My Aborted Escape

Despite my aching thigh, I manage to make it to a four-lane highway.  I'm free!  Or so I thought . . . .

          I lit out before dawn to get a head start.  Altering my course, ignoring the tenderness in my thigh, I circled around the ridge rather than go over it like they thought I had.  I limped along the old highway and trekked all day, until the road broke off again, ending in a deep crevasse.  I scrambled uphill through sparse undergrowth beneath gigantic Douglas firs.  Near dusk, many miles later, I heard the incessant, loud sussurations of a big river.  Pushing through some dense undergrowth, I found myself at the top of a precipitous bank, looked down and was rewarded not by the sight of a river, but a busy four-lane highway.  I couldn't have been happier if I was seeing the mother I never knew for the first time.  Get to a phone and Docker and his gang are nailed.  Then home!  I butt-surfed all the way down.

I screamed over the traffic noise for someone to stop, jumping up and down on the shoulder, waving my arms like a cheerleader inciting a crowd.  Drivers merely glanced.  A flock of cyclists in electric-blue, nylon-cotton body-suits and

helmets whirred past.  One turned his head, yelled something.  In an instant, they flashed around a curve and disappeared.  I sat on the ashy, rocky shoulder and combed my hair; doused water on my scarf and sponged my face.  I brushed off the seat of my pants and walked along, thumb raised.  Motorists stared straight ahead.  The sun had dropped behind the mountains.  It had grown cold and was almost dark.  I prayed for someone, anyone, to stop.  A beat-up ATV pick-up, tires crunching on the shoulder, slowed and stopped ahead of me.  I ran up to it. 

"Pretty long hike, little lady," Docker taunted in a loud voice, leaning out the passenger- side window.  "Where do you think you're going?  Get in."  Mormo was behind the wheel.

I bolted.

They followed.  The truck growled along the shoulder in second.  Pivoting, I sprinted in the opposite direction.  Mormo threw the heap in reverse, raising clouds of red dust.  Docker, half out the window, laughed.  I thought of running back into the woods; but where would that get me?  A break in traffic allowed me to dash across the road.  Rapidly approaching drivers blared their horns, veering away.  I held my arms stiff in front of me, palms out.  "Fuckin' nut!" someone hollered.  Suddenly, I thought of the boys.  I didn't want to get killed.  My eyes burned; tears flew from my cheeks as I ran to the other side. 

Screeching brakes behind me.  I turned, sure someone had stopped for me at last, but Docker was the cause of the commotion.  He danced around in the middle of the highway, leaping and somersaulting over hoods and trunks, side-stepping vehicles like a bullfighter.  Mormo maneuvered the pick-up across the lanes.  I tore down the shoulder in a sudden burst of speed.  Docker outran me.  He grabbed me, spun me around, and pinned my arms to my sides, then leaned over me, grinning.   I spat in his face.  He didn't even blink.  Mormo slowed to a near stop beside us and opened the door.

 Docker hoisted me up.  Legs stiff, I pushed my feet against the frame.  The giant reached over, knocked them off, gripped my ankles with one hand, and pulled me -- crying and swearing -- inside.  Relentless streams of vehicles roared past in both directions.  Locking me in his arms, Docker climbed in, slammed the door, positioned me on the seat between him and Mormo like I was a doll, and tossed my pack to the floor.

"You look like a lost puppy.  Look at your hair, your face --  Let me --"  He came at me with a black bandanna hanky.  I squeezed my eyes shut, kicked and punched.  Mormo sped along

"Look at yourself, asshole!  The only reason I let you do this is the kids," I cried.  It was all I could do to keep from blabbing about the article.  Docker lowered the bandanna, thrust an arm across my chest, and threw a leg over my thighs.  He angled the rearview mirror, peered into it, and ran his fingers through his dishelved hair.  I caught his eye; he repositioned the mirror.

Bracing my back against Mormo, I kicked free.  Docker grabbed my wrists and tried to get ahold of my legs.  I landed a good one in his crotch.  He groaned, released his grip and doubled over.  Then Mormo did a funny thing.  Without taking his eyes from the road, and before I knew what he was up to, he covered the top of my head with his huge hand.  It felt nice, feather light for its mass.  Its warmth seeped into my skull and seemed to course through my brain.  Distantly aware of Docker's moans, I let out my breath and gazed at that point in the highway where, in the twilight, it diminished into the trees.  My breathing slowed, my heart beat smoothly and my muscles felt warm and soft, like freshly chewed gum.  We drove in silence.  Docker straightened up and, moving quickly, grabbed my wrists with one hand and my chin with the other, forcing my head up.  The giant lifted his hand and placed it on the steering wheel.  So much for his relaxation technique.

            "Dammit.  Look at me!"  Docker stared into my eyes and began to speak in a low, mesmerizing tone.  I couldn't stop crying. "Hey, can the crybaby act, man.  You're making me feel bad.  Come on, I'm sorry.  I'm not going to hurt you.  I'm going to make it up to you.  I promise, baby. Things are going to be different.  In a few more days we're gone.  Out of here.  You and I are splitting, man.  We're heading for the New Hebrides where the air is clear, the water is still blue and you can see clear to the bottom.  Everything's going to be mellow.  You don't want to go home.  Now just relax.  Sorry I have to do this, but let me tie this over your eyes.  Come on.  Here, now, that's it.  Just relax, that's it -- and let me tie this.  Stop crying, please.  I'm not going to hurt you.  There.  Watch it, Mormo, don't jerk around like that, okay?  Okay, here, baby, just let me tie this around your head.  There.  Can you see?  Fine.  Now relax."  He hugged me to him, kissed my forehead tenderly, and surprised me by breaking out with an oldie, as we barreled along:

I never dreamed I'd meet somebody like you;

 I never dreamed I'd know somebody like you.

