The Cat, The Devil, The Last Escape

44

IN THE DC-3, as Sammie yawned in Becky’s arms, already Morgan had drifted off, his head on Becky’s shoulder. Becky couldn’t have slept again; her stomach felt queasy from breakfast or maybe from the plane taking off, banking over the city, then lifting fast above the mountains. Below them clouds hung low between the highest peaks, then soon the plane’s shadow raced ahead over mountains mottled with snow. Snowcapped ridges tinted gold by the rising sun surrounded a deep blue lake; far ahead, long white ridges marched, jagged, primitive, stroked with gold.

Last night in the motel room Sammie, sleeping peacefully, had stirred suddenly and sat up, her rigid body silhouetted against the motel lights beyond the window. Becky couldn’t tell if she was awake or still asleep; but a darkness stood across the room slicing fear through her—a dark consciousness more alive than if they faced a human intruder.

“Leave us alone!” Sammie shouted. “Leave my daddy alone. You tried with Uncle Lee, too. You failed with both of them. Now go away. Go away from us. Go bother someone who wants to follow you.”

The authority in the child’s voice held Becky. Morgan was awake and took Becky’s hand. They didn’t speak to Sammie. This was not the kind of dream they were used to. Sammie didn’t reach out to them, frightened. She seemed quite in control, there was a new power in the child. Her strength seemed to press at the dark presence as if driving it back; it smeared and grew thin. “You couldn’t hurt Russell Dobbs,” Sammie said boldly. “You couldn’t hurt Lee or my daddy. You can’t hurt us any longer.”

Her fists gripped the covers. “You can’t direct my dreams. You never could, they never came from you! Go away from us, we are done with you!” She was not a child now, something within her seemed ageless, they could only watch as she faced down the dark that stifled the small room. The child waited silent and rigid as the spirit receded. When it vanished, she turned away—she was a child again, soft and pliant, leaning into her daddy, pulling Becky close, pressing between them until soon she slept, curled up and at peace.

They exchanged looks, but didn’t speak. At last Morgan slept, too. Only Becky lay awake, thinking about the strength they’d seen in Sammie—and then about the days to come. Home again in their own house. Morgan back in the shop he loved. Caroline with her comforting support. Anne a real part of the family now, Anne and Mariol.

With Morgan exonerated, all charges wiped from the books, would time turn back to what life was before? Would the town’s anger be wiped from the books? As cleanly as the legal charges were expunged? Would they be a real part of their community again?

She didn’t think so.

Their true friends, who had stood by them, would embrace them. But the rest of the town, that had turned so cruel, why would they be different now? She couldn’t be friends again with people who hadn’t trusted or believed in Morgan, people they could never trust again. And that was most of the town.

What kind of life would they have among people they could never again feel close to, could never respect? She and Morgan had no reason to embrace their onetime enemies. And what about Morgan’s customers? Would they return to him or would they remain distant, so business continued to falter? Caroline was doing her best to oversee the work, to make appointments, pay the bills, take care of the books on top of managing the bakery. Even bakery sales had fallen off some. And Becky’s own work? The clients she’d lost were, in her view, gone for good. She couldn’t hope there’d be new work for her. Now, this morning, heading through the sky to Georgia, were they returning not to their regained freedom, but to a new and different kind of confinement?

As if, though Brad Falon was locked away, his shadow still followed them.

She thought about California, the miles of orange groves below as they’d left the city. The open green hills, the small communities lying snugly along the sea. She thought about the way Lee had talked, over supper last night, about watching the ocean surge so close outside his cell window. Thought about the friendliness of the few people she had met, the waitresses and manager at the little motel, and about the kindness of Reginald Storm—her thoughts filled with the bright mosaic of that world, so very different from what they might find at home.

But then, looking down from the DC-3 at the dry desert of Arizona and then soon at the snow-patterned prairies of the Midwest, her thoughts turned to Lee and to where he might be headed in his mysterious odyssey. Already she missed him, she said a silent prayer for him. Give him peace, give him what he longs for in his last years. And then she thought about Misto.

Would the ghost cat know new earthly lives yet to come? But meantime, would he stay with Sammie yet for a while?

And where would he go when he must return to a new life? Into what place and what time? Must the little cat spirit start over each time as a small and ignorant kitten with only his own strong will to guide him? That seemed so cruel.

But how could she understand the patterns that guided the soul of animal or human? She could only guess. Yawning, she looked at Morgan sleeping against her and prayed that life would be good to him now, would be good to all of them as she and Morgan tried, as best they knew how, to protect Sammie and nurture her.