Cort calls late Tuesday night. We haven’t talked for a couple days. It’s nice to hear his voice, even if he gets after me.
“Why’d you stop?” he demands. “Why haven’t you made it to the coast yet?” I tell him I’m moving as quickly as I can, but he won’t hear it. “Excuses are like assholes, Addie. Everybody’s got ‘em and they all stink.”
The distance is really wearing on me—on us—but that won’t matter when I reach Westport. I’ll wade into the ocean for the first time in my life, feel the wet sand between my toes and the sun on my bare shoulders, and all my worries will float out with the tide. Just like Cort says. He and his dad used to go to Westport on the Washington coast every summer. It’s his favorite place. One look at the ocean, he tells me, and I’ll never worry about another thing.
Momma warned me Cort was no good. He’d steal my heart and break it just to prove he could. A real Walkaway Joe, she said, quoting Trisha Yearwood like the gospel. But he showed Momma, Trisha too. The boy might be stubborn and moody and impulsive as all hell, but a heartbreaker? Never. His heart’s too big to break someone else’s.
Once Cort settles down, I tell him about the hair salon where I’ve been working the past two days. So much has happened since we last spoke. I talk about the different ladies who come in each day to chatter and joke and gossip about people who aren’t there, and how I’ll sweep up enough hair to fill the garbage can by the end of my shift. Mostly I talk about Suzanne, my new boss. How she’s taken me in, given me a job and a place to stay. How she’s the kindest person I’ve met since leaving Casper.
“You tell her about me?” he asks.
“A little.”
“What’d you say?”
“That I’ve got a handsome boyfriend with great hair and a huge—”
“Addie, come on…”
“I told her you’re back home. And I miss you like crazy.”
“Nothing else? Didn’t tell her my name, did you?”
“Course not.”
We end the call on a nice note, but with the lights out I start feeling anxious. What if Cort’s right? Maybe the salon’s just a distraction. Deep down, am I afraid to keep going? I tend to have the most troublesome thoughts right before I fall asleep.
I wake up in the morning to find my worries have slipped away in the night, and a cool, peaceful feeling flows through me like spring water. As my eyes adjust to the daylight, I can hear Cort whispering in my ear and feel his warm, smoky breath on my neck. You’ve got this baby, he says, I know you’ll make it. He always knows the right things to say, even when he isn’t here to say them.
#
“Rinse first,” Suzanne instructs me. “Dry hair’s too brittle to cut. Chin down, Leanne.”
Mrs. Guzman tilts her head forward without taking her eyes off the Us Weekly in her lap. Suzanne runs the comb down her damp black locks and shapes them into a single tress, pinching the bottom between her fingers. She snips three times with the styling scissors, twice up and once across, leaving a clean rectangular notch.
“Here’s where it gets tricky. You’ll use this center cut to guide the rest, but you can’t cut the sides straight across. Otherwise her hair will look uneven when she stands up. You want the cuts to taper slightly towards the middle, like this.”
She snips once at a diagonal angle, then runs her comb down to catch the strays she missed. A few more cuts and each strand is perfectly aligned.
“I always do the left side first, but that’s just me.”
“Can I cut the right side?” I ask.
She smiles. “Have you ever cut hair before, Audrey?”
“I used to cut my boyfriend’s hair every week.”
A little lie on my part. Cort would buzz most of it himself. I’d clean up around his ears and the back of his neck. Even with the exaggeration, Suzanne still shakes her head.
“Sorry, hon, not until you’re licensed by the state. Technically, you’re not even supposed to hold the scissors. I could lose my license.”
“I don’t mind,” Mrs. Guzman pipes up. “She has to learn somehow.”
“Butt out, Leanne.”
“How do I get a license?” I ask.
“First you take some cosmetology classes. Then there’s the state exam. A written test, plus you cut someone’s hair in front of a judge.” Suzanne’s eyes drift to the floor. “Unless the exam’s changed since I got my license.”
“Probably has,” Mrs. Guzman chimes in. “It’s been a long time.”
Suzanne sticks her tongue out at her in the mirror. “Anyway, there’s plenty for you to do here without the license. I can show you some techniques if you’re still interested down the road.”
I couldn’t hide my grin if I tried. “I would love that.”
“Like I said, down the road. This is only your third day. You may change your mind about cutting hair if you spend enough time with Leanne.” She pinches the hairs on Mrs. Guzman’s right side. “Now, make sure your tapers line up on both sides. Same angle, same length. Like this.”
