She finds a narrow blacktop road and walks east on the shoulder. Every time she hears the rumor of an approaching vehicle she takes cover off the road.
The baby is delivering herself of long closely reasoned monologues in a language known only to herself.
It probably isn’t very far in miles but she hasn’t been able to move at a very good pace. By the time the country road takes her across another hill from which she sights the superhighway below her, the sun is setting; by the time she stumbles to the overpass the last of the twilight has dimmed to dusk.
The blacktop road isn’t important enough to rate an interchange. It crosses on an overpass above the Interstate. She goes down along the right side of the hump of landfill and parks herself and the baby on the sloping grass fifty feet above the highway, protected from view by the bulk of the overpass.
Cool here. Cool now and it’ll get cold soon. Wish we had a blanket-although God knows how I’d have carried any more weight.
Cars go by at infrequent intervals, headlights stabbing the road, but by the time they come in sight they are broadside to her, heading away. No chance of being seen unless she steps out onto the shoulder.
She lies back-aching everywhere but it is good to stretch out. She holds Ellen close. Is there anything we can do other than take the chance of hitchhiking?
If only my brain weren’t so fogged. Just reeling.
Got to protect the baby. That’s number one. Got to keep us both out of Bert’s clutches; that’s number two. Got to get out of this area; that’s number three.
Might as well go down there and stick out a thumb. Can’t think of anything else to do. Can’t think period.
Rest here a few minutes. Gather a bit of strength. Then go down and thumb-and be ready to leap back out of sight if you see anything that looks like the square silhouette of the Bronco.
Remember too-they may have alerted every sheriff and local cop and highway patrolman; every big rig with a CB radio. Knowing Bert and his capacity for rage he’s perfectly capable of turning this into something no less noisy than the Lindbergh kidnapping.
Funny image: show some flesh; stick out a leg-make like Claudette Colbert in It Happened One Night-imagine the shock on some lecher’s face when you step into the light and he gets a good look at you like a critter out of some low-budget horror movie all scratched up with ripped clothes and matted hair and this little E.T. in your arms talking to herself earnestly in a language from another planet.…
She awakens having no idea how long she’s slept. Stars glittering overhead.
Ellen!
She’s fine. The baby’s fine. Snuggled right here in my arms. Poor kid’s nose is running. Find something to wipe it-here, this’ll do.
So stiff. Can hardly move. I’d give anything for a drink and a couple of aspirin. Anything except my kid.
Haven’t seen a single car go by since I woke up. It must be very late.
She holds the watch close before her eyes and tries to turn it to pick up reflections of starlight. Very hard to make out the dial. Can’t be sure but it looks as if either it’s ten after twelve or it’s two o’clock.
Either way, kid, past your bedtime. Let’s see if we can’t commandeer you a nice car seat to sleep on.
Which way? North or south?
South, I expect. He’ll certainly have people watching the border crossings into Canada. We’ll have a better chance to get lost in the crowds if we try to make it down to Albany or maybe even the city.
Of course nothing comes with guarantees. If only Charlie hadn’t deserted us.…
The short descent to the bottom of the slope seems more painful than the entire afternoon’s walk. The baby seems to have gained a lot of weight. The blister is raw and burning; the knees keep wanting to buckle; the small of her back feels broken; there are aches in all her ribs; her arms are like weights; her neck is in agony; she can’t stand the smell of herself.
Whiplash Willie, where are you now that I need you?
For a long time she stands by the side of the road. All she can hear is the baby’s breathing and the occasional halfhearted whoo-whoo of an owl.
A single headlamp appears on the hill to the south and approaches soundlessly. Can’t tell if it’s a motorcycle or a one-eyed car. Anyway it’s in the opposite lane heading in the wrong direction. Better hunker down anyway; don’t take chances. Make the lowest possible silhouette.
There’s a wide grass divider between the roadways here; not much chance of being seen from way over there. The headlight turns out to be a boxy old car with one lamp blown out. It thunders under the overpass, throwing back a raspy broken-muffler echo; it rushes away into the night, tail-lights glowing an angry red. The silence it leaves behind makes things lonelier than before.