Turn Me Loose (Paradise, Idaho)

by Rosalind James

  “Rochelle,” he said. “Wait.”

  She sat down again. “Never mind. Eyes wide open here, like you said. We’re all good.”

  He exhaled. “San Francisco isn’t the moon.”

  “Right,” she said. “I know. That faith thing. I’m working on it.”

  “Oh,” Zora said. “Got it. And let’s see. We’re going to meet her parents today?”

  “Yep,” Travis said. He took Rochelle’s hand. “You and me both. And I’m pretty excited about it, too.”

  FOOTBALL AND FISHING

  Which was why, that afternoon, he was on the highway with Rochelle and headed south. In her car this time, with her driving. She’d gotten in on the driver’s side with a little bit of bravado, and he’d just looked at her, smiled, climbed into the passenger seat, said, “Hey. Your car. And I am secure in my masculinity,” and had even made her laugh.

  His short-term status, though, hung over them like the clouds that were still massed low in the sky. He was going out to meet her folks, and he was leaving. Both things were true. He wasn’t going to make her promises he couldn’t keep, not after a couple of months. Being with her felt so right, but was it? He didn’t know, and neither did she, and they’d both been burned too badly before. And meanwhile, his time here was running out like calendar leaves flying away in a movie montage. What had started out as four months was now less than two, and every day, he got a little better understanding of how deeply Rochelle was rooted to this place.

  Programming problems had solutions. Relationship problems sometimes didn’t. That was why he’d always preferred programming.

  She slowed, after twenty minutes or so, for the barely-there town of Kernville. The rain had stopped while they’d been driving, but the gray skies didn’t help the looks of anything around them. Which were some grain elevators, a gas station, a barbershop, and a beauty salon, followed by a post office, a café, a thrift store, and an ancient grocery store whose faded signs and boarded-up windows spoke of a long-ago closure and nobody to take over the retail space. The ground rose to the right side of the highway, with a few nice-looking frame houses sitting perched on the hill, and fell into a hollow to the left before rising again to a much lower elevation.

  A right side of the highway, and a left side, and a great big difference between them. And Rochelle turned left.

  The narrow blacktop dipped down past one of the sorriest-looking trailer parks Travis had ever seen, then climbed the hill. A town of a few blocks, some of them better than others, none of them anything to write home about.

  He knew all about this kind of town. He’d grown up near a few.

  Rochelle stopped in front of a modest frame house, painted blue, with a white picket fence surrounding a small, neatly trimmed lawn edged by shrubs.

  “Ha,” Travis said, unfolding himself from the compact car. It had stopped raining, at least temporarily. “Score one for me.”

  “What?” Rochelle asked, coming around the car.

  He pointed. “Hydrangeas.” Looking a little desolate now that their flowering was over, with the water dripping mournfully off their leaves.

  “You think I’m easy?” she said with a toss of her head.

  “Nope,” he said, taking her hand, “I know you’re not.”

  She squeezed his hand and said, “Ready?”

  “Who’s more nervous?” he asked, but absently, because his attention had been caught by something else. By the sodden yellow ribbons still managing to flutter in the chilly wind, one attached to each handrail of the porch steps. And by the red-bordered banner hanging on a dowel from the front window: one blue star below, and one gold star above.

  Two sons. One coming home, if the ribbons could will him there. And one who never would.

  Rochelle saw the direction of his gaze and squeezed his hand again. “It’s good to be proud,” she said quietly.

  “Yeah,” he said, and thought about six kids minus one, and how it didn’t matter how many you had left, losing one would hurt just as much. Thought about Cal Jackson, the new father, finding the body of that young girl in his ditch.

  I kept thinking . . . her folks.

  That was why, when the door opened and Rochelle’s dad—because that had to be Rochelle’s dad, Larry—came out onto the porch, Travis’s expression was probably a little serious.

  Which matched Larry’s own expression perfectly. Only a couple inches shorter than Travis, broad shouldered, lean as whipcord, and ramrod straight, his graying brown hair cut uncompromisingly short and a lifetime of outdoor work in the lines around his eyes.

