The Passenger (3 page)

I washed out the sticky dye and dried my hair, leaving dark stains on the sandpaper-rough motel towel. I combed out my new 'do and sharpened the flat line of the bangs, snipping a few wayward strands. I slid into an old pair of blue jeans and a navy blue sweatshirt, stuffed the rest of my clothes into my suitcase, and left Swan Lake a different woman. A brown-haired, brown-eyed woman. Five foot six, one hundred and twenty-five pounds, mid to late twenties. I looked like so many women you've seen before I doubt you could've picked me out of a lineup.

I
DROVE
to a photo shop and had my passport photos taken.

“Don't smile,” the photographer said. It was the first time I could remember that I wanted to.

While I was waiting for the photos to be developed, I drove to a stationery store and bought a laminating sheet. Then I went to a drugstore and bought a razor blade, a baseball cap, red lipstick, black eyeliner, and mascara. No blush. Amelia Keen didn't have a rosy glow. I returned to the photo shop to collect my pictures. I set to work on my passport in the backseat of my stale Buick. I used a tiny dot of glue to keep my photo in place on the blank passport. I placed it on top of my hard-shell suitcase for the next step. I took a clear sticky laminating sheet and poised it over the page. My hands shook some and I waited until I got my nerves in check; I had one chance to get this right. I laid down the laminate in one clean, even motion. I used the back of the razor blade to sweep away the air bubbles. Then I sliced around the edges until the passport lifted up from the suitcase.

I looked over my handiwork and was satisfied. Probably wouldn't pass customs, but I had no intention of flying anywhere.

Next, I found a thrift store. Bought more denim and plain button-down shirts. One checked, one plaid. I tracked down an army surplus store and got a green jacket like I saw that girl in the movie wear. While I was there I picked up a pair of size-eight combat boots. I bought cheap underwear. Amelia Keen would spring for something nicer when she had a job. I tossed Tanya Dubois's suitcase in a Dumpster behind a gas station. For a moment I let myself reminisce over the last time I threw away my life. It hurt back then; I didn't feel it much the second time around.

I slid back into the Buick and checked myself in the rearview mirror. I painted my lips bright red. It was my one indulgence in vanity.

I drove to the Western Union office and parked across the street. Maybe I could just walk into the money store, flash my shiny new ID, and get out clean. But I'd just committed light extortion and my victim, so to speak, might have had other plans besides a simple payoff. I'm not a cop, a private investigator, ex-military, or a mercenary. I'm an almost-average civilian with no special surveillance skills to speak of. I don't know how you evade a pursuer. I only had basic logic and a strong survival instinct, and the feeling that maybe this transaction wouldn't go down as seamlessly as I would like.

I scoped the vicinity around the Western Union storefront. Behind the glass doors there appeared to be three people besides the employees—two men, one woman, as far as I could tell. My Buick was parked between a Range Rover and an Audi. A middle-aged man was smoking a cigarette in the black Range Rover. The Audi, I noticed, had out-of-state plates. In an old Thunderbird in front of the shop, a man, maybe in his twenties, leaned back in his seat, sunglasses on. Looked maybe like he was sleeping, but that would be a good cover.

I could sit and wait and see what happened next. But if they were professionals they'd probably outlast me. And I couldn't stomach sitting in this sour, musty car much longer. If I looked a man in the eye, I'd know his intent. I wasn't always like that, but I'd learned over time. I shoved my hair into the baseball cap, put on a pair of sunglasses, and walked right over to the Range Rover.

The man saw me as I approached. He rolled down his window when he realized I wasn't moving on.

“Hello, sir.”

“Good afternoon . . . miss?”

I think the boy's clothes, hair tucked in the baseball cap, and lipstick threw him off.

“Are you planning on killing me?” I asked.

“Excuse me?”

“I think that was a pretty straightforward question,” I said.

“Why would I want to kill you? Is this some kind of joke?” The Range Rover man was clearly taken aback, scared even.

