Abandon

EIGHTY-THREE

L

ana struggled on through the aspen, the numbness extending up from her feet into her ankles, her shins. Even her knees were beginning to burn. She was passing through a glade and noting the first rumor of warmth in the sky when she heard the snort of a horse.

As she looked back, a branch snapped somewhere in the grove.

The cold was momentarily displaced by fear.

She bounded into the woods, ripped a spruce branch from a sapling, and doubled back into the glade, proceeding on, using the branch to sweep her new tracks smooth, reentering the trees after thirty yards, thinking if she could find a ramada, or throw together a brush shelter of some kind, maybe he’d pass her by.

The voice stopped her.

“Help!”

She turned and peered between straight white aspen trunks back out into the glade.

Where her tracks branched stood a gray-cloaked girl with long black hair, face as white as china in the dawn light, big black eyes shining. She recognized this child, having seen her in Abandon.

“Please, ma’am!” the child called out. “Help me!”

Lana hesitated, something urging self-preservation, telling her to just keep heading down through the aspen.

It’s a child, for Godsakes, she told herself.

A tuft of cloud went pink above her as Lana waded back into the glade.

The child turned and watched her approach, trembling with cold. Lana stopped several feet away.

She gestured toward the woods, trying to ask where her horse was, but the girl didn’t catch her meaning.

“You wasn’t supposed to leave.”

Lana mouthed, “What?”

Parting the manga, reaching into her cloak, the girl said, “God put you and all the other wickeds in it. Papa told me all about it. And he says I gotta send you back.”

Staring down the bore of a large revolver, the child thumbing the hammer, Lana lunged, seizing the slender wrist with half-frozen fingers, the gun shoved up at the sky, the concussive shock of the report rattling her eardrums.

The gun disappeared in the snow and Lana pushed the child down, thinking, He’s coming, and as if the thought itself held the power of incantation, he appeared, wrapped in a lambskin lap robe and moving at a single-foot rack out of the woods on a starred blood bay, the full-stamped saddle groaning in the cold.

He checked the horse by the strap and dismounted, limping toward her and grasping his leg where she’d stabbed him, his face wrenched up in some brand of agony.

The child sat up, crying, “She pushed me, Papa. She pushed me.”

Lana knelt down in the snow, hands digging through powder, searching for the revolver.

Her mittened fingers grazed something hard. She grasped it.

The preacher five feet away.

She pulled on nothing but a root as his weight came down on her, the snow and the subzero cold biting every square inch of exposed skin. He turned her over, his eyes slitted mad, gums the color of blued steel, and he worked to pry her hands away from her face, his fingers wrapping around her neck, Lana staring up at the preacher and the purple sky and the child’s inquisitive face.

“Go over by the horse, Harriet,” he said. “I wanna watch.”

“Now.”

As the child moved away, he began to squeeze.

What kind of turn?

Her husband smiles, his fingers pattering on the last two keys, right foot tapping the damper pedal.

You remember Mr. Sakey?

Yes.

I hear y’all swapped words two days ago.

Lana brushes a wisp of blond hair behind her right ear.

He bumped into me at the market.

And you called him a fucking capper, took him to task for—

He isn’t your friend. He dragged you into all this, John. Crying now. It’s ’cause of him. You aren’t the same man you were before you made his—

You own a razor tongue, Lana. Ought to know better than to set it loose on a man like Sakey.

I have a truthful tongue. You lost our house.

I’ll get it back.

He reaches into his jacket, pulls out a razor, sets it on the piano.

How? With what money? Think they’re just gonna let you back in the game on credit? They’re probably all laughing at you as we—

I told you. I still got one chip left, and it’s better than any hard chink or banknote.

He shuts his eyes, and she thinks he’s on the verge of losing consciousness, hoping he is, his arm reaching for the top of the Steinway, between candles, fingers closing on a fist-size geode, halved and inlaid with amethyst, a prehistoric egg with purple crystals that flash in the candlelight as he swings it at her head.