  He came down the steps to join them, and Travis caught the force of him in a heartbeat. His own dad had been tough, and tough-minded, too. Rochelle’s dad was more so.

  The other man put out a broad hand. “Larry Marks,” he said, still without a smile. “You’re Travis, I presume.”

  “Yes, sir.” As always, under pressure, Travis slowed down instead of speeding up. He put out his own hand and shook the older man’s. Nothing weak, but not a pissing contest, either. “Travis Cochran.”

  Rochelle’s dad stood still a minute, the deep blue eyes evaluating him, and Travis looked straight back and got even stiller, until he heard Rochelle say from beside him, her tone dry as dust, “You won’t get him that way, Dad. I think he might be as tough as you.”

  A reluctant grin split the weathered cheeks, and Larry dropped Travis’s hand and asked him, “That so?”

  “No, sir,” Travis said. “But I’m working on it. Rochelle’s a pretty good test.”

  That got more of a grin, and Larry said, “Well, a woman can do that to you.” He looked Travis over. “Huh. Rochelle says you’re not such a city boy. That right?”

  “Not originally, anyway,” Travis said. “Softened up some, probably, these days.”

  “You fish? Do any hunting?”

  “Dad,” Rochelle said, “he’s not even in the house. And he’s a computer guy from San Francisco.”

  “What did I do?” Larry asked in genuine surprise. “Asked the man a simple question. And, what? Computer guys can’t fish?”

  Travis was grinning now himself, all his nerves banished. This, he got. This was just a dad of daughters being a dad. Sizing him up. “Fish, yes, when I get a chance. You see some city guys up here fishing from time to time, though, I’m guessing, so I’m not sure that says much.”

  “You’re right about that,” Larry said. “Every gadget in the book, the price tags still practically hanging off their fancy new waders, and not catching a dang thing. Can’t buy smarts or skills, can you?” The sharp eyes were still assessing. “But you don’t hunt.”

  “Not anymore, no. I went out with my dad some when I was younger, but seems I don’t much care for it.”

  “Don’t like to kill things,” Larry guessed.

  Travis looked him in the eye. “Nope. I don’t. Not unless they’re trying to kill me.”

  Larry laughed at that, gave Travis a quick pat on the back, and told Rochelle. “All right. He’ll do. Come on inside and meet Rochelle’s mom.”

  “Sorry,” Rochelle muttered as they went up the stairs behind her dad.

  “Nah,” Travis said. “At least he wasn’t sitting up on the porch cleaning his gun.”

  He heard the bark of laughter from ahead of them, and Larry turned around at the top of the stairs to say, “I won’t say I never thought about it. You could say I’m sorry I didn’t think about it more.”

  “And that,” Rochelle said in resignation, “would be a not-too-subtle reference to Lake. Travis doesn’t believe in cheating, Dad. Good news.”

  “Nobody believes in it when somebody’s doing it to them,” Larry said. “Doesn’t say much.”

  “Another good point,” Travis said. “I suppose we’ll just have to wait and see how it works out.”

  “We’ll do that,” Larry said. The level blue eyes told Travis, Don’t screw up, boy. And he wouldn’t have liked to be Lake.

  Into the house, then, af
ter a whole lot of wiping of feet. The living room was small, but that was no surprise. The whole house was small and neat as a pin, the furniture shabby. A dark brown couch bought to hide the wear, a recliner that had “man of the house” written all over it, a dining area with its table set with a flowered cloth. And a woman coming forward to meet them, body thickened with age and six children, face worn by time and pain, but a smile on her face and a hug for Rochelle. Her mom, Valerie.

  “Both of you here, and Stacy,” she said. “During midterms, that’s what she said.” She chuckled. “She’ll be distracted about that, but I’m just happy to see her. She’s always studying,” she told Travis. “Ever since she was a little girl.”

  He shot a glance at Rochelle, saw her looking back at him, and thought, not anymore.

  He said, “Nice to meet you, ma’am. I hope it’s all right with you that my sister’s coming out, too, at least once she and Stacy finish driving all over the countryside taking pictures. I guess Rochelle told you that Zora’s a photographer. At least, she’d like to be a photographer.”