“Relax. Just asking a very simple question. All you have to do is answer it and then I'll be on my way.”

“No, I don't want to kill you.”

“Thank you,” I said. “That's very good news. Have a nice day.”

I strolled past his car and walked up to the corner. I heard his engine turn over and watched him angle out of the parking spot and drive off. There was only one other possible attacker. The sleeping sunglasses guy. I walked across the street and knocked on his window. Either he was an excellent actor or I woke the man from a deep slumber.

He rolled down the window, tipped his sunglasses onto the edge of his nose, and looked me over with tired, hooded eyes.

“Can I help you, miss?” he said, a frog in his throat.

“Do you know me?” I asked.

“Huh?”

“Do I look familiar in any way?” Surely my would-be killer would have a photo to go by.

“Did Clara send you?” the recently awakened man asked.

He was not my killer.

“Excuse me, I was mistaken,” I said as I walked away.

“Tell Clara it's over!” the recently awakened man shouted after me.

I spun in a circle outside the store. Nothing struck me as suspicious. I could leave without the cash, or take the risk and start my life off right as Amelia Keen. I strolled into the Western Union store, waited in line, collected my money, and walked outside. I returned to the Buick and drove ten miles, looking in the rearview mirror more than the road in front of me. I pulled the car onto the shoulder, collected all of my recently purchased possessions, and walked half a mile, with my luggage in tow, to another used car lot. I bought a half-decent, decade-old Toyota Camry for $4,950 cash. Technically, Tanya Pitts bought it for Amelia Keen, since Amelia didn't yet have a driver's license. I put my possessions in the trunk and drove off the lot, not stopping for the next four hours.

Driving seventy after night fell, I felt this internal shift, almost as if my DNA were restructuring itself. I could feel Tanya Pitts-Dubois's death. She was where she had always been, was always supposed to be. I was now Amelia Keen.

October 22, 2005

To: Ryan

From: Jo

I know I'm breaking an unspoken rule by writing to you, but no one has to know unless you tell them. You've kept some secrets pretty well. I'm hoping you can keep this one. Maybe you're surprised to hear from me. I'm surprised I'm writing. I haven't quite gotten the hang of this new life. Some days I honestly think about coming home and accepting my fate. I can't tell that to anyone here, so I'm telling you. You're the only person who really knows me. Knows what I've done and what I haven't done. I think that's why I'm so surprised by what you did. But I'm not writing to punish you. I'm writing because I'm lonely.

I miss home, I miss Edie, although I don't miss the look she gave me the last time I saw her. When I'm feeling generous, I miss my mother. I miss you, mostly. I miss you all of the time even though the rational part of my brain tells me I should hate you. There were many different ways I imagined our future playing out. In some variations you ended up with someone else. It never occurred to me that I might not see you again. But that's the truth, isn't it? One day you'll have gray hair or no hair, but I'll only remember the boy. Do you ever think about those things?

I don't want to talk about what happened. I guess I just want to know how everyone is doing. How their lives are turning out. You can call it curiosity, nostalgia, homesickness, or just plain sickness. I miss knowing people. I don't know anyone anymore. And no one knows me.

Please break the rules and write back. I just want to hear about what I'm missing. Maybe you'll tell me there's nothing to miss. Maybe I got out of that town before it turned into a junkyard.

I think that's all.

Jo

November 2, 2005

To: Jo

From: Ryan

Your e-mail practically gave me a heart attack. But it also got my attention. That was the point, wasn't it? You knew I was going to write back, but you also know that this is a bad idea for so many reasons. I had hoped that maybe you'd found a place that suited you. I even had a notion that maybe you were happier there than here. I suppose I just wanted to ease my conscience. I'm sorry about how things turned out. I know that you'll never understand what I did. Sometimes I don't understand it. But if you asked me to make that choice again today, I'd do it the same way.