 No, I wanna fall in love

 No, I wanna fall in love;

 with you,

 with you.

 What a wicked game you play to make me feel this way.

 What a wicked thing you do, to let me dream of you;

 Wicked thing to say, you never felt this way.

       No, I wanna fall in love -- ^[1]

I resolved not to let him soft-soap me with his smooth talk and seranade.  I felt sick with desire for the truth.  The answers had to be in that briefcase.  The bandanna covering my eyes, wet with tears I couldn't control, and his singing made me sleepy.  Yet I could not stop my brain from  not only running the words from the clipping over and over endlessly, but scenes of my aborted escape, and images of what I should've and shouldn't have done.  Behind a kind of reddish blackness, I finally circumvented the film-loops in my head by concentrating on where we were going.  I counted turns, making mental notes of when I leaned into or away from him.  Blindfolded, my hearing became acute.  We were moving, but I couldn't hear the engine, only a low hum.  Once off the highway, Mormo had switched to electricity for silence.  For what seemed like hours, with branches raking the top and sides of the truck, and rocks hitting the bottom, we jounced over the area I remembered as the final leg to the cabin.  At last, the giant braked to a stop; he turned the key and the humming ceased.  Docker removed the bandanna and wiped my face, clucking his tongue.  We climbed out near the vehicle compound.  It must have been close to midnight.

                       "Hey, big man, get the crew out.  Ditch the heap," Docker said.  Mormo shuffled away. "They make it look like nothing but animals up here."  Truer words, I thought.  He took a deep breath and thrust out his chest. "I got me the best in the biz."  He put his arm around my waist and we walked along the narrow trail towards the cabin in pitch blackness.  He seemed to have eyes like a cat.  "It's good to have you back, baby," he said, pulling me tight to his side.

                    "Did I have a choice?"  I said, staring straight ahead, hands in my pockets, fingers playing with a corner of the newsclipping. 

            I was back where I'd started two days ago.

            I blanched at the sound of cheers erupting from his gang camped outside in their plots, their breath forming white mists floating on the icy air, in the light of the gibbous moon.  I couldn't see if No-Face was among them.  Docker and I paused on the porch in front of the cabin door.

                    "This is truly my woman," he announced, squeezing my shoulder.  The crowd roared.  The men looked directly at me, pumping fists in the air; some of the women smiled and nodded; a couple raised their hands in a weak salute.

                    Now that I'd stopped running, I became aware of how tired I was; I couldn't think straight.  Maybe he's right: a desolate place, no communication with the outside, drugs, people I don't know (and don't want to know), make perfect elements for breeding paranoia.  My mind is playing tricks.  Still, the contents of that article kept surfacing (Why was it in the shack?), along with my reasons for splitting in the first place.  From the edge of the muttering crowd rose the high register of the kids' voices.

Papa Joe, Billy Bob and Tadpole in the loft welcoming me back

                  "You came back!  You came back!"  The boys rushed me, screaming, little arms spread.  Papa Jo grabbed me around my knees.  Their glassy eyes reflected starlight; their skin burned under my cold fingers.

                  "Are you guys all right?"  I looked at Docker  and knelt down.  "You should be asleep."

                 "Oh . . .  Okay," Tadpole stammered, "We're okay."  But Papa Jo couldn't stop shivering.              "Linda's been taking care of them," Docker said, "They're fine."

            Mormo's massive form tromped towards us out of the darkness.  "Boys fine, miss," he gurgled.  We followed him as he herded the boys into the cabin and guided them up to the loft.

Once I washed up and changed, Docker fixed me some freeze-dried beef stew with biscuits and coffee and sat across from me at the wooden table watching me eat.  Some of the others had come in with their kids and arranged their sleeping bags on the floor, sliding glances out of the corners of their eyes.

"Shit, you sure are something!"  Docker grinned.  "You have some spunk, woman.  Too wild, I don't know, trying to run away.  You oughtta know better than that.  Hell, we didn't know what happened to you.  The kids, nobody'd seen you all day."

"I heard you guys in the woods looking for me," I said, "You almost kicked me."  He gazed at me, opened his mouth, red lips glowing purple in the bluish light.

"Man . . ."  He grabbed my hand and squeezed it, shaking his head, color darkening on his throat and cheeks.  Was he recalling what he and Pal had said, his plaintive call?

He turned the bracelet around on my wrist.  "See you're still wearing it."

A blast of chill wind howled through the cabin.  Pal and Linda all but fell through the door, slamming it behind them.  They stumbled to the bar over the grousing, sacked out forms on the floor.  Linda, smiling, poured shots; we smoked some weed.  And they talked.  The gist of their conversation centered on those of the gang who now slept in the cabin at night with their kids because of the drop in temperature.  Exhausted, wasted, and sleep-deprived, I think I nodded off.  For an instant, a hypnogogic image rose up in my mind of me and a distressed looking Linda, naked, up in the loft.  She was trying to tell me something.  At the sound of braying laughter, the image shattered.

Next up: I doubt again that Docker is who the article says he is and begin to suspect Mormo's origins.  I let my guard down during an unusual quiet time with Docker and ask about No Face.  All hell breaks loose. 

---

^[1] © C. Isaak, 1989 ASCAP