  “Oh, sure,” Valerie said. “Can’t wait to meet her. And we get lots of those. It’s the light or something. The shape of the hills, I guess. The clouds. We get them out here in all seasons. Right now, though, when most of the fields are plowed and there’s not much to see but brown dirt? Doesn’t look like much to me, tell you the truth, especially in the rain. I wouldn’t hang that on my wall, but then, nobody asked me to. Come on in the kitchen and help me out, Rochelle.”

  Which left Travis there with her dad, but there was a Seahawks game on the TV, and Larry was sitting in the recliner now and picking up the remote, so Travis wasn’t too worried.

  Football and fishing. He could do football and fishing.

  FISHTAIL

  Stacy was up. Pumped. So she hadn’t heard from Shane for two days. So what? She’d had a good time with Zora the night before, and she was all set for the week. He’d helped with that, at least, before he’d disappeared on her again.

  Too bad. Let him miss her for a change, she thought recklessly, taking a curve fast, feeling the truck fishtail a bit amid the gravel spray. She wasn’t going to call him. She was going to be Rochelle from now on. She was going to be a badass. The music was blasting from the open windows, and she was flying.

  “Whoa,” Zora shouted over the wail of guitars. She was laughing, but sounding a little alarmed, too. “Maybe we shouldn’t put Travis’s truck in the ditch. He’s attached to it. Oh, look,” she added, craning her neck to see up a hill. “Go up there. Wow. Cloud city. Let’s drive up where I can see out. Can you?”

  They’d been out here for more than an hour now, taking the back roads, Stacy finding the high points for Zora, for her pictures. Stacy was driving—and pulling over every time Zora yelled, “Stop!” Which was a lot. The storm had broken, at least for the time being, but the clouds were moving fast. Some blue sky, shafts of sunlight beaming down over the hills, lighting up the earth and the sky behind it. All brown, gold, and blue, and that rich, clear quality of light you got after a storm. At least Stacy guessed that was the idea.

  She braked hard at a mailbox stuck askew onto a post. Kimberling. Miles’s place. His dad’s was farther along. This road was steep, and Zora would have a good view from up there. She swung off the road, a little too fast again. Another fishtail, then she straightened the truck out and began to climb.

  “Yeah,” Zora said as the panorama spread out beneath them. “This is it. Worth it. Keep going up. Top of the hill.”

  The road was muddy up here, the gravel spread too thin. The big wheels spun out hard, and Stacy gave it more gas. The tires bit, and then the truck surged forward. Stacy spun the wheel to get them around the curve and pressed hard on the gas. The tires were sliding in the mud, slipping, and then the skid took them over. The rear end was swinging out behind, and they were revolving, the nose pointed downhill, and past it. Another lurch, a hard bang, the nose coming up, and they were headed backward, straight into the ditch, hitting the bank hard. Her torso jolted against her seat belt, then back again, and her neck whipped backward. And then there was just the music. Loud. Wailing like the scream trying to get out from inside her.

  Her shaking hand felt for the key and turned it off. The music died, the cooling engine ticked over, and, finally, she dared to look.

  Please, she thought. Please. And there was Zora, stabbing at her own seat belt, eyes wide with shock, and speaking at last.

  “Whoa.” Zora’s voice was shaking. “Whoa.” She grabbed at the seat for her camera, dove down to the floor, her hand groping, searching, then picked it up and examined it. She took a deep breath. “It’s all right. You OK?”

  “Yeah.” The word came out reedy, too thin, and Stacy tried again. “Fine.” The high was gone, and she was sick. Cold. She opened the door and climbed out, hanging on to the door to keep from sliding down the steep bank, then edged her way down to check out the back.

  Stuck, that was all. Just a couple dents in the bumper, she thought desperately, and it was an old truck with its share of scrapes. An easy tow, too.

  But she was going to have to tell Travis, who’d been so nice to her. The sickness rose again at the thought, and she swallowed it back.

  Sliding off a muddy road happened, though, right? He wouldn’t be too mad. Rochelle wouldn’t . . . Her mind skittered away from the thought of Rochelle. And her parents.