I still love you and I still miss you. When I let myself think about you. I don't let myself do that too often. A few months ago, I started pretending that you had died. There's an unmarked grave behind St. Gabriel's Church. I pretend it's yours. I pick flowers from that meadow behind the high school and I pay my respects. It sounds sick, I know. But you were there and then you were gone and I had to grieve in some way. I really did think I'd never hear from you again.

If you think it'll help keep your head straight, I'll tell you about home. But, remember, you need to keep your head straight.

I don't socialize as much as I used to, so this is all I know: Nelly is engaged to Brad Fox. That enormous mole on his forehead is now gone. They're demolishing that run-down apartment building on Green Street and building upscale condos. The gentrification of Bilman has begun. Edie is back in town. She decided to take a year off before college. The girl-most-likely-to-succeed is working full-time at her father's hardware store. I saw Jason Lyons once over the summer. He asks too many questions. If you ever think of contacting anyone, please don't. We're all hanging from a ledge right now.

I know you want to hear about your mother. She's the same. Not any worse, if that makes you feel better. I think she's seeing a guy. He's better than the last one from the looks of him. I haven't seen her with any bruises lately. That's the kind of stuff you want to know, right?

It's probably not safe, you using my regular e-mail and all. You never know when people are watching you. Use this address instead, if you must.

Be careful out there.

R

P.S. You're not missing anything.

November 14, 2005

To: Ryan

From: Jo

Liar. But thanks. I guess that's the kind of stuff I want to hear about. Although I kind of expected more to have happened since I left. To me it feels like an eternity. You didn't tell me much about yourself. I suppose that was deliberate. I looked you up. You stayed. Why would you stay there? You could have been anyone.

Please stop visiting that grave. I'm not in it.

J

December 25, 2005

To: Ryan

From: Jo

Re: Merry Christmas

I guess it's getting easier to forget about me. I hope you're having a happy holiday season. I'm alone in a cheap motel in the Midwest watching the Disney parade and eating chocolate pudding from a tin can.

Here's the one good thing that's come from all of this. I don't love you anymore.

Jo

I
TOLD
myself I was just window-shopping for a home; I didn't have to commit to any one place. But at some point I found myself following the signs for Austin, Texas, and when I landed there it felt right. I checked in to a cheap motel the first night, took a walk, got lost on the other side of the river. I asked a middle-aged woman sitting on a bus bench, engrossed in a novel, for directions. She pointed me to Congress Street and told me to cross the bridge and keep going.

A few blocks later, I saw a gathering of people. Some families, a few couples, most of them with the unmistakable shine of tourists—clothes too bright, shoes too flat, and sunglasses too attached to ropes. They were all leaning over the rails of the bridge; there was a vague hum of anticipation. Like a sheep, I followed, stepping into a gap along the railing. I waited, not knowing what I was waiting for. Then as the last light began to creep away, thousands, maybe hundreds of thousands, of bats emerged from under the bridge, swarming into a beautiful black cloud in the sky. One group was making figure eights as other flocks began to depart in waves. I stayed until every last bat was gone and Congress Bridge was dark.

On my way back to the hotel, a neon sign beckoned me:
MAY'S WELL
. I don't know why it called to me. Maybe because I thought someone named May owned the place and it seemed wise for a single woman in new terrain to patronize an establishment run by a female.

I opened the heavy mahogany door; it looked like it came from a barn. It had a satisfying weight to it, as if you had to commit to entering this bar. Inside it was cool and dim and the air smelled like spirits, not spilled beer and cheap nuts cemented into the floor. A pretty woman stood behind the counter. She wore a tank top and a skirt just above the knee and white sneakers. I clocked a few other patrons who may have been a few sheets to the wind but seemed harmless enough. By the front door there was a local circular. I picked it up and strode over to the bar.

I sat two chairs away from a man in a suit. Not a nice suit, but what looked like the man's only suit. It was wrinkled and dusty. He'd finished it off with a white shirt, a skinny black tie from the eighties, and scuffed brown wingtips. I could feel his eyes on me when I sat down, but then I saw him turn back to his drink. My military jacket was doing its job, I thought.