“Sticks and stones, Amelia.”
I move closer.
“You belong in an institution,” I say.
He tosses four logs onto the fire. “Probably.”
“No wonder you’re all alone.”
“That’s quite a tongue you’ve got there,” he says.
“No wonder your wife won’t let you see your son. Do you even have a son? Or did you just make that up?”
“Of course I do.”
“He probably hates you.”
Rex lunges for me. “Hush now! I don’t want to hear another word out of that nasty mouth.” He shakes me hard. “Is that clear, Amelia? We go when I say we go.”
He pushes me to the ground and stomps off to the edge of the camp, stands there with his back turned, hands on his hips.
“You can’t keep me out here forever,” I say, finally.
He looks over his shoulder at me. “That’s exactly what I intend to do.”
15
When I was eleven, I found a dead cat in the bushes behind the apartment complex we moved to after my father left. The poor thing had snagged its collar on a nail near the top of the fence and hanged itself. I ran inside to tell my mother and she hugged me and told me it was all right to be sad.
She was going to put the stiff little corpse out in the trash but I insisted we bury it in a shoebox under a holly bush. For weeks after, I would go there and lie on my back on the grass and talk to the holly bush cat. I would tell it about my day, the test I aced, how Nathan Krabbe put gum in my hair, and how Daisy Walker, my apparent best friend, dumped me for Kathy Carter because Kathy had a pair of Doc Martens leather boots and I didn’t. Then one day a work crew arrived and began removing the holly bush and shredding the surrounding trees and laying asphalt. I watched powerless as a giant roller pressed the steaming tarmac into place, and the guy in the Construction Worx T-shirt painted out a parking grid with a little machine on wheels right over the spot where the holly bush cat lay.
I turn on my side and think of the cat and how its owner never knew what happened to it. I think of my mother and her little barky lapdog, Jed, and how she will never know what happened to me.
I feel like an idiot for believing him. Like a susceptible pensioner lured into a Nigerian scam. Matthew always said I was too trusting.
Rex has barely spoken a word in the two days since he refused to take me back. He performs his daily tasks in a perfunctory, distant manner, furrow chiseled into his brow—wake up, remove the zip ties, make coffee, eat breakfast, clean camp, do not engage with the prisoner. In the afternoon, he might collect and chop firewood, venture out to lay some animal traps, take care of the latrine, but there was no talking to me.
I watch all this from the sidelines, where I have withdrawn into my shell, lost in a deep depression I can’t fight my way out of. The days seem long and gray and hopeless. The only bright thing is the leaves from the maples and aspens which seemed to have turned red and gold overnight.
This afternoon he returns to camp with two dead raccoons swinging from a length of twine. He’s brighter than usual and announces that tonight there will be stew. He plants himself on an upturned bucket and deftly skins, guts, and dismembers one of the unfortunate creatures, placing the parts in the saucepan, adding water, and simmering it over a low heat. He strings up the other raccoon on a branch near me and leaves it there, and those unblinking black eyes fix on me in a thousand-yard stare.
Somewhere close to dusk, the stew is ready. He gives me a plateful and takes one for himself, and digs in heartily. I have no appetite and I pick at mine, hoping he won’t notice.
“Something wrong with your meal, Amelia?”
“No.”
I try harder and close my eyes and imagine my mother’s Sunday roast and manage to finish the plate. Once dinner is over, he turns to me and places both hands on his thighs.
“Ready?” he says.
By this he means toilet. He’s religious about taking me to the latrine four times a day on a very precise schedule—7 a.m., 11 a.m., 3 p.m., 7 p.m. Like a pet in a kennel, I have learned to go on command.
He leads me across the campsite to the pit, which is remarkably odor free even though we have been using it for days. He has some sort of system in place, where he covers it a little after every use with a mixture of dirt and lime.
He does his usual back-turning thing and I crouch and notice the cool metal of the safety pin brush against my thigh. An idea comes to me. Secretly I unclip the pin and pierce my thigh and smear blood on my fingers.
“I’ve got my period.”
He turns around. “What do you mean?”
“I’m menstruating.” I show him my bloody hand. “Do you have anything?”
By the look on his face, it’s clear he hasn’t thought this far ahead.
“Tampons? Sanitary pads?” I say.
He shakes his head and for the first time he looks unsure of himself. “No.”
“A cloth then?”
“Of course, Amelia. I’ll find something. Wait here.”
He heads for the car and disappears behind the tree line.
Now’s my chance. A minute at the most to put as much distance between him and me before he realizes I’m gone. I scan the forest. Which way should I go? It all looks the same. It doesn’t matter. Go. Go now before he comes back.
I choose left and dash for the trees, my legs rubber with adrenaline, my bare feet quickly shredded to bits.
Behind me, he’s calling my name. I run and run headlong into darkness. Branches whip my face, tear my cotton dress. I go further in, circling around bushes, pushing through the brambles, ignoring my screaming feet. It’s so dark, so deep.
He’s not far behind, crashing through the undergrowth, steps heavy with outrage.
I veer left and now I’m running down the track to the lake. If I can just get to the lake I can swim across. Suddenly it appears before me, shining like a pearl. I clamber down the bank and get ready to launch myself into the water but I slip on a greasy rock and my foot slides out from beneath me. And here he is, thrashing through the water, grabbing my ankle, pulling me back. I try to break free with a kick, but he hauls me up and shakes me like a doll.
“Why did you do that!”
He drags me up the bank and back to the campsite by my wrist.
“Stay there!” he says, pushing me to the ground.
I’m a dripping mess and so is he, hair plastered to his head, clothes sodden. The cords on his neck are pumping and I’m crazy with fear because he’s never been this angry. He begins to pack up the campsite. Folds the tarps, rolls the sleeping bag, puts the trash into a plastic bag, pours water over the embers, buries the latrine.
I begin to blabber. “Don’t worry, I’ll never say a word, and I understand you’re just going through a rough patch, we’ve all had those, and I know you’re not a bad person, that you only wanted some company, and I don’t mind, truly I don’t, all this, it’ll stay between you and me, and in fact, I’m grateful because this whole experience has taught me something valuable, that my life is precious, yours too, your son’s as well.”
The campsite is empty and he glances around for a final check.
“And now we can get on with our lives. Each begin anew. This is just a blip, that’s all, a blip. Just drop me on the side of the road. I’ll walk, hitch a ride, whatever. You don’t need to go out of your way. It’ll be as easy as that.”