#
Suzanne makes me dinner for the third night in a row. Tuna casserole with peas. One of her specialties—it’ll put some meat on my bones, she says. I get the feeling she’s kind of a hermit. No ring on her finger, no family photos on the wall, no evening phone calls or mention of plans with friends. Every night she’s in bed with the light out by nine. Maybe she’s just tired from working all day. Maybe she’s lonely. Too early to tell.
After dinner, I return to my room and decide to decorate a little. I didn’t bother at first, thinking this place was just another quick stop on the way to Westport. But it’s my third night here, going on four and probably more. I’m sick of the emptiness.
My first order of business is unpacking all the souvenirs I’ve collected during my trip. Some are little trinkets I’ve bought in gas stations and gift shops. A map of Wyoming, a coffee mug from Billings, Montana, an Idaho potato with googly eyes. But most of my souvenirs are from folks who have helped me in one way or another since I left Casper two weeks ago. There’s my antique brass thimble from Roberta, the elderly widow outside Saddlestring who let me sleep in her spare trailer on that first lonesome night without Cort. She had a whole thimble collection. Said they’d always brought her luck. The bottle-opener keychain is from Kirk, the college kid I hitched a ride with from Bozeman to Missoula. He refused to accept any gas money and bought me lunch—even if he hit on me a little, they were nice gestures. A salt shaker here, a hand towel there. Reminders that life is full of little kindnesses if you know where to look.
Sometimes, when I’m riding in someone’s car, I’ll take a random souvenir out of my duffle and hold it in my hand, smell it, brush it against my skin, get lost in the flurry of happy memories it brings. Makes long days on the road go by in a snap. My favorite souvenir so far is the peeling knife I got from George, the man I stayed with before coming here. I love its sharp, polished blade and smooth whalebone handle. It’s the only souvenir I carry with me. Mostly for protection but I also like how it feels, the weight of it in my pocket, even though I’ve nicked my fingers a couple times.
I didn’t think I’d find anyone as friendly and considerate as George during my trip. Then Suzanne came along, what Momma would call a happy accident. I left George’s farmhouse on Monday morning before sunrise and walked along the two-lane highway, aiming west toward the mountains. I stuck my thumb out until a middle-aged couple picked me up. The man seemed nice enough but his wife kept narrowing her eyes at me in the side mirror. It was a quiet, uncomfortable ride and I asked to get out at the first town we reached. We weren’t on the road more than two hours. They dropped me here in town.
I wanted get some breakfast before hitting the highway again, so I wandered down the main street in search of a diner. That’s when I literally bumped into Suzanne—I was distracted by pretty dresses in the boutique windows and didn’t see her sweeping the sidewalk in front of her salon. We exchanged an awkward greeting, got to talking, and before long I’d spilled all my money troubles onto her. Even cried a little. She took pity on me. “I know what you need,” she said, eying my split ends. “A good trim.”
“Thank you, but like I said—”
“On the house, of course.”
The salon was small, with a single sink and cutting station in the center of the room and a row of dryer chairs along the opposite wall. It was also empty—she hadn’t yet opened for the day. Suzanne and I continued our conversation while she cut my hair. I told her about my boyfriend (no names, of course), my trip, how I wasn’t sure I’d ever make it to Westport.
“How old are you, Audrey?” she asked.
“Nineteen.”
“Nineteen.” She gently repeated the word. “You’re hitchhiking by yourself?”
“I don’t mind. It’s a nice way to meet people.”
“Little dangerous, isn’t it?”
“I don’t care how I get to the coast, long as I get there. My boyfriend’s anxious for me to arrive.”
Suzanne flipped the chair around to show me the cut. Much shorter than I usually wore my hair, but it looked lovely all the same.
“Have you ever had a job before?” she asked, brushing the stray clippings from my shoulders. “Taking care of customers, I mean.”
“Sure,” I lied.
“Want to work here for a few days? Until you get back on your feet.”
“Really?”
“It’ll just be cleaning and ringing up customers. Nothing too glamorous.” Her eyes met mine in the mirror. “I was nineteen once. I know the drill.”
“That’s very nice, but I don’t even have a place to stay.”
She smiled at my reflection. “Maybe I can help with that too.”
Turned out Suzanne had a spare room over her garage that she occasionally rented to people passing through town, or locals with trouble at home who needed a place to crash for the night. The room was unoccupied at the moment and Suzanne said I could stay at no charge. Until I got back on my feet, she stressed.
I hopped out of the styling chair and immediately got to work. The job was easy. I’d greet each customer when they came in and mark them off in the appointment book, then ring them up at the end. I’d also sweep the floor and wipe down the cutting station between clients, and Suzanne would send me into the stockroom for bottles of shampoo or conditioner or whatever product she needed at a moment’s notice. Every client was particular, and she knew each one’s preferences by heart. The entire day whooshed by as ladies bustled in and out the door.