  Zora was out of the truck, too, looking at the rear end from the other side. “Not too bad,” she said, echoing Stacy’s thoughts. “We just need a tow, I’d say.” She had her phone out. “I’ll call Travis and tell him. I’ll bet he and your dad could get us out.”

  “No!” It came out too loud, and Stacy moderated her tone. “No. Let’s walk up the road. We should be able to get a tow here.” Maybe there wouldn’t be much damage, and nobody would have to see the truck actually in the ditch. Nobody but Zora. Or Rochelle and Travis, if Stacy had to. Just not her dad.

  Zora shrugged and nodded. “You say so.” She was from the country, too, Stacy remembered. She knew that where there was a farmer, there’d be a tow strap. It was going to be all right. It had to be all right.

  “I have to leave by three thirty, that’s all,” Zora said. “To catch my flight home, so faster’s better, as far as I’m concerned.”

  Stacy felt sick again, with guilt this time at messing up Zora’s day. She’d wanted to be a badass, and all she’d done was screw up. Again. She wanted to run away, but she couldn’t. Not from this. She had to get the truck out of the ditch, and then she had to drive back home and tell Travis. And then she’d have to pay for the damage. The hysteria wanted to rise again at the thought, but there was no escaping it. She’d have to pay.

  She started walking up the road, and Zora followed without speaking. Stacy’s chest ached a little from where the seat belt had caught her, and her head hurt, too. She massaged her shoulder and asked Zora, “You sore?”

  Zora rolled her own neck. “A little. I’ll live.” She wasn’t berating Stacy, even though she must have known it had all been Stacy’s fault. Stacy was glad, because otherwise, she would have cried.

  They kept walking, and then it got worse, because the rain started again. A few big drops, and then the thunder rolled, the lightning lit up the landscape below, making a barn flash vivid red, the contours of the hills jump out in stark relief. Just that fast, it started to pour, the thunder grumbling overhead.

  They were running now. “Should have stayed in the truck,” Zora gasped, but she was laughing.

  Nothing stuck to her, Stacy thought miserably, whereas everything stuck to Stacy.

  “I wish I’d had a shot of that just now,” Zora added. “That lightning flash. That was something.” Like to her, this was all a big adventure. But then, she wasn’t the one who’d put the truck in the ditch.

  Around a broad curve, and there, just off the road in front of them, was the blue-and-white trailer, the black car next to it in the driveway. Th
ere was a light shining through the mobile home’s window. Somebody was home, then.

  Just let there be no bad damage to the truck, Stacy prayed. Just let the truck be OK.

  They were running now, slipping a little in the gravel, trying to get out of the downpour, their coats held over their heads. Up the gravel driveway and onto the concrete slab.

  There were legs sticking out from under the black car, she realized with a jolt. Legs in blue jeans, ending in work boots. A normal sight. But the jeans were soaked, the water running in rivulets down the creases. The boots, too, were dark with water. But nobody would be doing that. Nobody would be out here in this.

  And the legs were still.

  Stacy’s steps slowed, but she walked closer. The man was on a creeper, but surely there wasn’t enough space for one under there, not without a jack. She got closer still, forcing her feet to move until she was standing over him, part of her mind trying to spiral away, trying to go higher, into the clouds, away from here. She pulled it ruthlessly back down.

  Focus. Deal.

  She bent down, put a hand on an ice-cold, soaking-wet calf, and said, “Hey.”

  The calf didn’t move, and there was no sound but the rain hitting the metal roof of the trailer. She’d dropped her jacket from over her head at some point, and the water was streaming through her hair, over her face, but she didn’t notice. Because the leg she was touching was stiff. She swallowed, then touched it again to make sure. She tried to shake it. And she couldn’t move it.

  Rigor mortis.

  It seemed to take forever for her head to swing around to face Zora, standing a little bit behind her, her eyes and mouth dark holes in her face.

  Stacy stood up and pulled her phone out of her pack. Her organic chemistry book was in there getting soaked, she registered vaguely. She pushed buttons, and waited.

  “Hi,” she said when the official voice answered. “I’m out at, uh, Kimberling’s place. Uh, Miles. And I think he’s . . . someone’s . . .” Her voice shook, but she forced herself to be precise. “Someone is, anyway. Someone’s dead.”