Edge of Midnight (4 page)

No. Oh God, no. That would be disaster.

“What else you up to today?”

“Library,” she said. “I have books to go back.” One of the few places she was allowed to go. Grocery store, library, and maintenance places when necessary, like the cleaners, the hardware store, the post office. She'd stopped going swimming. Too many bruises that couldn't be explained.

“You're spending a lot of time at the library.” He kneaded the muscles in her shoulders.

“I like to read.” He'd probably beat her to death if he knew she'd been reading about why women get locked into abusive relationships and why they can't get out.

Putting a hand on each side of her face, he lifted her chin and kissed her. “I'll try to be home early. Don't forget the papers.”

She carted stacks of old newspapers out for recycling. Some were months old. She noticed a headline.
JURY AGAINST DEATH PENALTY
. Just below was a fuzzy picture of Lily Farmer's father: thin, agonized face, with features so angular he looked almost like a caricature of a fanatical Jesuit. During the trial he'd sat in the courtroom listening to the tortures done to his daughter. It was a long trial, recapped every day on the news. After the sentencing, Cary saw a clip of him, face twisted with grief and fury when the monster who killed his daughter didn't get the death penalty.

ONE JUROR HOLDOUT. WADE JEFFRIES TO GET LIFE
. Lily Farmer's father wanted justice for his only child. “This isn't it,” he'd yelled into the TV news cameras.

Cary dropped the last stack on the curb—the outer one showed another picture of Joseph Farmer, face twisted in fury—went back inside and turned on the shower. Just as she was stepping under the hot water, the doorbell rang. She ignored it. It rang again.

When the ringing continued, she grabbed her tatty terry cloth robe, wrapped it around herself, and went to the bedroom to look out the window. Arlette's Camry sat in the driveway. The bell rang again. In bare feet, Cary padded down to the living room and opened the door. Arlette swept in with a small plastic bag.

“What are you doing here?” Cary looked around nervously to see if any neighbors were watching, then quickly shut the door.

“I came to see if you were all right and to give you a couple things.”

Cary's bare feet were freezing on the slate entryway. She kept standing on one, then the other. “What things?”

“Make me a cup of tea and I'll tell you.”

Stepping back, she felt the welcome warmth of the gray carpeting, but her feet got icy again when she walked on the kitchen linoleum.

“Go get some slippers,” Arlette said. “I'll fix it.”

Cary went upstairs, scrounged her felt slippers from under the bed, and came back to find Arlette filling the tea kettle.

Arlette studied her. “Are you changing your mind?”

“Well, he's been different, and now that I know about the sight thing and it's not his fault and…” Cary shrugged.

“He beats you.”

“He loses his temper. If I'd be more careful—”

“Bullshit. You're a battered wife.”

“Why are you doing this, Arlette? Why are you here?”

The tea kettle shrieked. Arlette got up to turn off the burner and pour hot water into the tea pot. “I'm trying to get you to see the danger you're in.”

“I love him.” Cary felt like crying. “And he can be different. Sometimes he's sweet and kind and—”

“And other times he beats the shit out of you. He may not be causing your vision loss, but he'll either kill you or one night you will get his gun and blow a great big hole in his head.

“Arlette!”
The horror was so great because the thought had come to mind more than once. “Don't say that,” Cary said flatly.

Arlette nodded. “You have to get away.” She poured tea into Cary's cup, pushed it across the table, and poured her own.

Cary pulled the cup closer and curled her arm around it like someone might snatch it away.

Arlette reached across the table and put a hand on her arm. “I have a friend. She said you could come and stay with her.”

“Who is she?”

“Kelby Oliver. She was—” Arlette stopped.

What was it Arlette didn't want to tell her? “Why let me stay with her? If Mitch finds out, he—”

“He won't find out. She lives in Kansas.”

“
Kansas?
That's as far away as the moon.”

“The farther, the better.” Arlette handed Cary the plastic bag.

Cary looked in, then pulled out a wig with short brown curls.

“And I want you to have this.” Arlette held out a letter-sized envelope.