By six-thirty, when the salon closed and I finished my final sweep-up, my arms and legs felt like rubber and I was dizzy from all the chemical smells. Suzanne took five twenties from the till and handed them to me. “You can’t tell anyone I’m paying you like this,” she said quietly.
We left the salon and walked to Suzanne’s house, conveniently located a couple blocks away, and she carried my duffle up the stairs for me. The room was cozy, shaped like a little shoebox, and furnished with a twin-size bed and an antique nightstand.
“Sorry there isn’t a TV,” Suzanne said, setting my duffle on the floor. “It’s been broken for years, and I don’t have cable anyway. What do you think?”
“I love it.”
She grinned. “I’ll come get you tomorrow morning at eight. Make sure you’re ready to go. If I don’t open by nine, there’ll be hell—”
I was so happy I hugged her. She wasn’t expecting it and I nearly took us both to the floor. We had a long laugh.
Everything’s happening so fast. One minute I’m working for Suzanne until I’m “back on my feet,” and a couple days later she’s talking about showing me advanced cutting techniques “down the road.” Maybe I’ll end up staying in this little town a little longer than expected. Cort won’t like that, but I’ll cross that bridge when the time comes.
For now, I just want to enjoy my souvenirs. Once they’re arranged on the nightstand, I plop down on the mattress and look them over one by one, touching them, smiling at all the different memories they stir up. Now my little room feels more like home.
#
By Thursday, my fourth day, I’ve gotten used to the salon’s routine. The old birds stop by in the morning. Most are early risers who run errands first thing and nap after lunch. Ten to two is when the housewives visit. Husbands are at work, kids are at school, house is clean and empty—they usually stay the longest. The women with jobs trickle in during the late afternoon, straight from work in their tailored suits and expensive shoes. They usually seem frazzled when they walk in, but then Suzanne works her magic and they’ll look refreshed by the time they leave. Suzanne gets along with all of her clients, has nicknames and running jokes with each one. I bet she’s one of the most popular women in this town.
Whenever someone I haven’t met comes in, Suzanne makes sure to introduce us. Most ask where I’m from, if I’m married or have children, how I like working at the salon. Everybody’s so nice. Well, almost everybody. I don’t care for some of them. Take Mrs. Stroud. She comes in Thursday during one of the afternoon lulls. Maybe I’m just cranky and sore in the knees by that time, but I take an immediate dislike as soon we lock eyes.
“Audrey,” Suzanne says, “this is Marsha Stroud.”
She holds out her hand like she expects me to kiss it. “Nice to meet you,” I say.
“Mm-hmm.” She turns to Suzanne. “I didn’t know you were hiring, Suzie.”
“I wasn’t.”
“Have you ever had anyone else working here? I’m trying to remember if—”
“No, but Audrey’s working out great.” Suzanne winks at me. “What’ll it be, Marsh?”
“The usual trim, bangs included. Use that lavender conditioner I love so much.”
“You got it.” Suzanne turns to me. “Go grab some Ken Rayburn from the back. Purple bottle, second shelf on the left.”
I nod and head to the stockroom. The conditioner is exactly where Suzanne says, but as I turn to leave another bottle catches my eye. Tall and slender, colored in a cool leafy-green with cursive black letters reading: Dr. Pete’s Summer Apple Shampoo. I remove the bottle from the shelf and open the cap, pressing my nostrils against the plastic as I take a deep whiff. The smell is intoxicating. Not sweet like candy or spicy like cider, but crisp and earthy, like apples fresh off the trees.
“Audrey?”
I whip around to find Suzanne standing in the doorway with her arms crossed.
“Oh, I…sorry.”
“Marsha doesn’t like to wait.” She walks over and eyes the bottle in my hand. “What do you have there?”
I show her the bottle. “I was just smelling. It’s lovely.”
“Take that one home if you want. I don’t use it very often.”
“I’ll pay for—”
“It’s fine, Audrey. Really.” She takes the lavender conditioner and smirks at me on the way out. “I’ll leave you two alone.”
#
I lie in bed that night, holding the bottle of Summer Apple Shampoo under my nose, and drift off thinking of George. It’s been less than a week but I already miss him dearly.
I’d spent most of that hot Wednesday afternoon trying to hitch without any luck, and by the time I reached George’s farmhouse I was thirsty, sweaty and covered with road dust. I must have looked like a wreck, but you wouldn’t have known it from the way George smiled at me, his blue eyes twinkling. “Come on inside,” he said. “There’s lemonade and sandwich fixin’s in the fridge.”
