The Cat, The Devil, The Last Escape (27 page)

He paid for the gear, shoved the small stuff in the two gunnysacks except for the knives, which they pocketed. He laid the folded blankets on top, cut the rope in half, and tied the bags closed. Two blocks down the street at a dark little grocery they bought coffee, bacon, bread, a slab of cheese,
and four cans of beans. It was dark by the time they'd crossed Memphis and set up camp in a little woods. They cleared a space of brush, made a small campfire, heated up the beans, and made coffee. Morgan said, “Think I'll get to a phone tomorrow, some little store maybe, and call Becky. Let her know we're all right.”

“The hell you will.”

“The hell I won't. She's got to be worried.”

“I told you, no phone calls. The bureau boys have questioned her by now. They sure have her place staked out and her telephone tapped. You phone her, not only will the feds trace the call and find us, pick us up, Becky will be charged with aiding our escape.”

“I didn't think,” Morgan said, picking up a stick and poking at the coals. “I just—I know she's worried.”

“Better worried than getting us caught.” Lee doused the fire with the last of the coffee and rolled up in his blankets. “We've got a long pull ahead, important things to do. Let's concentrate on that.” He shivered even in the thick blankets. And before they reached warm country again, the weather would get colder. The newspaper Morgan had picked from the trash, in the last town, said the Midwest was having the coldest winter in twenty years. Lee thought about Christmas when he was a kid, snow piled high against the house and barn, great chunks of snow sliding off the steep roofs. A spindly little Christmas tree with homemade paper ornaments. A wild turkey for their Christmas dinner, or one of the pheasants his mother canned, the prairie was overrun with pheasants. That always amused him. Back then, on the prairie, pheasants might be all a starving family had to live on. The exact same delicacy which, not many miles away in some fancy city restaurant, would cost them a small fortune.

From that night on, moving west, they were always cold, slogging through snow in boots that took up water in spite of the aging waterproofing and the grease they applied. They
continued to avoid the cities, dropping off the train to circle through farms and open country or through slums. Most of the farms had Christmas lights, as did some of the slum houses. It was in such an area that they faced a surly, mean-tempered drunk and Lee saw in the man's eyes not drunken bleariness but the dark's cold presence, eyes hard with promise as the man crouched, his knife flashing. They dodged, circling him. Lee received a slice across his arm before Morgan had the guy down; and now the man's eyes went dull again, reflecting only the bleary look of a common drunk.

“Why would a bum be interested in us?” Morgan said when they'd turned away. “Do we look like we have money?”

Lee laughed, but he was sickened by what he'd seen in that brief moment. They moved on fast, leaving the drunk sitting against a building, his head in his hands, trying to recover from Morgan's blows. This time the devil's invasion had netted only a cut on Lee's arm. But what about the next time? Good luck they hadn't had to kill the man, Lee thought as he swabbed the wound with the iodine Becky had put in their pack. Sure, drunks got killed in brawls. But he'd rather not leave a dead body marking their trail. That kind of sloppiness annoyed him.

C
IRCLING THE SMALL
towns with their Christmas lights, avoiding the switching yards and then racing to grab a train as it pulled out, they missed more than one ride. Often on the ramshackle edge of a town they dodged away from a patrolling cop car, or one slowed, pacing them, watching them. “Plenty of hobos around,” Lee said, “they're just checking us out.” But the law's scrutiny made him some nervous. In Oklahoma a hard blizzard caught them. The temperature dropped steadily, the chill cut through them like knives. Lee was sick of cold weather, and even Texas was icy. Why did they have to pick the coldest winter of the century? Out of Fort Worth when they missed a westbound, a semi driver picked them up, a slack-faced man with wide-set eyes. He didn't talk much, he just drove, and that was fine with Lee.

But then, after maybe thirty miles he began to ask questions. Lee answered him in one-syllable lies, then started with questions of his own. Were did he hail from? What was he hauling? That shut the man up. Lee pulled his hat over his face and went to sleep. It was some hours later that
Morgan nudged him. The trucker had slowed, they were in a little cow town, two blocks of dusty wooden buildings and a small old café marked with a wooden sign:
TRAIN STATION
. The train track ran behind it, parallel to the highway. The trucker dropped them at the café, drove another eighth of a mile, and turned west on a dirt road that looked like it led to nowhere; maybe he was headed home.

