Follow Me (19 page)

The waitress was sitting on a stool behind the cash register dipping a french fry into ketchup. She nodded to the bartender,
a fat, bald, lugubrious man, who plodded over with the check and after setting the slip on the table turned his back and belched
into his fist. The waitress kept eating her french fries, lost in her daydream. It was a strange place, Sally thought. Everything
seemed out of sync and yet deliberate. She looked hard at Mole to try to gauge what he was thinking, but he was busy fishing
in his wallet for money. He left a five-dollar bill to cover the three-dollar cost, explaining to Sally that he didn’t want
to wait for change.

At the tavern door they discovered it was raining in torrents. They held hands and ran across the gravel lot, but they were
already soaked by the time they reached the car. Slipping in on either side, slamming the doors behind them, they forgot their
haste and dove, as though on cue, into each other’s arms. They began pecking at each other, their kisses broken up by bursts
of absurd giggles, their cheeks slick from the rain, their hands fumbling to find a way in through their wet coats.

With lips and tongues, they traded hot spice from the ribs along with the sweet aftertaste of beer. Mole’s hand slid inside
the elastic waist of Sally’s pants and moved toward her crotch. The damp inside her body warmed the cold damp of the surface
of her skin. They couldn’t get out of their coats fast enough. They rubbed and dipped, bumping against the steering wheel,
kissing and caressing, forgetting the public setting in pursuit of their private pleasure until the raking headlights of a
pickup truck turning into the tavern lot reminded Mole that they were late, he had responsibilities, and they were far from
Helena, where a fuming Phil was waiting to flatten his little brother.

Sally tilted her head. Mole fit his mouth against her neck, just below her chin, for one last greedy kiss before pulling away.
With the sluggishness of a couple awakened in the middle of the night, they smoothed and tucked themselves back into order.

Mole drove north, slowly at first, then faster and faster through the downpour. Sally loved the sensation of flying effortlessly,
chasing the headlight beams while the wipers flicked away the streaming rain. Though she was dizzy from too much beer, she
felt safe, anchored by her trust in Mole. She was impressed with his agility as he maneuvered the car around sharp curves
and over the peaks of hills. He seemed entirely capable, confident, even fearless — not at all the awkward boy who had nearly
put a bullet in his head by accident back at the Helena mill. Why, he knew the difference between above and beyond, between
a will and a way. Lordy, there they go, galumph, galumph, around the sharp turn at a breakneck pace. It sure felt swell to
be going so fast. The past would never catch up to Sally at this rate. She could at least try out the belief that her family
had released her from the consequences of her actions, and she was free to follow her own design, never having to answer for
something that others insisted didn’t even happen, never having to wake from the dream of their denial, never going back,
the circle never coming around, the remnants of what couldn’t be helped washed away by the pouring rain, worry soothed by
the swish, swish of the wipers, headlights gleaming, and the whole future waiting for her to catch up.

Wasn’t she a lucky girl to have found a boy as fine as Mole? According to those who knew better, she didn’t even have the
right to insist on the reality of her experience. But thanks to Mole, she could relish the thrilling, becalming gift of love.
Thanks to Mole, experience was as precise as a checkerboard, the game never ending. Like her father used to say: behold the
glory. What once had splendor has no splendor at all because of the splendor that surpasses it — something like that. Nonsense
making perfect sense in the absence of the truth. That’s how it should be, life announcing itself with a juicy
burrrp
. Laughter and adventure and the sheer fun of being propelled through space and time, away from all her troubles, fast and
faster and too fast to see —

That devil of a car, that fancy green stub-finned Cadillac soaring over the bump of the hill’s summit as if it owned the world,
crossing the line into the northbound lane and forcing Mole to jerk the wheel to the right to avoid a collision, sending the
Pontiac off the road, the front right wheel dipping into a narrow gulch and the forward momentum causing the left wheels to
lift into the air, the car turning over, crashing onto its top with a great bump that wrenched open the passenger door and
catapulted Sally out onto the slope as the car continued to roll down, thumping toward the river, coming to rest, wheels jammed
in the mud of the riverbank, the engine’s whir sputtering out, the swollen Tuskee rushing north while up on the road Benny
Patterson realigned his Cadillac to the southbound lane and sped on through the rain.