He sat at the table with me while I scarfed down my sandwich and gulped two glasses of lemonade. When I was finished, he cleared my dishes and asked what brought me to his doorstep. One mention of the h-word and he shook his head disapprovingly.
“Young lady like you shouldn’t be walking the road alone. Get yourself kilt that way.”
“Everyone’s been nice so far.”
“So far only gets you so far, Amy. Where you headed?”
“Westport.”
George cringed. “You’re still five hours out, at least, and a lot of that’s interstate. Can’t hitchhike on that.” He poured himself a glass. “You in a hurry?”
I shrugged.
“If you’ve got a few days to spare, I could use another pair of hands with the harvest. Seems like you could use some extra scratch too.”
“Harvest?”
“I got a hundred acres of Honeycrisp apples down the road. It’s pickin’ season.”
A big smile drew across my face. I’ve loved apples ever since I was little girl. Apple pie, applesauce, apple slices with cinnamon on top of my pancakes. I ate apples so often when I was a girl that Momma used to call me her little worm.
George went on. “I don’t like handing out money. Makes people lazy. But put in the work and I’ll pay you fair, twenty-five dollars a bin. If you don’t slack off you can fill five, six bins a day.”
“I won’t slack off.”
“No,” he grinned, “don’t imagine you will.”
Those days in the orchard were heavenly. Standing on the tall ladder with a pail slung over my shoulder, running my fingers through the leaves, listening for that little pop when the stems snapped off, feeling the morning sun on my face and chasing the shade when the afternoon heat set in. Most of the other workers didn’t speak a lick of English but I made friends with a few señoritas who understood me well enough. One of them started bringing me homemade tamales for lunch. Muy flaco, she’d tease me, poking at my ribs. The tamales used to melt in my mouth. I could’ve eaten a hundred and still wanted more.
And that rich apple smell, sweet and juicy and a little sour. So thick it made the air feel heavier. In the late afternoons, right before we finished for the day, I’d sneak beneath a shade tree and lean my head against the trunk to close my eyes and breathe in the delicious aroma.
I worked four days in the orchard and George paid me fair, as promised. It was so hard to say goodbye when Monday morning came. Now I have his apple-peeling knife to remember him by. Just feeling the whalebone between my fingers brings back so many vivid memories of that place. The weight of the pail, the brush of leaves against my skin, warm tamales melting on my tongue, the sad-eyed look on George’s face when I said, “Thanks for everything,” and walked out the farmhouse door.
It’s funny, I would have stayed at George’s place longer if I hadn’t been so worried about Cort getting angry. But if I hadn’t left at that very moment, I might not have met Suzanne. Now I’m here in this room, with food in my stomach and money in my pocket. The whole trip’s been like that, with each stop of the journey leading to the next destination. I wonder where I’ll go next. Westport, perhaps, or another place along the way. No matter where, I’ll end up there because I was here first. And I’ll have Suzanne to thank, just like George and all the others before her. The world’s so kind, sometimes I get sad just thinking about it.
#
“Were you serious the other day about wanting to cut hair?” Suzanne asks during our Friday morning walk to the salon. She’s been oddly silent since knocking on my bedroom door.
“Yeah.” I shrug. “I guess so.”
“Long days on your feet. Sometimes you miss lunch.”
“That’s alright. I can go awhile without eating.”
She takes a deep breath. “Audrey…you like working for me so far?”
“Of course. Everything’s been wonderful.”
“I’m glad, because I think you’re an exceptional employee. Everyone seems to like you. I’d like to hire you on. Make it legal, no more paying you out of the till. And if you’re truly interested in cutting hair, maybe I could sponsor you. Down the road, that is. Those cosmetology courses for your license can be expensive.”
“You’d do that for me?”
“Of course.” Her eyes drift away. “Thing is, I’ve never had an employee before. Just me. I’ve preferred it that way. But I’ve been doing this job for seventeen years and lately I’ve been feeling aches in my hands. Not every day, but often enough. It’d be nice to have someone who could take care of the clients if I need to take some time off.”
“I understand.”
“I know you’re trying to get to Westport for your boyfriend. I don’t want to interfere. But you seem really happy here.” She flashes a stern glance. “If he really loves you, he’ll come to you. Don’t live your life on his terms.”
God, she sounds like Momma right now.
“He’s a good man,” I tell her.
“I know, sweetie, I’m not—”
“He loves me, Suzanne. More than anyone I’ve ever known.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“Can I think about it?”
“Of course. Take all the time you need.”
Friday turns out to be the busiest shift yet. The salon is packed from opening well into the late afternoon. A lot of the women don’t even get their hair done, they only come in to socialize, and some drink wine and champagne. Like they’re throwing themselves a little party. Suzanne says it’s like this every week.