Stepping into the wooden building, sitting on stools at the counter, they treated themselves to fried eggs, fried potatoes, and hot apple pie. The waitress, a pillow-fat blonde in her sixties with an understanding smile, looked them over as she poured their coffee. “The eastbound's due in half an hour,” she said. “The westbound, an hour after that.” And Lee guessed they weren't the only hobos traveling this route. Finishing their pie and coffee, Lee thanked her for the information, made sure he tipped her, and they hiked out along the train track to a stand of pale trees. Sitting down with their backs against the thick trunk of a giant cottonwood, they made themselves comfortable, listening for the far-off rumble, for a lone and distant whistle.

“It's nearly Christmas Eve,” Morgan said. “A few more days. Will they go home to Caroline's or stay at Anne's? Maybe Caroline will drive down from Rome. I hope Sammie will be happy Christmas morning, excited to open a few presents?” he said doubtfully. “What's she seeing in her dreams? Maybe only the good times? Maybe she dreamed of Beanie's warm little house on the flatcar and the good hot stew?”

Lee only looked at him. They both knew Sammie would dream of the bad times, the brutal cold, the man with the knife and evil eyes.

“I can't hold her and comfort her,” Morgan said. “I can't help her.” He was in a dour mood when they left the cottonwoods running, swinging aboard a boxcar as the approaching train slowed for the small rural station.

Settling back to watch the land roll by, they managed to stay with this freight several days, slipping behind shipping crates when they made a stop. The nights grew warmer, the wind didn't cut like ice, Lee's cough subsided. New Mexico was cool but not freezing. Lee liked seeing sheep grazing, and the herds of antelope that hardly stirred as the train sped past them. Approaching Phoenix, they dropped off the car onto bare red land among the red bluffs and raw canyons. The Arizona sky was blue and clear, buzzards cruising the wind searching for the stink of anything dead. Walking through Phoenix, they replenished their supplies at a small, side-street grocery. Moving on past the freight yards, they saw no sign of cops. On the far side when they slipped aboard, the boxcar was crowded with men settled in small groups. They nodded at Lee and Morgan and didn't seem threatening. Most of them were
braceros,
keeping to themselves. West of Phoenix, Lee began to get nervous.

Maybe he was a fool, wanting to drop off in Blythe, take the chance of being seen. Would the feds figure, once they broke out, he'd head straight there, wanting the money from his savings account? Seemed likely, the way a federal agent's mind worked. He knew he shouldn't risk it, but once they found a lawyer they'd need every penny they could lay hands on, might need that eight hundred real bad to add to the six hundred Becky had scraped together.

He worried about the feds until they reached the desert north of Blythe. As they rolled up their blankets and tied up their packs, the smell of Blythe hit him, the salty tamarisk trees and the damp breath of the irrigation canals. When the train topped a rise, the Colorado River ran below them dark and turgid. They dropped off just outside town when the cars bucked and the train slowed, Lee hit the ground rolling. It was late afternoon. “Christmas Eve,” Morgan said. “At least they're together, and with family.”

They moved through a willow thicket to an irrigation
ditch flowing with dark, fast water. Ragged cotton fields stretched away on both sides. They were past Delgado Ranch, three fourths of the way to town. It had been nearly a year since Lee pulled into Blythe straight out of the federal pen at McNeil, ready to go to work for Jake Ellson, thinking even that first day how he could cheat Ellson. In the end, he hadn't had the stomach for that.

On the bank of the irrigation ditch Lee dug the bar of soap from the burlap bag, the razor and the little mirror Becky had packed. Stripping off their clothes they bathed and shaved in the swift cold water. With the last of the soap they scrubbed their shirts, socks, and shorts, hung them on willow branches, and sat on a blanket letting the sun dry their wet bodies. Not a soul out there, only the lizards to see their white nakedness. Twice, jackrabbits leaped out in the fields and went racing away, stirring a cloud of dust. Both times, a second dust cloud followed, dodging and doubling close on the rabbit's tail—but they could see no second beast chasing. Nothing, just the detached swirl of dust pursuing the rabbit. Morgan turned to Lee, puzzled. Lee frowned and shrugged. “The wind, I guess.” Did the ghost cat have to be such a show-off?

