“Just a few things for you when you’re ready,” he said and turned on the television. Sounded like news. Artillery shells, chaos, the rhythmic thwack of helicopter blades, the war that had been dragging on as long as she had been alive. She felt sorry for those people getting shot and captured, their villages torched. She had never understood why the Americans were even in Vietnam.
She slipped out her pruned hand and hooked the bag’s handle with a finger while clutching a towel at her throat with the other, then shut and locked the door again. The fact he had gotten her clothes at all was beyond expectation; nevertheless, she hoped he had not bought her some girlie nonsense for which she had no use. She was relieved to see inside the bag some T-shirts, striped and plain, some shorts, a pack of underwear, and a simple pair of blue jeans. She poked her legs into the denim, kicking a little to work her toes through the holes, and tugged a shirt over her wet head. She stepped out into the room.
“This’ll be fine,” she said with a cautious glance toward Manny. “Thank you.”
“They look big, but the lady said they would shrink in the laundry.” He must have seen the stiff denim gaping at her waist and piling up at the tops of her feet. Kit couldn’t be sure, but from the way he leaned forward and smiled, eyebrows high and hopeful, it seemed that he wanted her to like them.
“Never had these before,” she said.
“What, jeans?” he said.
“New clothes.”
When he looked at her, so interested and kind, Kit wished she had not revealed this to him. She thought it best to share as little as possible. Manny reached toward her and she took a two-step back.
He showed her his palms. “Sorry about that. Okay, no sudden moves. Can I get these for you?” He gestured toward the price tags dangling from the collar and belt loop.
She stayed put and removed the tags herself with two swift yanks.
“Roll up the ankles for now. We can find a place to wash them tomorrow.”
She folded the cuffs twice over. “On our way to my aunt’s house?”
“You betcha.”
Manny laid a blanket on the floor and stretched out alongside the bed, fully dressed, his jean jacket draped across his chest. He fell asleep quickly and easily just moments after the lights went out. Kit stayed up for an hour or more to make sure he was asleep, and after running her escape route in her head until it felt automatic, until she felt that the risk was manageable enough, she finally succumbed to the exhaustion of the day, razor-blade shiv in hand.
Chapter Nine
The next day, Kit awoke to the chugging and hum of the air conditioner and a bar of light across her eyes from the gap in the curtains. By some miracle, she had slept all night without waking. As she pushed herself to sit up in bed, she wondered again if the Machers had sent anyone to look for her, or even noticed she was missing. She slid onto the tufted carpet and went to see if Manny was still sleeping. But the space between the bed and the bathroom was empty, the blanket squarely folded and pillow back in its place on the bed. Kit scanned for traces of him, anxious for a sign that he hadn’t left her.
She looked in the bathroom, but his things were gone. Panic inched up her chest and into her throat. She pulled out some drawers and found a King James Bible and a matchbook. Pressing down a swell of panic, she checked the closet again and swatted the wire hangers in furious protest. Then she noticed a length of black cloth on a high shelf underneath a spare pillow. Balancing on the chair, she strained to reach a corner of the fabric. The chair tipped and gave her the extra quarter inch she needed to reveal the objects underneath: a Remington 12-gauge and a box of shells. The gun’s oily barrel gleamed. Her breath came back. He would not have left his gun behind. There was no money in the bathroom, but she did find Manny’s toiletry bag, neatly zipped and hanging from a hook on the door, hidden from view in her initial desperate search. She slid her arm under the bed and collected an origami five-dollar bill and a couple of nickels.
Kit was hungry again and decided to return to the café where Manny had taken her last night. She walked out of the room, leaving a slip of paper in the door to keep it from latching. The sun shone more gently than it had the previous days. A cooled breeze tossed her hair around and tickled her cheeks as she followed the route they had taken the night before in reverse: right turn onto the feeder road for about a half mile, then another right at the Denny’s onto the big road and keep walking toward the cartoon Road Runner.
She had nearly reached the café when she saw a coyote hesitating at the shoulder of the road. It looked around, not noticing Kit, and took a tentative step forward, then recoiled as a car sped past. She wondered what the animal was doing out in the middle of the day. When there were no cars visible, the coyote ventured to the middle of the asphalt, pausing there before looking back and continuing on her way.
Up from a dip in the road, an eighteen-wheeler appeared. Even Kit hadn’t heard it coming with the wind blowing. The truck didn’t brake or honk. Maybe he didn’t see her, maybe it wouldn’t have mattered. It charged a straight course and clipped the coyote on her hip, sending her spinning through the air. Kit gasped. The coyote skidded and rolled and came to a stop on the opposite shoulder of the main road. She was still moving slightly but could not get up to walk. Then she lifted her head in the direction she’d come from, whining metallically like a stopping train. She seemed to be calling for something. She dropped back on the road, having exhausted all her strength. Her belly heaved rapidly and then stopped altogether.
Kit approached, a sickly flutter in her gut.
From the culvert, she heard a raspy chorus of yips. She followed the sound and found four coyote pups. One was licking himself. Two nipped and tumbled with each other. The last whimpered as he struggled to climb the steep ditch up to the road to follow his mother. Kit gripped the one climbing toward the road by his scruff and pulled him to her chest. She scratched his head and he nipped at her playfully, his new teeth sharp. She stroked the down on his belly, and the pup slowly relaxed in her arms. She couldn’t believe how trusting he was.
Kit began to fret, unsure what to do about the motherless pups. She felt faint. She wanted to scoop them all up, put them in a pouch, and keep them near. Bottle-feed them in her lap (they would fight each other for the bottle) until they were drowsy; bring squirrels as soon as they were hungry for meat. But where would they stay? She didn’t even know where she would be tonight, what she would eat. She couldn’t save them all. The pup in her arms wriggled and mewed, then dozed off in the crook of her elbow. She closed her eyes and bowed her head, waiting for the guilt to pass.
“You can’t have that thing in here,” the middle-aged waitress said, looking down through her glasses at Kit and the wriggling pup that pawed at her chest.
“His mama’s dead,” she said and pointed to the lump on the road.