The world graying, purple and black spots blooming like supernovas, blotting out the sky, the preacher’s face, Lana thinking, I’m dying in this glade, her hands tearing open his duster, his frock coat.

“It’ll be over in a minute.”

Her left hand caught in an inner pocket, fingers grasping a piece of metal.

John squeezing her throat, the world graying, purple and black spots blooming like supernovas, blotting out the ceiling, her husband’s face, Lana thinking, I’m dying, clawing at his eyes.

I’m sorry, Lana. I have to get back in the game.

The murder of color, gray fading toward black, the preacher apologizing, his tears speckling her face, salting her eyes, and on the edge of perception, a distant woomph, trailed by mounting thunder.

I love you, Lana.

Oxygen-deprived panic.

Unconsciousness.

Dreaming, John, you need help.

. . .

The pressure on her throat subsided.

Stephen Cole stood up, color returning to the sky, to the man.

She coughed.

He looked away from her, eyes asquint.

It sounded like a barrage of gunshots, and then she realized they were aspen, snapping like firecrackers.

Her mouth full of warm, liquid rust, choking, and pain beyond her three miscarriages combined, like she’s swallowed lava.

Lana sits up, light-headed.

Alone in the living room, beside the piano bench, walls candlelit, the front of her gown soaked with blood, which still pours from her mouth.

Lana sat up.

The preacher simply disappeared, exploding back in a wall of powder, and she moved, too, glimpsing sky and snow and sky again, somersaulting, the trees screaming by, saw the horse sawn in two by a jagged aspen, mushrooming into a pink cloud, Stephen Cole ricocheting off a boulder.

She reaches into her mouth and screams.

Everything stopped, the air fragrant with crushed spruce and freshly hewn wood, Lana surprised to see the sky, that she wasn’t buried in snow.

She sat up, her heart pumping, slowly moved her arms to verify they still worked, ran her hands down the length of her legs.

She looked back up the mountain.

The slide had carried her a few hundred yards downhill, the debris path littered with forest carnage—curdled snow and spruce and splintered aspen.

She got up and listened for a long time, the key she’d taken from Stephen Cole still clutched in her left hand, watching for any sign of movement.

She thought about the child, buried somewhere nearby.

The cold rushed back.

She lifted an uprooted aspen sapling and began to stab it through the snow, slowly working her way up toward the glade, probing for the little girl.

But unto Thee have I cried, O Lord. And in the morning shall my prayer prevent Thee.

Stephen Cole lay cemented in snow and darkness.

Lord, why castest Thou off my soul?

He thought his arm wouldn’t work because he’d been packed under several hundred pounds of snow and trees. This was true, but the reason he couldn’t move a single appendage owed to the shattering of the bones in his arms and legs, the severing of his spine in four places.

Why hidest Thou Thy face from me?

He tried to call out for Harriet, but the snow had crammed into his mouth, gagging him.

I am afflicted and ready to die from my youth up. While I suffer Thy terrors I am distracted. Thy fierce wrath goeth over me.

It became difficult and then painful and then impossible to breathe.

He saw colors—violet and brown, columns of scalding light.

Thy terrors have cut me off. They came round about me daily like water. They compassed me about together.

He tried to pray for Harriet, for an end to any suffering, but his mind wandered to a windy South Carolina beach.

Lover and friend hast Thou put far from me, and mine acquaintance into darkness.

He was buried deep in sand, lost, running out of air, but he could hear her voice shouting his name.

And then the miracle happened: Something punched through, jabbing his chest, and he smiled now, because Eleanor had found him. She was digging him out, a shot of cold, fresh air streaming into his lungs, and he saw the sky and Eleanor staring down at him.

But she wasn’t smiling. She looked angry.

He spit the sand out of his mouth and said, “Help me. Please, Eleanor. Please.”

She began to bury him back.