Nothing But Blue (3 page)

The man holds a pair of red Converse sneakers in one hand. “These are my daughter's. You look like you could be the same size.” He dangles the shoes in the air like a treat.

Another warning every child knows: Never take candy from strangers.

“Go on. She left them in the restaurant. She has so many shoes she'll never notice.”

The dog takes one of the sneakers in his mouth and drops it at my feet. I take the other. I slide them on. Red is not my color and they are a little big but beggars can't be choosers.

In the other hand the man has a wax-paper bag with a brown muffin in it. “Take this, too. But you have to go. I really can't have loitering.”

I take the bag without hesitating, just like candy, and the man goes back inside to open up.

I hold the muffin to my nose and sniff. Food! Real food! The dog quirks his head like he's expecting something.

“Are you crazy?” I say. “I gave you that spaghetti last night. This is mine.” It's a carrot-raisin muffin. I hate carrots and I hate raisins, but suddenly they are the best food ever. I scarf the entire muffin in four bites.

The man peers out the window, so I lace up the shoes and start walking. Even though the shoes are too big, they make a huge difference.

The dog sticks to my heels.

I turn and say, “You can't follow me.”

He stops.

I walk ahead, though I sense that I'm being watched. I look back and the dog is standing there with sad, confused eyes. Somehow his eyes lure me over. I kneel down to face him. From a distance they look black, but up close his eyes are all different colors: green, brown, yellow, red, purple. The colors swirl and flicker like a fortuneteller's ball. For a second I am lost in them, swimming around in a warm, peaceful sea. I feel calm, as if I'm in another world.

Then, just as quickly, it's over.

“Look,” I say, “you have to leave. I gave you that food last night only because I couldn't eat it.”

He hangs his head as if he understands what I'm saying. He pulls his mouth back, opens it slightly. I back away, afraid he might bite me. But then the weirdest thing—his mouth turns up at the corners, and he is smiling. A real smile. He nods his head up and down before he turns and walks away. We go in opposite directions.

 

My mouth is dry. How long can a person go without water? Two days? Three? A week? A month? In school once we watched a film about Gandhi. He starved himself for something like three weeks. He did it for a cause, for peace. But I bet he had water. It's water that you really can't survive without. In the end it wasn't starvation that killed Gandhi. He was shot.

My muscles are sore, and the weird thing is, they hurt even more when I stop. So I keep moving. It's very rural around here, which is good, I guess. The fewer people the better. I pass an occasional farm or hay field dotted with cows and sheep. The cows chew their cuds and stare at me.

What are you doing out here?
they seem to ask.
What's the hurry? Don't you want to stop and rest awhile?
They are so peaceful standing among the dandelions, but I walk on by without answering.

The day gets foggier and darker. The ground is wet and the road is full of puddles from a recent rain. I try to avoid muddying my sneakers, but I look no more than three yards ahead. Just get me through the next three yards. I can't think beyond that. It's too far in the future.

A car with a muffler missing and music blaring out the windows catches up to me. The bass is so loud that the whole car shakes. It swerves by extra fast through a puddle, spraying me with dirty water. It's a car full of teens—boys and girls—laughing and bouncing like they're on their way to a party. Two of them stick their heads out the window and yell. The music is so loud that I can't make out the words, but it sounds like something unmentionable. One of them gives me the finger. They speed out of sight.

I am left on the side of the road with the echo of the bass ringing in my ears, soaking wet and thirsty. I want to cry, but it seems too stupid and wasteful. I want to remember things, but that seems stupid, too.

The time and the miles go by. I start to pass more buildings—I must be nearing a town of sorts. I walk by a house close to the road where a woman is tending her flower beds. Dare I ask for water? She waves and nods hello and I quicken my pace.

The businesses that I come across are quiet and closed—it must be after five already. There's an RV sales lot, numerous garages with old rusted cars and trucks dotting the grounds, a Laundromat, a hunting and fishing store. The fog lifts and the late sun comes out extra hot. I consider lapping water from a puddle, but I push forward until I finally come to a gas station that is open. I scope it out.