Something was supposed to happen next. What? Following from therefore and whence. How easily we forget. In other words. Just
think, think, think. If, then. Oh, of course, why not?

Hello, Sally.

Tell Sally it’s time to get up.

She couldn’t hear anything, not even the clatter of rain and the shushing of the paper reeds and the bubbling of the swollen
river. Deep within her, though, she felt the imminence of the next thing. There would always be a next thing, until it was
over. It wasn’t until it was, and never everywhere. Here, there was mud that smelled of mint and the taste in her mouth of
that awful milk from cows after they’d grazed in a pasture infested with oniongrass.

Sally, finish up and clear the table.

Wash the dishes.

Sweep the floor.

Swish, swish.

Hurry up, Sally!

She can’t hear you.

Dreamin’ a dream of no return.

Good-bye, Sally.

Aw, let’s give her another chance.

Repent!

Rejoice!

“Oh.”

Shhh.

What’s going on?

She’s waking up!

Drenching rain convincing her that she would only ever be cold, as cold as she was now, for the rest of eternity. Eye to eye
with the rotting tuber of a duckweed wrapped in the knotted string of horsehair worms. Gross. Where was she? In the reeds.
Why? Because.

Hello, Sally.

Oh, her aching head.

Seen from below, plumes of cane brushed the heavy clouds, painting them gray. There was no sky beyond, no space, only layer
after layer. It hurt to keep her eyes open. She preferred the dark behind closed lids, where here was there. But listen… someone
was at the door.

Knock, knock.

Who’s there?

Think, Sally.

It hurt too much to think. It hurt too much to cry, to gulp, to breathe, to wonder about anything.

It helped to hear, though, beyond the rain, or between it, the sound of the river. Why, she recognized that sound! She knew
it from another time. She couldn’t remember when, exactly, but she would never forget it. At first she was reminded of the
rustling that a piece of cellophane made when it blew loose from the top of a bowl. But that wasn’t right. She told herself
that she must be patient. She must let the mist of recognition clear of its own volition, wisp by wisp, like notes of a melody
— debris swirling, then the water rushing between soft banks, dislodged stones overturning, ravines eroding, moss thickening,
time passing with the current of the Tuskee.

The Tuskee!

Of course it was the Tuskee. As long as she heard the river, then she wasn’t lost. Comforted by this awareness, she closed
her eyes again and let herself drift away from the feeling of cold and the dull aching of her body all over and the rain that
would never let up. It was easier to think of nothing.

Sally?

Sally Werner!

She’s gone.

She’ll be back.

When she awoke again, it was close to dawn and the bottom of the black cloudbed was streaked with a metallic gray. The storm
had passed, though drops still flew through the air, blown with the gusts off the soaked cane. Hundreds of crows roosting
in the woods across the river made a racket, silencing any other wintering birds that might have wanted to greet the dawn.

Sally sat up and held her head in her hands, shivering, trying to will the ache away. She sat there like that for a long while,
long enough for the crows to fly off and the sky to brighten enough so that a rich, promising blue could be seen between cracks
in the clouds. She had no idea where she was. So much didn’t make sense to her right then that she didn’t even try to gather
her scattered bits of memory into a single understanding. She preferred to put off the effort for as long as she could.

Slowly, the aching began to relent a little. She clenched her fists to fight the numbness in her fingertips. She rubbed her
bruised legs. She opened her eyes and at first perceived the dense cane around her as the locked gate of a trap — somehow
she’d been able to find her way into the center, but she’d never be able to find her way out. That thought was enough to motivate
her to stand on wobbly legs and get moving.

She had no broken bones, though she felt sore everywhere. Her head hurt worst of all, and she suspected that the mat of her
hair above one ear was wet with blood, though none came away on her hands. She had a vague sense that she was lucky to be
alive. Yet with her thoughts still bunched up in a knot, she didn’t connect her current predicament with its cause and didn’t
remember the accident.

