I saw the look of eagerness on his face when he was in the entryway. He was whistling, too, sounding as happy as I imagined he could. In his mind, everything he had planned and imagined with Haylee was coming true. He was building a new home here for his fantasy family. But I knew that the moment he realized I was gone, his happiness so high up would come crashing down hard, and I feared how he would be if he caught me. I trembled envisioning that but kept very quiet, holding my breath.
He did pause for a moment and look in my direction. Had I touched something, left some sort of evidence of my escape from the basement? One of the tools he carried looked sharp enough to cut off my head. Terror was almost at a boiling point inside me. I was sure I had uttered a small sob of alarm, as if there was truly a second me inside myself, a me I couldn’t control.
Had he heard it?
He did stop whistling.
I cringed and waited, squeezing my eyes closed and pressing my hands so tightly against my breasts that they hurt. After a long and frightening moment, I heard him start whistling again and continue down the hallway. I stepped out and listened harder, hoping to hear the basement door opening. He appeared to have stopped again, probably right at the doorway to the bedroom that had a coffin on the bed. It seemed like minutes passing rather than seconds, because he wasn’t moving, and I didn’t hear the basement door opening. Was he unloading his tools and coming back to get more things as I had suspected? I waited, but I didn’t hear anything. I continued inching forward until I could see him in the hallway, just staring into the bedroom. I thought he was whispering.
I remained back, holding my breath. Finally, I heard him open the basement door and start down the stairs, carrying what he had. There would be less time than I had hoped. I moved quickly but as quietly as I could to the screen door and opened it just enough to slip out, closing it softly behind me. The house was higher up from the road than I had envisioned and there was no lawn in front, just patches of weeds, rocks, and gravel. I hurried down the steps and, holding up the skirt of the oversized dress, began to run to my right and down the slope. The stones poked and cut the bottoms of my feet, and some weeds scratched the bottoms of my legs, but I did the best I could to ignore the pain. I had to make it to the road below. I was nearly there when I heard the screen door slam, sounding like a gunshot.
He was coming.
Screaming for help at the top of my lungs, I turned onto the macadam road. I didn’t look back, but I could hear him screaming, too, sounding like a wild animal in pain. I looked down the road, hoping and praying for the sight of an automobile or a nearby house, but there was nothing on the road and nothing but wild brush, fields of hay, and thick wooded areas. My feet felt as if the soles were on fire because this was more or less a dirt and gravel road. How far was I from the city?
I kept running. Vaguely, I imagined myself as something of a comical sight. I was sure I looked like I was tiptoeing over hot coals, keeping the skirt pulled up to my knees as I charged forward. A thick black snake slithered into the ditch and bushes. The road was surrounded by trees and bushes, and as far as I could see, there was no other house, no neighbor within reach.
Suddenly, the sound of an engine gave me hope. If I could just stay ahead of him and keep going, maybe he would realize someone was coming and stop chasing me. A pickup truck was soon visible in the distance. It was coming my way. I raised my arms to wave frantically, hoping the driver would see me, but the moment I let go of the skirt, the hem fell just below my feet because the oversize dress had slipped down off my shoulders. I struggled to keep it up and then I stepped on the material, tripping myself and sailing forward and to my right. I hit the ditch hard with the right side of my head and my shoulder. The pain shot instantly through my back and took away my breath.
Before I could get back to my feet and continue running toward the truck, I heard him shout. He dove and slammed down over my body, pressing my face to the dank earth. I gagged, and he quickly held my arms so I couldn’t lift them to wave at the driver of the oncoming truck. I squirmed and twisted, but he was too heavy for me to break free. The sound of the truck drawing closer gave me some hope, but when I went to scream, he shoved his hand hard into my mouth until I gagged and choked again. The truck went by, the driver apparently not noticing anything, because I didn’t hear the vehicle stop. Anthony waited until it was gone and then slowly retreated, lifting himself off me. I didn’t move. I coughed and spit, keeping my eyes closed, my body frozen.
What would he do to me now? It seemed like a full minute had passed, but I dared not turn or try to get up and run. I was too frightened even to cry.
“Look at you,” he finally said. “Ain’t you embarrassed acting like that? Suppose somebody had seen you . . . and me chasing after you. Huh? What would they have thought? Damn. You can’t walk on those feet.”
I still didn’t move. The scent of damp earth rushed up my nose. I saw some worms uncurl and start to slither away.
“Luckily,” he said, “the one thing my father did teach me was the fireman’s carry.”
I didn’t open my eyes, but I sensed he was circling around to stand in front of me.
“He didn’t actually teach it to me. He liked to do it to me, just come over to me while I was playing or doing something and whip me up, frightening the hell out of me. I’d scream, and my mother would yell at him, but he’d just laugh and do it again and again. Watch. I’ll show you how it works. Go on. Open your eyes. Open them!”
I did and looked at his feet as he squatted.
“First, facing you, I’m hooking my elbows under your arms, and then I’m lifting you to your feet,” he said.
I closed my eyes again because my head was spinning. His face was inches from mine. He leaned forward and wiped some mud from my cheek with his tongue. Then he spit it out.
“What a mess. Okay. Now I’m putting my right leg between your legs, see, and I’m squatting down and hooking my right arm around your right leg, and then up you go.” He lifted me and threw me over his shoulder with ease. He held on to my right wrist and turned, stepping out of the ditch and starting back to the driveway.
My feet still felt on fire, my shoulder ached, and I realized I must have scraped my face along the right temple and cheek. He was walking stead
ily, easily, like I was a sack of cotton dresses. We started up the driveway. I opened my eyes and looked down the road to my left, hoping to see that truck or maybe another vehicle, but there was nothing.
“I’m disappointed in you, Kaylee, but I understand. Young women are often nervous when they first set up a new home. You should have just told me how nervous you was. Running off like that is not good for you or me. People misunderstand. Who knows what anyone woulda thought if they had seen you looking so frantic, huh?” he said. “They’d never guess we was husband and wife and about to set up a new home.”
The fact that he sounded more reasonable than angry actually frightened me more. A tornado of madness swirled around us. Black was white, tall was short, and thin was thick. Nothing in his mind was what he didn’t want it to be. I wasn’t trying to get away from him. Oh, no. I was just an insecure young married woman afraid of disappointing my new husband.
I bounced against his body as he walked up the driveway and onto the porch. When I heard him open the screen door, I felt my whole body give up, every muscle that had tightened with some resistance softening. I was back in the madhouse. My moments of hope seemed cruel now, teasing me. Did I dare to permit myself to think that the driver of that truck had seen me, seen Anthony fall over me, but he was too frightened himself to stop? Would he report it to the police? Should I live with that hope, any hope? Optimism had become a form of torture. I’d never even dream of a rescue now.
Anthony marched us down the hallway. He paused at the bedroom.
“You were right,” he said. I turned my head. Whom was he talking to? “Not good to rush things.”
He opened the basement door, and we started down the stairs.
“Hey, Mr. Moccasin,” he said joyfully when we reentered the basement apartment, “look who’s back. You were worrying she was gone for good.”