“Sleep, sweetheart,” I say softly. “When the clothes are all done we’ll go.”
They take nearly two hours to wash and dry. Connor doesn’t sleep, his eyes stay open and wide, but neither does he cry anymore. He doesn’t do anything but just lay there, staring into space, breathing shallowly, shivering. I bring another blanket for him, tuck it carefully over him, kiss him on the forehead.
“You’ll be okay, sweetheart. Try to sleep.”
At last the clothes and towels are done. I’m amazed to realize that it’s already four o’clock in the morning; dawn will come soon. I know we have to get out of here, far away, to the end of the earth if possible. As I pull the warm things from the dryer I wonder what’s happening. Mrs. McCloud would have called Bill hours ago, maybe six hours back, when it became apparent we were late. He would have said he didn’t know but not to worry, his wife would have called him if anything had gone wrong. Would Mr. Blue have called? Did he even realize his son wasn’t home?
At least I saved Connor from him, I think. Rescued him from that violent drunk of a father. I did that for Connor. Yes.
By now there must have been more calls. Bill is worried by now, I’m sure he is. I wonder if he realizes that his grandfather’s pistol isn’t in the drawer where it belongs. No, he’s had no reason to check it. He’s on the phone, or has been, calling the Youth for America number, trying to find out if we got to the conference. But nobody’s answering now, not at four a.m. Maybe he’s in an uneasy sleep right now, waiting to hear the sound of my car pulling up in the drive and ready to hear the wild story of what delayed us so drastically, why I didn’t call. He’s kept Gracie calm, I know, told her there’s nothing wrong, Mom will be home soon, don’t worry. Part of me feels sad about this in an abstracted way but in truth, Bill and Gracie are no longer real to me. Mrs. McCloud, Mr. Blue are mere ghosts. Kylie a faraway memory. Cutts School a dream. All of them gone, vanished, no longer part of reality, if they ever were.
All that exists now is Connor. Connor and Mona, Mona and Connor. I know we have to get away. If they haven’t already, the police will start looking, they’ll check with the people who ran the conference, they’ll find that we duly registered and that participants remember us. Yes, we were definitely there. But afterwards we seem to have vanished. I never stopped anywhere after we left the convention center; there will be no one to identify us as having gone north. I wonder how long it will take Bill to think of the cabin. And yet the cabin is a hundred miles from what our destination had been. No doubt the search will focus on the main roads and side routes leading from the convention center home, at least for a while. The police will put out—what do they call it in the old crime movies?—an APB on us, on the car, with a description and the license plate number. A woman and two children, a boy and a girl. Wild scenarios will ensue. Perhaps we were carjacked, some crazed criminal forcing his way into the vehicle at a traffic light, holding a gun on me and forcing me to drive—where? It might be anywhere in the country. He might do anything, make us stop the car in the middle of nowhere, rape me, rape Kylie, rape Connor, shoot all of us. By mid-morning everyone connected to the school will know, everyone will be trying to stay calm and hope everything has a simple explanation even as they will have their own scenarios of what might have happened. Not one will bear any resemblance to the truth because not one of them knows about Connor, Connor and me.
I fold and put away all the towels and then go to the sofa, whisper, “Honey? We have to go, honey.” He seems to have dropped into a light doze but instantly his eyes pop open. He passively allows me to dress him. “We’ll get some breakfast a little later, sweetheart,” I say, slipping his sweater over him—he didn’t bring his big coat—and adjusting it. I gather up my bag and whatever we’ve left lying around, lead him out to the car. He seems dazed, unable to walk a straight line. I have him lie down in the back and tell him to go to sleep again while I return to the house, make a final check of things, turn off the lights and lock up. I consider going around back and taking a last look at where we left the girl but I covered it well with bushes and branches and cleaned the shovel we used thoroughly. They’ll find the makeshift grave eventually, of course, but with any luck even if they think to come to the cabin they’ll find no immediately obvious evidence that we’ve been here, never bother to search behind the building.
In any case, we’ll be long gone. I don’t know where. I get in the car, start the engine. Connor is silent, curled up horizontally in the back seat. I pull out of the driveway and head down the mountain road, the headlights ghostlike before us. I drive for what seems like a long time on a little paved road until finally I see lighted signs up ahead directing me to go left in order to get to the freeway. I do. I drive a long time again, finally see signs of life, street lights, fast-food restaurants, a sign telling me that the exit for Route 76 is a half-mile ahead. When I get there I take, for no particular reason, the fork that directs us west. The sun is coming up now, behind the car, shining long shadows before us. I drive.
In the rear view mirror I can see that Connor’s eyes are open, but he doesn’t move. He simply lies there curled up in a fetal position. After a while I realize that he’s put his thumb into his mouth and he’s sucking it.
I ask him to sit up as we approach a McDonald’s drive-thru, but he doesn’t move, doesn’t react. I end up pulling to the side of the road, reaching to the seat behind and physically propping him up. I don’t have to tell him to stay quiet. He’s not spoken in hours. His eyes are glassy. I pull up, order some breakfast sandwiches, get coffee for myself and orange juice for him, pay cash, pull away without incident. I take my own items and place the bag with Connor’s food behind me, between the seats.
“Connor? Here’s your breakfast. Have something to eat, sweetheart.”
I’m suddenly ravenous, virtually inhale the little muffin sandwich I’ve purchased for myself, slurp down the coffee with no sweetener or cream, scalding my mouth as I do it. I see in the rear view mirror that Connor has made no motion toward the bag, no motion of any kind.
“Honey? Your breakfast. You need to eat something.”
As we pull onto the freeway again I wince as I see a state trooper’s vehicle move up behind us. I slow, but not too much. I try not to act suspicious. Absurdly it crosses my mind that I could get in trouble for Connor not wearing his seat belt. After a minute or two the trooper pulls into the next lane, passes us.
I find myself growing concerned about the car we’re in, the fact that any attentive policeman who pulls up behind us need do no more than read the license number to end everything for us. A movie memory touches my mind and I say, “Hey Connor, remember in Psycho, when the lady switches cars? After she’s run away with the money, before she gets to the Bates Motel? Do you think we should do that? It might be safer.” He doesn’t respond. But then it occurs to me that any car dealer today is likely to give me much more trouble about the ownership of the vehicle than California Charlie gave Marion in Psycho. I have my i.d. and the car’s registration slip but not the title—that’s back home in a file drawer. No, I realize, it will never work. A woman with a virtually comatose young boy in tow trying to sell a car out of state without a title certificate? Anyway, the dealer would no doubt do some sort of routine check on the license number as soon as I said I wanted to sell the car. No. Completely out of the question.