Gone South (7 page)

About to cross the gravelly driveway of a cheapo used-car dealership, she
heard a vehicle slowing behind her. She stopped, waiting for it to pass in front of her. It was a white pickup, really old and really small—and it slowed right beside her.

The driver leaned over and opened the passenger door. He had country music on his stereo. “Need a lift?”

She checked him out without moving closer. He was about thirty, maybe. Blue eyes. A nice smile. He wore a clean white T-shirt and jeans. He was a working man, because there were tools all over the floor of the truck.

“Where are you headed?” she asked.

“South a ways. Miami, eventually. How far do you want to go?”

She wanted him to think someone was expecting her to show up somewhere.

“Fort Lauderdale,” she said, hoping it made sense. She’d never been good with maps and directions.

“Cool. Throw your stuff in the back.”

She hesitated. Her cash was in the bag. Well, nobody was going to steal it when they were flying down the road, so she dropped the bag in the bed of the truck. She had to be more careful with her bedroll, though. She pulled it off her back and climbed in.

She shut the door, memorizing where the handle was in case she had to lunge for it in a hurry, later. “Thanks for the lift.”

“Sure.” He held out his hand for her to shake. “I’m Mitch.”

“Hi. I’m Belinda.” She settled the bedroll carefully in her lap.

So far, she wasn’t picking up bad vibes. He used his turn signal and checked his mirrors before he pulled onto the road. The tools on the floor reminded her of the hardworking mechanics at her dad’s dealership, but he wouldn’t put up with a mechanic who left his tools all over the place. Her dad never put up with much of anything.

The muscles in her legs started to relax, finally. It felt so good to sit down.
It didn’t seem fair that she was out of work yet she still had to be on her feet all day.

She closed her eyes, remembering some of the jobs she’d had since she moved to Florida. They’d all kept her on her feet for hours. Picking strawberries. Working at a car wash. Cleaning cheap motel rooms. Bussing tables.

Her stomach growled. Embarrassed, she opened her eyes.

The guy laughed. “Hungry?”

“Yeah. Haven’t had breakfast.”

Maybe he’d buy her fast food somewhere. He didn’t offer, though, and she didn’t ask. She was afraid he would want something in return.

Neither of them talked for a while. Traffic was slow. They crawled past a Burger King. Even with the windows closed, the smell drove her crazy.

The black SUV ahead of them had decals all over the rear window, bragging about what a big happy family they were. Soccer, softball. A fish that said they listened to a nice, safe radio station. She wished she’d hitched a ride with them instead, but nice, safe families didn’t take chances on scruffy hitchhikers, so scruffy hitchhikers had to take their chances with anybody who looked decent.

Traffic started moving, and they flew through three or four green lights in the time it would have taken her to walk to just one of them. She looked out at the palm trees and the white birds that hung out in the roadside canals. Big clouds were building up for another afternoon thunderstorm, but she’d stay nice and dry in the truck.

Her stomach rumbled again. To cover the noise, she started talking.

“I wish people would take down their Christmas lights after New Year’s. It all looks so tacky after a while.”

“Yeah, it does. Did you have a nice Christmas with your folks?”

Her radar started buzzing. He wanted to know if she had folks. He wanted to know if anybody would miss her if she disappeared.

“Yeah,” she lied. “You?”

“We had fun. Good food, better booze. You like booze?”

“In the morning? No, thanks.” All of a sudden, her hands were sweaty. She wasn’t sure she’d be able to grip the door handle, but the truck was moving too fast now anyway.

“Gonna be a nice day today.” He moved his hand to her thigh, bumping her bedroll. She wanted to shove his hand away, but she didn’t want to make him mad.

“I guess.” She squirmed a little closer to the door. His hand moved with her, making her skin feel dirty through her thin leggings.

“Come on, sweetheart. Get back here.”

She held still. Didn’t move toward him, didn’t move away from him.