When their clothes were nearly dry they smoothed out the wrinkles and dressed again. The winter sun was setting as they made camp beneath the scruffy willows. The small clearing reminded Lee of the meadow where he'd kept the gray for a few days, the gelding that had helped him pull off the bank robbery. The good horse he'd used to get the stolen money away, to where he could bury it. He thought about riding the gray along the riverbank in the evenings, peaceful and serene, and that had been a good time.

They cooked a meal of Spam and potatoes, and made coffee, Morgan missing Becky and Sammie, Lee edgy with the prospect of entering the bank. “We'll have to lay over tomorrow,” he said nervously. He'd prefer to get it over with. “Everything closed, Christmas Day.”

“A day to give thanks,” Morgan said. “To go to church with your family.”

Lee looked at him and said nothing. When he was small they seldom went to church; it was half a day's ride away. His mother had read the Bible. His father didn't want to listen. Lee wasn't sure just what his pa thought about such matters. But Lee knew—he'd better know, after his own encounters—that there was more in the universe than a person saw. That amazements waited beyond this life, which a mortal might not want to consider.

“Early the morning after Christmas,” Lee said, “we head into Blythe. We'll leave our gear here. If luck's with us, we won't need it anymore.” Rolling into his blanket, he tried not to think about lying idle for a whole day. Tried not to think about entering Blythe, about what might happen, tried not to borrow trouble.

T
HE
C
HRISTMAS TREE
shone bright in the Chesserson living room with its many-colored lights, its red and golden balls, silver ropes and bright tinsel. Sammie seemed hardly to notice the tree, nor did she gently rattle the colorful packages. This wasn't Christmas Eve. Christmas would be when Daddy came home. For days her stubborn spirit had remained with Morgan and Lee aboard a speeding train or walking cold beside the highway, two lone men crossing the vast, empty land.

When Anne put a Christmas record on to play softly, Sammie didn't want to hear the music. Rolling over on the couch she pulled the afghan over her face, pretending to sleep. In the dark beneath the cover she lay thinking of Christmas when she was little, when Daddy was there. When they were together in their own house decorating their own tree or having supper at Caroline's among the scents of Christmas baking. The music, then, had been wonderful, the boys' choir Sammie loved, the church music, but now music only brought tears. This Christmas week, her mother had gone to church several times, but Sammie didn't want to go, she
didn't want to see the life-sized crèche or hear the story of the Christ child, they only made her sad.

Caroline drove down on Christmas Eve after making her last deliveries. They had arranged the dining table so they could see not only the living room fire but the Christmas tree. Though they sat down to a supper of Mariol's good shrimp gumbo, a fresh salad, and Caroline's pecan pie, Sammie was quiet and unresponsive. Only later, when she was given no choice but to share her bed with Grandma, had she snuggled down against Caroline.

Sammie was equally quiet Christmas morning, was slow getting up and dressing. Upstairs, even Mariol's baked eggs and cheese grits failed to cheer her. She was far away with her daddy and Lee, the night still dark on the desert, the low moon brightening the pale sand.

Mariol had laid a fire on the hearth, its flames reflecting rainbows among the bright decorations. Sammie tried to be cheerful. She looked up into the tree, touched a few boxes, and smiled at the adults, but she was only pretending. The joy they had hoped would blossom this morning was a thin parody. They could only be there for her, love her, could only try to ease her worry.

When she opened her presents, the Little House books Becky had bought for her, and the new winter coat in a soft, cozy red that was Sammie's favorite color, she pretended excitement. She tried the coat on and twirled around, smiling. She read the first pages of the first book, but her preoccupation and distress filled the room. Caroline had brought her a new bike, as Sammie had outgrown her small one. Anne and Mariol had chosen a small, carved chest from Anne's attic that had been in the family since Anne was a child, and had filled it with new drawing pads, crayons, colored pencils, and a watercolor set. Sammie tore off the wrappings, pretending excitement. She straddled the bike with its red ribbon tied to the handlebars. But her spirit walked the lonely roads, slept
cold on the rumbling trains. It was not until later that morning when all the gifts had been unwrapped that suddenly Sammie brightened.