Reluctantly, Cary opened the flap, knowing what was inside. Twenty dollar bills. “I can't take this.”

“Yes. You can. It's not all that much and you can pay me back.”

“But…” Cary put the wig over her fist and stared at the brown curls.

“If you feel yourself backing out, remember the last time he beat you and yell at him.” Arlette finished her tea and clattered the cup in the saucer. “Go to Kansas. Kelby's a good person, she'll help. And she has a suggestion about your vision.”

“I don't even know where Kansas is,” Cary said darkly.

“Look it up on a map.” Arlette gave her a hug. “I have to get to work. You have to get out of here. And remember, do just what we talked about.”

*   *   *

Cary didn't want to look Kansas up on a map. She looked around the bedroom she'd put in a lot of time making just the way she wanted. She'd refinished hardwood floors, painted walls a pale bluish green, Sea Mint, it was called. Finding the right bedspread with the swirls of blue and green. Making curtains that matched. She didn't want to leave. This was her home.

When she started crying again, she told herself to suck it up and get in the shower. With the hot water sluicing over her, she followed Arlette's advice and recalled the last time Mitch hit her.
You bastard!
Cary screamed it over and over and let the words echo around the yellow-tiled bathroom. The yelling energized her. If she could get mad, she was still alive. Soap foamed over bruises on her arms that would never be there again.

No more beating me up! I will tell the truth.
I didn't fall down the stairs. He threw me
. She washed her hair. Long, because he liked it long. She turned off the water, grabbed a towel, and patted herself dry, then used the towel to swipe the steam from the mirror. Standing naked in front of the sink, she awkwardly cut off her hair, gathered all the strands and put them in a plastic bag.

No more! I'm through. I'm leaving. Free! I'm going to be free of you!
She couldn't decide what to wear and finally dressed in pale denim jeans and a dark blue blouse.
Making me quit my job
. She blow-dried her jaggedly cut short hair and shook the curls loose on the brown wig Arlette had given her, then fitted it on her head.
Turning me into a liar. Telling my friends I had the flu when you beat me so badly I couldn't get out of bed
. Adding tinted glasses, she examined herself in the mirror. A stranger stared back, a skinny, owl-eyed stranger with a pale, frightened face.

With the money Arlette gave her and the money she'd managed to hide away tucked in her wallet and the wallet in her purse, she was ready. She couldn't take anything that didn't fit in the purse, and it wasn't very large, just a shoulder bag big enough for wallet, sunglasses, cell phone, Kleenex, the paperback book she always carried, and a change of underwear. She didn't dare pack a suitcase or take extra clothes. He'd know immediately that she'd run and would be after her like a cat on a mouse.
You won't catch me this time, you sick bastard!

Using more makeup than she ever wore, she darkened the eyebrows of the stranger in the mirror, put blusher on her cheeks, mascara on her eyelashes and added bright red lipstick. She shrugged on her jacket, slipped the purse strap over her shoulder, and went to the kitchen. She couldn't take much or Mitch would notice, but she fixed two peanut butter sandwiches and put some instant coffee in a baggie.
You bastard! I loved you!
She opened the door into the garage and stood there, unable to take a step.

After four deep breaths, she got in the Honda. With a shaky hand she stuck the key in the ignition. She was always afraid he'd do something so it wouldn't run, but it started right up. He'd been wanting to get rid of it, talking about how much a second car cost and they didn't really need it. She wouldn't have to worry about that anymore. Soon her dwindling vision wouldn't let her drive anyway.

At Albertson's in the El Cerrito Plaza, she pushed a cart up and down the aisles, thinking this was the last time she'd be in this store. Box of oatmeal, loaf of bread—white bread, the only kind Mitch liked—tomatoes, cucumber. She spent a few seconds selecting the best apples, toilet tissue, package of sliced cheese, pork chops, carton of milk, carton of ice cream. She wrote out a check. Number 4512, the last one she would write. As she was wheeling the cart to her car, a cop car drove into the lot.

Mitch! He'll kill me!