Way down the road, she saw another traffic light. It was green. She kept her eyes on it, willing it to turn yellow.

He was saying something. She tuned out the words but didn’t miss his tone.

The light changed. A few vehicles sped through the yellow, but the black SUV slowed for the red. The creep hit his brakes too. She braced herself, hugging her bedroll as they moved closer and closer to the SUV. She wanted to slap his hand off her leg, but she could stand it for about one more minute.

No. She couldn’t.

The truck was still moving when she opened the door and dived out with her bedroll. She landed with a hard thud, then slid down the slippery green grass on the bank, landing feet-first in a ditch full of trash and muddy water. She fought to keep the bedroll high and dry. Above her, a horn honked. Then the creep yelled something. A door slammed. Maybe he was coming after her.

She turned and splashed along in the ditch for a few feet, then slogged her way up the bank to the shoulder and ran, so close to the oncoming traffic that she was afraid she’d crash into somebody’s side mirror.

When she dared to look back, the light had changed. He’d kept going—with her duffel bag. She had her bedroll, though.

Breathing hard, Mel looked down at her water-splashed jacket and muddy leggings and sopping-wet shoes. Now she didn’t have anything dry to change into. And no cash except the ten bucks she’d tucked into her bra. All those hours she’d worked. For nothing.

At least now she knew which direction not to go. The white truck was going south, so she’d go north. Maybe she’d even head for home.

Instead of putting her bedroll on her back again, she hugged it to her front and kept walking. First chance she had, she’d stop somewhere and move her treasures into her shirt pocket. That would be safer than the bedroll.

She kept trudging down the road, passing a church and a school and a preschool. None of those places would want her.

Once in a while, somebody honked. Most people ignored her, and she didn’t blame them. She looked like a bum.

Sometimes nice-looking people were creeps, and sometimes people who looked like bums were just doing the best they could.

After two days of rest stops, fuel stops, and fast food, Tish’s headlights shone on the sign that marked Noble’s city limits. She’d gained an hour driving into central time, but a rainstorm had blurred the day into an early dark by the time she’d arrived at the closing. The rain had let up now, though, and stoplights and neon signs lent dashes of color to the gray.

Slowing for a red light, Tish rolled her stiff shoulders. After seven hundred miles, some of it through hair-raising weather, she had only a few easy blocks to go. Within minutes, she’d unlock her very own front door with her very own keys. Poor Mr. Nelson. At the closing, he’d given her such a resentful look that she’d nearly apologized for buying his house.

A slender young woman in a baggy black jacket and pale orange leggings walked briskly down the sidewalk, a yellow bedroll on her back. Approaching a tiny barbecue joint, she turned toward its window but kept moving. A stoop-shouldered, white-haired woman approached from the opposite direction, but they ignored each other.

The eatery was called the Bag-a-’Cue, and cartoonish pigs in chefs’ hats adorned its doors. Lowering her window, Tish inhaled a sweet, smoky aroma that overpowered the smell of wet pavement. She picked up her phone, and saved their phone number under the
B’
s. She wouldn’t be cooking for at least a day or two.

The red light winked out. The green winked on, a cheerful beacon of
welcome in the gray. Tish hit the gas, the tires slipping a little on the wet road. She tightened her grip on the wheel.

The town’s pocket-size park came into view, its gazebo stripped of Christmas lights and greenery. Then she was in the residential part of town, and her heart beat faster. South Jackson was the next right.

Turning the corner, she smiled as she caught sight of the house, as quaint and quirky as ever. She parked in the driveway, killed the engine, and enjoyed the silence. No more engine, no more wipers, no more road noise. Nothing but a wet windshield stood between her and her piece of Alabama. This time, the seller wasn’t breathing down her neck. She could walk through the house alone, slowly, savoring a dream come true. Thirty-five years old, she’d finally bought her first home.

“This is for you too, Dad,” she whispered.