There's a cashier inside. A woman. A car pulls in for gas, and when the driver goes into the store, I slip inside after him. If I follow someone, I'll stand out less.

I find the bathroom in the back. The sink is metal and there is toilet paper strewn about. There is a distinct odor of bodily functions I'd rather not think about. I turn the faucet on. The water comes out the color of rust. It occurs to me that it could be tainted with something carcinogenic. But on the other hand, I may not be around long enough to get cancer, so I lean under the faucet and let the water stream into my mouth. It is warm and tastes like tin. Tin water is better than no water. I take long, deep gulps until I'm quenched.

When I exit, the customer is gone. The cashier looks up, surprised to see me. She's a girl close to my age. “Hey,” she says. “Where'd you come from?”

I mumble a few words telling her it's okay, I'm leaving, but I doubt she understands. Luckily I get out without her asking anything else. I can sense her watching me, wondering maybe, but that's all. At least I got water, and I feel a thousand times better.

 

There's a fire-orange sunset. Everything blazes up and then starts to turn a deep purple. It's hard to see when all of a sudden a dark animal ambles across the road a few yards ahead. At first, I think it's that dog, but it's way too small, more the size of a heavy cat. It's a little more than halfway across when a car comes barreling toward it.

“Run,” I shout. Instead the animal sits up on its hind haunches and stares in my direction as if trying to figure out who is yelling. The car headlights glare and I can see its masked face. A raccoon. “Run!” I shout again, but it is frozen. I turn and wave my arms toward the car frantically to get it to slow down, but it doesn't. There's not much of a curb, so I quickly jump into the bushes to avoid being hit.

The raccoon is not so lucky. There's a heavy
ca-thunk
. The car brakes for a second and idles. I see two people inside talking to each other. The driver looks back and then pulls away just as fast. The road is quiet and empty again, except for the lump of fur and bones left in the middle.

I don't know if the raccoon is dead or not. I walk up to it cautiously. It lies on its side. I crouch to see if it's breathing. I don't think it is. Its eyes bug out a little and there's blood and something else oozing out of its middle.

I'm afraid to touch it, but I can't leave it there in the middle of the road. I find a big stick and push it into the woods. It's heavy. It's getting dark, so I try to move quickly. I dig an indentation big enough to roll the raccoon into it.

“I'm sorry,” I whisper. I cover the raccoon with dirt and leaves and leave the stick in the ground like a headstone. It all happened so fast. One second the raccoon was alive and now it's not.
They're all dead!
A voice screams inside me.

I stop at the next building—a place that sells tombstones. How fitting. I huddle in the back against the wall and hug myself for warmth.

The second I close my eyes I see the exploding images. I must be hallucinating. Maybe the lack of food and the cold are making me see things like a drug trip. I've heard of that. Before dying you see all sorts of crazy things. When I open my eyes the hallucination is gone.

I twist my hands up inside the sleeves of my sweatshirt and wrap my arms together. The tin water has left a funny taste in my mouth. My tongue is dry and thick. I lie on my side but keep my eyes open.

I watch a shadow move in the distance. Some kind of animal is walking across the road toward me. It is not a raccoon—that I can tell. It looks like a wolf. It's probably another hallucination. There can't be wolves out here. I blink. It's still there. As it gets closer I see it's a dog with something in its mouth.

The dog comes right up to me and sits by my head. It looks exactly like the dog from the restaurant. Could it be? The thing in its mouth is a plastic water bottle. I try to shoo the dog away, but my arm is stuck in my sleeve. He drops the bottle onto the ground, then backs up a few feet. If I could just take my arm out of my sleeve, I could pick up the bottle. I imagine doing it first, and then I actually am doing it.

The bottle is three-quarters full. It must have been someone else's water, but I don't care. I don't care if there are germs. I don't care if someone spit in it. I don't care if the dog lunges after me and bites my hand. I glance at him. He sits, watching me. It is definitely the same dog. He has the same tall ears and gray, mangy fur. I look into his black eyes and see the swirling flecks of color. I manage to half sit up, unscrew the cap, and raise the bottle to my mouth.

