She won’t look at me. At a stoplight, I stare at her. She stares ahead and I know she can see me. I know she can feel my eyes on her. She holds her breath. She fights the urge to cry. I drive with one hand, the gun on my lap in the other.
It’s not so much that I give a shit about the girl. Because I don’t. It’s that I’m wondering what happens when word leaks back home that I did this. When my name is attached to a kidnapping/murder. And it would be. Dalmar would never sign his name to this. He’d set me up. If and when this goes bad, I’ll be the stooge, the scapegoat, the one on the chopping block.
The light turns green. I get off on Michigan. A bunch of drunken kids stand on the corner waiting for their bus. They’re monkeying around, being stupid. One of them stumbles from curb. I swerve out of the way and almost hit him. “Idiot,” I mutter beneath my breath. He gives me the finger.
I consider my backup plan. I always have a backup plan, for if and when things get messy. I’ve just never had to use it. I check the gas gauge. There’s enough to get us out of the city, at least.
I should get off at Wacker. The red numbers on the truck’s dashboard read 2:12. Dalmar and his guys are in place, waiting. He could do it by himself, but he wouldn’t. Dalmar never wants to get his hands dirty. He finds someone, some outcast like me to do the shit work, so he can sit back and watch. This way, when things go south, he’s clean of any misdeeds. No fingerprints at the scene, his face omitted from any photographic evidence. He lets the rest of us, his operatives he calls us, like we’re in the damn CIA, take the fall.
There’s probably four of them in the van, four thugs just waiting to restrain this girl who sits still beside me when she could be fighting for her life.
My hands slip on the steering wheel. I’m sweating like a pig. I wipe them on my jeans and then I pound a fist against the steering wheel and the girl lets out a stifled cry.
I should get off at Wacker, but I don’t. I keep driving.
I know this is stupid. I know everything that can go wrong. But I do it anyway. I peer in the rearview mirror, make sure that I’m not being trailed. And then I floor it. Down Michigan, to Ontario, and I’m on 90 before the clock ever reaches 2:15.
I don’t say anything to the girl because there isn’t anything I could say that she’d believe.
I’m not sure at what point it happens. It’s somewhere as we’re driving away from the city, as the skyline starts to disappear into the blackness, as the buildings get swallowed up by the distance. She squirms in her seat, the composure starting to wane. Her eyes move: out the side window, turning around and staring out the rear window as the city melts away. As if someone finally flipped the switch and now she realizes what the hell is happening. “Where are we going?” she demands, her voice becoming hysterical. The poker face has given way to gaping eyes, to ruddy skin. I see it in the glow of streetlights we fly past, illuminating her face every five seconds or so.
For a split second she begs me to let her go. I tell her to shut up. I don’t want to hear it. By now she’s crying. Now the water works have begun and she’s a blubbering mess, begging me to let her go. She asks again: Where are we going? And I pick up the gun. I can’t stand the sound of her voice, blaring and shrill. I need her to shut up. I point the gun at her and tell her to shut the fuck up. And she does. She’s quiet, but she continues to cry, wiping her nose on a too-short sleeve as we soar out of the city and into suburbia, trees swapping places with skyscrapers, the Blue Line snaking down the middle of the road.
Eve
After
Mia sits at the kitchen table, holding a legal-size manila envelope with her name written on the front in a very masculine all-caps script.
I prepare dinner for Mia and myself. The TV is on in the next room for background noise, but the sound drifts into the kitchen, compensating for the silence between us. Mia doesn’t seem to notice, but these days, it makes me a nervous wreck, and so I make idle conversation to offset the silence.
“Would you like chicken breast with your salad?” I ask and she shrugs. “Whole wheat rolls or white?” I ask but she doesn’t respond.
“I’ll make the chicken,” I say. “Your father would like chicken.” But we both know that James will not be home.
“What’s that?” I ask, motioning to the item in her hands.
“What’s what?” she asks.
“The envelope.”
“Oh,” she says. “This.”
I set a frying pan on the stove, slamming it down without intent. She starts, and I’m quick to apologize, filled with shame. “Oh, Mia, honey, I didn’t mean to startle you,” I say and it takes a moment for her to settle, to attach the rapid heartbeat and beads of sweat to the sound of the frying pan.