She pushed her way through the thick reeds, heading down the slope in the direction of the river. She was surprised when she
stepped forward and her foot sank ankle-deep in mud. Pulling free, she stepped around the muck and reached a rock outcrop
above the river. She saw that the moss was thick along the sloping sides of the rock. She planted her feet carefully in the
uneven grooves, balanced, and looked out over the broad expanse of the Tuskee.

The water flowed directly beneath her, through a channel cut out of the rock. The breeze carried the Tuskee’s familiar smell
of sour mud. The sky seemed to grow brighter as she stood there, and with the light her thoughts started to untangle, giving
her a vague feeling of premonition, though she also had enough awareness to know that the important thing about to happen
had already happened, and that’s why she was standing there bruised, cold, and alone.

She stared idly at the river, waiting for nothing, watching twigs and leaves swirl over the surface, beneath a veil of steam
fog. She watched the debris piling up against the branches of a toppled elm and then spinning around it, dragged by the force
of the current. Sally was impressed by the power of the river, which proved far stronger than the barrier formed by the elm.
For a moment she seemed to sense the surge of the river in the wind, and she felt as though being above the surface was no
different from being below. She took a deep breath to remind herself that she wasn’t drowning. And then she remembered Mole.

She set out in search of him, thrashing through the reeds along the riverbank, calling out to him, following her voice as
it disappeared into the silence. The air was raw and empty, and she had the feeling that multitudes of birds hidden in the
trees were watching her, waiting for her to leave. But she wouldn’t leave until she found Mole. Really, though, it was his
responsibility to find her, not the other way around. She would have concluded that he’d intentionally abandoned her if she
wasn’t so certain that he loved her. It comforted her to think about this. Mole would be worried about her right now and at
the same time racked with guilt. He hadn’t meant to leave her behind. He’d spend the rest of his life trying to make it up
to her, while she’d spend the rest of her life assuring him that he wasn’t to blame.

When she spotted the car sitting at a tilt just a few feet above the river, she was more puzzled than anything else, for she
couldn’t understand why the same car that had been traveling at such a high speed not long ago was now so perfectly still
and quiet. Or why Mole, slouched in the driver’s seat, didn’t get up and get out of there, why, since he sat with his back
to Sally as she approached, he didn’t turn, why he didn’t hear her through the shattered window, why his neck was bent and
his head hung back at an odd angle, why, though his eyes were open, all that remained of their green were thin rims around
expansive blackness, why, when she reached in to touch him, his skin was so waxy and cold, why he didn’t answer when she called,
why any of this was offering itself to her perception as a real experience, in real time. Well, it wasn’t anything she’d been
prepared for, not in a thousand years. And her sense of having been caught by surprise made her so frantic that she could
only perceive the next action to follow the last out of sheer necessity.

She climbed into the car through the open passenger door and searched until she found her purse lying on the floor beneath
the seat, covered with splintered glass. Then, because she believed she had no choice, she left Mole behind and went for help,
even though she knew he was beyond help.

Somehow she managed to scramble up the steep slope, tearing through brush that reeked of gasoline. Somehow she managed to
find the road and flag down a mail truck. When the driver, a gaunt, gray-bearded postman, signaled to her to convey that he
was deaf, she began to wail. And though she wailed for the whole ten miles to the nearest town, the old man didn’t seem to
mind.

Martin Oliver Langerton was buried in the Hopewell Cemetery in Helena; Sally saw his family for the first and only time at
the funeral service, and then they wouldn’t acknowledge her. She understood why they blamed her for Mole’s death. They had
a right to blame her. She’d been a bad influence in all sorts of ways. She’d kept him out past midnight when he had to go
to Fenton the next day. She’d been drinking with him on the day of the accident. That Mole hadn’t ever introduced her to his
family was proof that he’d known she was a bad sort and his family wouldn’t approve of her.