The water slides down my insides. I never knew how good real water could taste. It trickles through my body, giving me life. So much better than gas station tin water.

I cough, then take another sip, more slowly this time. I sit up fully. Amazing how something as simple as water can make me feel so much better.

The dog gives out one short bark. I close my eyes and take another drink. I think I can sleep now.

“Thanks,” I murmur, but my voice is so distant, I don't know if anything comes out.

 

The dog is gone when I wake up. The water bottle is at my feet. I drink the remaining drops. It's true I am not dead, but I'm not quite human anymore. I am just a thing, a mechanical robot. All I need is a little oil rubbed into my joints and muscles and I'll be good again. I get up, stretch my sore back, and leave. My stomach is tight and needs fuel as well.

I walk mindless and numb. It's not cold anymore; in fact, now it's hot. This time of year, you never can tell what the weather will do. Cold at night, hot during the day. One minute it's Indian summer; the next there could be frost.

My thoughts are wrapped inside thick fog, even though the sun is bright. Everything has a hazy quality, as if shivering slightly. Perhaps this is what happens to people in the desert. I'm not in the desert, though. I can make out pastures with rolling hills and green hues of grass. There is a lumpy white and black shape in the distance, and another and another, all forming a large mass. I rub my eyes. Cows. Under a tree. I move toward them. Maybe the cows will share their shade with me.

I hasten my pace. I'm afraid that the tree could be a mirage and will disappear if I don't reach it in time. The cows part as I approach, then settle back around, giving me a wide berth. They seem to be waiting. They talk to me like others I've passed, but this time I listen.

We knew you could make it,
they say.
Come sit, take a load off.

I sit against the tree. I don't even mind the pasture smell.

The air is instantly cooler under the leaves.

I spot a small yellowish ball on the ground. That's odd. Is it a tennis ball? Who plays tennis in a cow field? I glance around. The ground is littered with them.

I look up. The tree hides more of the balls in its branches. Not tennis balls, apples! This tree bears fruit. Fruit is edible. I pick an apple up from the ground next to me. It's mottled with brown, but I don't care. There's no such thing as a poison apple, unless you're Snow White, which I most definitely am not, so I bite into the fruit. It's sour, bitter, mealy, and completely delicious.

I eat the entire thing, even the core. I eat a second one just as quick. The third one I pick from the tree, and it is even better. I select the best ones now, as many as I can, and make a pile. I sit on the soft, cool earth with my back against the trunk of my glorious apple tree and eat until I can't eat anymore. A couple of cows bellow me a lullaby.

 

When I awake, the sun has moved to the other side of the sky and the air is considerably more tolerable. The cows have sauntered away to a brighter pasture. I can make them out as little spots on the hillside. I stuff as many apples as I can into the large front pocket of my sweatshirt. I place my palm on the tree in thanks and wave goodbye to the cows even though they can't see me. I make my way back to the road.

The sun is behind me now. My vision is clear. Even my muscles have stopped complaining. They have accepted their fate. I have control over them, at least for the time being. The fruit has fueled me, and I am ready to continue.

The nap has cleared my mind as well. It is nice and empty. I don't think of anything. I don't feel anything except the weight of the apples in my pocket. I remember the ant that just keeps going against all odds. Am I the ant?

The scent of pine wafts over me. Even the grass has a deep smell. My breathing is steady with my movement. I hum a little, but I'm not even conscious of what it is I'm humming. It doesn't matter. I swing my arms and let my feet match the gait. There's no hurry. I will conserve my batteries, move my feet slowly and steadily. Be the ant.

 

I can't shake the feeling that something is following me. I instinctively keep in the shadows and walk on the edge of the tree line. I'm still not sure where I am going or why I am here, but I am compelled to put one foot in front of the other and move forward. I've never been in shape or cared much about exercise. I imagine I look something like a waddling penguin in bright red sneakers.