The black-and-white made a loop—the driver looked nothing like Mitch—and drove away. The panicky white fizz drained away, leaving her feeling weak. With pep talks to herself, she put the bags of groceries, one by one, on the back seat of the car, tossed her purse on the floor. She closed the door with a soft thunk and started to walk away without a backward glance, but when she got to the street, she turned and looked. There were so many black cars and so many of them were Hondas, she couldn't tell which was hers.

 

4

How long before the car was found, Cary wondered, as she crossed the street on the last Monday she'd ever be in El Cerrito, California. She hoped the milk would be sour and the ice cream melted all over the seat covers. Avoiding the tendency to slink and look over her shoulder, she raised her chin, strode into the BART station, and slid dollar bills in the machine. When her ticket popped out she snatched it, dropped her cell phone in the trash can, and trotted up the stairs.

Four people waited on the platform. She eyed each to make sure no one knew her. A man reading the
Chronicle
, a girl studying the colored map of destinations on the wall, two women standing near the edge chatting with each other. They all ignored the skinny woman with brown curly hair who got on the first train that came in and got off in Berkeley. Heart beating uncomfortably fast, she waited through minutes that dragged by before a San Francisco train came. She got on and stared out the window, not really seeing anything, not feeling nervous when the car went down into the tube under the bay, only feeling terrified when she got off at the Embarcadero station.

Mentally reviewing the street map she'd studied, telling herself she couldn't get lost in three blocks, she walked to Fremont Street, went inside the Greyhound bus depot. Using a big chunk of her money, she bought a ticket for far, far away. She waited, jittery, afraid anybody looking at her would know she was holding herself together by a few unraveling threads. When her bus lumbered in, she climbed aboard, sat in a window seat, and stared through the glass. A stout woman in her sixties sat down beside her, wiggled around to get comfortable and plopped a bulging tote bag at her feet.

“Hoo, it takes more and more energy to climb those steps.” She smiled at Cary. “I've been visiting my new grandson.”

She poked through the bag for a skein of yarn—fuzzy red, yellow, and orange colors that glowed like fire—then took out a pair of lethal-looking knitting needles. “Something to pass the time,” she said. “I always have to be busy with something. You know what they say about idle hands.” She rummaged in the bag again, produced a pair of glasses, and carefully hooked the ear pieces around her ears.

Cary watched the woman's hands flash like pale birds, as rows of bright red and orange stitches appeared on the needles.

“Are you married, dear?”

“Yes” was waiting in her mouth to slip out, but she caught it in time. “No,” she said. Her reflection in the bus window watched her, a stranger with brown hair and the stranger's mouth moved to make a slight smile. She was unmarried, she was alive. Each breath brought air into her lungs and pumped blood through her veins.

The woman looked at her like she might be doubting what Cary had said, and the smile dried at the edges and the air stopped going in. When the woman went back to her knitting, the breathing started again.

“I was married once,” the woman said. A keen glance came Cary's way.

Cary was startled at the sharp pointedness of it. Fear crept up to sit on her shoulder and whisper in her ear.
Don't take anything at face value
. Then the woman smiled. The sharpness melted and she was just a dithery, elderly lady again.

“I'm Amelia.”

I'm missing.

Amelia waited for Cary to supply a name, but her mind blanked over. This woman was going to think she was defective, or mentally ill. “Kelby,” Cary blurted the first name that came to her. She must make up a name for herself, one that sounded enough like her own so she would respond if anyone spoke to her. Her last name should be Fox. A hunted creature, running and hiding, always being chased, looking over its shoulder. Maybe she could be sly and cunning, darting into safe burrows as the hound sniffed her tracks. Cary Black, a.k.a. Something Fox. On the other hand, maybe it should be Something Chicken, that being more her nature.

Aware of her shoulders hunching, Cary deliberately took in a deep breath and forced them to relax. Mitch wasn't watching, there was no way he could know what she was doing, and it didn't matter anyway. He couldn't yell at her, question why she was talking to that woman, who was she, what did you say to her.