the pocket of her bathrobe.

  “Why? So he can turn us in?”

  Tish called his number but got his voice mail. “Good morning,” she said after the beep. “You like honest people, right? Let me be perfectly honest. I’m doing a stupid, stupid thing.” Her voice cracked. “If you want to give a couple of felons a ride, we’ll be walking home from Dunc’s house in a few minutes if the police don’t nab us.” She sniffled. “Look on the bright side. I won’t need a job if I’m in prison.” She put her phone back in her pocket.

  “Prison? No!”

  “It’s about time you thought about the consequences of your actions.”

  The sky had barely lightened in the east. Mel said Dunc was an early riser, though.

  Letting up on the gas, Tish downshifted and made the turn onto Rock Glen Drive. The thunder of the car seemed even louder now, and the speed bumps were murder on the stiff suspension. No wonder Dunc had campaigned against them.

  If Farris went for a run and saw her at the wheel of the Corvette … so what? He’d already decided against hiring her. If anyone at the construction company in Muldro heard about it, though, that job was toast. She couldn’t in a million years justify her behavior—except it might keep the fresh-air kid out of prison.

  She’d thought nothing could feel more dangerous than that short stretch on Main, but Rock Glen was worse. One by one, the darkened houses slipped past. Nothing but thin panes of glass stood between the noisy car and the neighbors’ ears.

  “Slow down, we’re almost there,” Mel said.

  “I see it.”

  Tish slowed to a crawl. She pulled into the Hamiltons’ driveway and killed the engine. The sudden quiet was eerie. The sun was behind them, its earliest light glinting on the front windows of the house, competing with the white security lights.

  “Think your dad is up by now?” she asked.

  “Probably.”

  “Get it over with, then.”

  “Come with me,” Mel begged. “Please.”

  They climbed out. Tish shut her door first, the sound like a gunshot to her hypersensitive ears. Mel’s door was the second gunshot, and then they walked to the front door.

  Mel stood motionless, not lifting a finger.

  “Ring the doorbell,” Tish said.

  Like an obedient child, Mel did as she was told.

  Tish pressed the car key into the girl’s hand. “When he opens the door, tell him you’re sorry and give him the key.”

  Mel nodded woodenly.

  There were soft noises somewhere inside, and then the rattle of a deadbolt. The door swung open, and Dunc Hamilton stood there in sweats and a snug white T-shirt.

  “Well, well.” He looked past them to the car. “I thought I heard something.” Ignoring Tish, he studied Mel. “You have something to say to me?”

  “Yes sir.” Her voice was emotionless. “I’m sorry.”

  She held out the key. He took it.

  “It’s about time.” He met Tish’s eyes. “Thank you, Miss McComb, for returning my property.”

  “What about your daughter?”

  His eyes flickered over Mel and back to Tish. “She made her choices. She can live with ’em.” He shut the door and locked it.

  Tish’s hand shot out to pound on the door and hot words danced on her tongue, but some vestige of common sense saved her. She took a deep breath and backed away.

  “Let’s go.” She tugged Mel into a turn. “Even if he won’t let you in, there’s a place for you. There will always be a place for you. God isn’t like Dunc Hamilton.”

  “Good thing.” As they passed the Corvette, Mel trailed a shaking hand along the rear fender, but she kept moving.

  She was still wearing those red gloves, but fingerprints didn’t matter now. Dunc knew his culprits.

  The sky was lighter now. Birds were chirping. People would be up. Pouring their morning coffee, looking out their windows, walking their dogs.

  On their fifteen-minute drive, Tish had hardly been aware of ditches, uneven pavement, barking dogs. Now, on foot, she noticed everything. And she was working up a sweat in her thick robe and flannel pajamas.

  Mel sniffled at regular intervals and sometimes gave in to soft sobs. Glancing over at her, Tish wondered what she could do for a girl whose family wouldn’t have her. She needed a new family.

  Calv, a surrogate grandpa. George, the big brother. She, Tish, the big sister. An unemployed sister, of course, because word of this escapade would spread fast.

  She wasn’t the kind of employee a business would want. Not now. And she wasn’t the kind of woman George would want. Compared to this, George’s ex-girlfrien
d’s wrongs were meager, wimpy little sins. Shoplifting? Ha! Boring.

  Years from now, he might tell some other woman, Then there was the one who swiped a car. Morally challenged. Reckless. Irresponsible.

  She should have looked for another option. A sane option. She could have called Stu and begged him to come get the car—and to keep his mouth shut for his sister’s sake—but it was too late.

  Mel burst out with a groan. “He probably turned us in already.”

  “Probably.”

  “We’re dead ducks. Dead. Ducks.”

  “I’ve got the right pajamas on,” Tish said. “With duckies.”

  “Huh? Oh.” Mel laughed, just for a second.

  They reached the main road and turned left, walking on the shoulder against traffic. Fortunately, there was very little of it.

  Her heart hammered her ribs when she recognized the sound of the Chevelle, far down the road. “Here comes George.”

  “No way. Oh no. You’re right.”

  The headlights approached slowly. George must have been afraid he wouldn’t see them in the dim light. As he came closer, Tish waved.

  He pulled over on the shoulder, leaving the engine running. The headlights made Tish think of prison spotlights.

  George got out with his phone to his ear. “Right,” he said to someone. “Yes. Thank you.”

  “Oh boy,” Mel whispered.

  He lowered the phone and walked around the car. Nobody spoke.

  George shook his head. His dark eyes were hard to read, especially in the half light of early morning.

  He opened his mouth to speak.

  “You traitor,” Mel said, her voice shaking. “You called the cops!”

  “No, I called your brother.”

  “I don’t have no stinkin’ brother!”

  “Get in,” George said. “Both of you.”

  He opened the passenger door and tipped the front seat forward. “Melanie,” he said. “Back seat.”

  She shot him a murderous look but climbed in.

  George returned the front seat to its position and met Tish’s eyes. “I was almost home from the car show when I found I had an interesting message from you.”

  “Honestly, I don’t even remember what I said. It has been a rough morning.”