Crossing the yard, she relished her solitude. The pansies were still blooming, but the camellias were finished—at least in the front yard. She’d read up on camellias and learned that different varieties bloomed at different times. It was possible that she’d have fresh flowers for months at a time.

She climbed the broad steps to the porch and looked over her shoulder. The grass still hadn’t been cut. Apparently Mr. Nelson couldn’t be bothered to mow the lawn again once he’d collected her earnest money.

In the small green house across the street, a curtain fluttered in a window. Maybe the pansy-planting neighbors would come out to say hello.

She put the key in the lock and gave the door a gentle push, allowing it to swing open. The hinges screeched like a door on a haunted house. She stepped across the threshold, running her hand over the wall for a light switch. There it was.

Bright lights flooded the empty rooms. If the house were an old woman, she would have begged for the softer, kinder glow of kerosene lamps that would have masked some of her flaws.

But when the house made its debut back in 1870 or so, the rooms must have gleamed with newness. Now age dulled the hardwood floors. Discolorations marred the pitted plaster walls and the tall ceilings. A thin crack ran through a corner of the marble hearth. The inspector had mentioned those issues and more in his report, but he’d said the house was basically sound from its foundation to its roof, and the water damage wasn’t recent. The house was in a condition appropriate to its age. It just needed sprucing up—a fact that was more obvious now that it was vacant, stripped of its furniture and the Christmas greenery that had dolled up the old stairway.

She walked farther in, the floor creaking under her feet, and entered the kitchen. The gas stove, dating from around 1970, still scared her a little, although it was allegedly in good working order. The tiny fridge at least hailed from the current century.

A sickly green shade of glossy paint coated the wooden countertops. She could hardly wait to change the color or replace them altogether. A Coke can lay on its side with a dried brown spot next to it. A defiant little gesture from the seller, perhaps. He wouldn’t cut the grass, and he wouldn’t clean up a spill.

She moved on, soaking up the details she’d missed earlier. The sink was too modern to be original to the house, but older than she remembered. She tried the tap. The water was on, as promised.

Without the muffling effect of furnishings and wall-to-wall carpets, every sound was magnified and sharpened. The sheer emptiness of the house made the cold bite deeper too. Feeling all alone, Tish pulled her phone from her pocket and called her mother.

She answered on the first ring. “Tish! Are you there yet?”

“Just got here. I’m standing in the kitchen.”

“Still feel good about it?”

“I love it.” Her eyes watered.

“I wish I could be there to help you unload, you crazy girl.”

“Don’t worry about it. That’s why I hired movers. And the moving van’s right on schedule. They’re supposed to arrive tomorrow afternoon.”

“Good. How’s the weather?”

“It’s colder than I’d expected, but the rain stopped.”

“Do you have utilities?”

“Water and power. I won’t have heat until I go to the gas company and leave a deposit, but I’ll be fine. I brought a space heater and blankets.”

“Be glad you’re out of Michigan. I saw on the news they’re having a terrible ice storm.”

“I know. Here, it’s wet but only in the fifties. Practically balmy,” Tish joked. “Well, I’d better get off the phone and get busy. Come see the ancestral home sometime, okay?”

“Sure, but it’s not
my
ancestral home, honey. Let me know when the hard work is done, and I’ll be right there.”

Tish laughed. “Okay, Mom. Talk to you later.”

She decided to walk through the whole house again before unloading her car. Her footsteps echoed on the bare wooden floor of the narrow hall. The sellers had left small reminders of their presence in nearly every room: a paper clip on the bathroom windowsill, a pen on the floor of the linen closet, faded blue valances over the tall windows in the downstairs bedroom.

She turned in a circle, considering the bedroom. It was the biggest one, but she’d rather make it the guest room. She’d take one of the upstairs bedrooms where the sunrise would spill in from the east, and the third bedroom would become a combination office and sewing room. She could whip up some new curtains and valances in no time, if she could find a fabric shop.