I wish I could enjoy the festivities, but I’m a mess the whole shift. Forgetting names, losing count at the register, fetching the wrong bottles from the stockroom. This whole dilemma is so distracting. I hate letting people down, and now—no matter what I do—I’ll have to disappoint someone dear to me, either the man I love or this kind woman who’s helped me so much. But deep down, there’s only one choice that makes sense right now. Cort will have to understand.
Around five, after most of the clients have cleared out, I take Suzanne aside in the back office, where no one can hear us. “If the offer’s still open,” I say, “I’d like to work here. At least for—”
This time, it’s Suzanne hugging me.
“I’m so glad to hear it,” she says after a long beat. “I’ll have you fill out the forms tomorrow.”
“Forms?”
“You know, hiring forms. Speaking of which, could I borrow your license?”
“My what?”
“Your driver’s license. I need to scan it for my records.” I must look freaked because she gives me an odd look. “You’ve done this for your other jobs, haven’t you?”
“Right. I…I left my license at home.”
“No problem, just bring it tomorrow.” She nods toward the entrance. “Go keep an eye on the door. I need to do a few things back here.”
I nod obediently and walk out to the main room. Panic starts to squeeze me around the gut once I’m alone. Suzanne never said anything to me about filling out forms. And she needs a driver’s license too? I should have just told her I don’t have a license, but now that I’ve lied she might get suspicious. God, Cort’s right. Sometimes my eyes are too big for my brain.
The front door creaks open. I glance up, half-distracted, and nearly choke on air when a woman in a police uniform walks into the salon. Badge on her chest, gun at her side, handcuffs jangling on the back of her belt. Her hair is stunning, blond and wavy in a clean, shoulder-length cut. She looks equally surprised to see me.
“Hello there.” She has a softer voice than I expected. “Suzanne around?”
“Oh…yeah.”
She smiles patiently. “Mind telling her I’m here?”
Right on cue Suzanne emerges from the back office.
“Rosie,” she says, tapping her wristwatch. “Thought I had you for four-thirty.”
“I know, I know. I got caught up on the highway. This drunk guy overcorrected and…anyway, I’m here now.”
Suzanne walks over to the sink. “Audrey, this is Deputy Loeb. Rosie to me. She’s always late. But she doesn’t ticket my car so I let it slide.”
“Just because I haven’t caught you yet.” Deputy Loeb extends her hand and gives me a firm shake. “Nice to meet you, Audrey.”
“Likewise.”
“New in town?”
“Yep. Just…got here.”
“It’s a nice place.” She leans in with a smirk. “I make sure of it.”
I don’t take another full breath until Deputy Loeb’s head is in the sink. Once she’s in the chair, I start wiping off the counters with my head down, both eyes away from hers, but I can feel her watching me in the mirror. Maybe she recognizes me. Maybe she knows.
No, I can’t afford to think like that.
#
“Addie,” Cort snaps, “did you hear what I said?”
“Huh? Oh. Yeah, baby.”
“What’d I say then?”
He’s got me there. Then again, he’s been looking to pick a fight for the last five minutes. It was only a matter of time until he found something to pounce on.
“That’s what I thought,” he grumbles.
“Sorry, I’m distracted.”
“What’s on your mind?”
“You. And Suzanne.”
“C’mon, spill it.”
“She wants to hire me at the salon, which is great, but then she asked about my driver’s license and told me I have to sign some forms for—”
There’s a loud, hollow rattle on the other end. Cort slamming down his beer bottle on the coffee table. I’d recognize it anywhere.
“Damn it, Addie. Use your head, girl. If they find out who you are, that’s it. Understand?”
“What should I do then? She’ll fire me if I don’t go along.”
“What should you do?” He mutters something under his breath. “How about getting your skinny ass to Westport like we discussed? It’s been almost two weeks since you left Casper. Could’ve made it in two days if you tried.”
Well, here goes.
“Cort…I wanna stay here longer. Save up some more, so I’m not broke when I get to the coast. If Suzanne lets me stay, that is. I know it isn’t what you want…but it is what I want.”
Cort doesn’t reply at first but I can hear him snorting like a rodeo bull. I hate these moments, right before he tears into me, knowing I’ll probably cry and yell at him and hate myself before the conversation’s over. But then he surprises me and lowers his voice.
“You like it there, huh?”
“It’s peaceful. Everyone’s so nice.”
“You said that already.”
“I’ll make it to Westport. I just need a little more time.”
“Promise?”
“Baby, what have I been saying?”
“There’s saying and there’s doing.”
“I know, Cort.”
It’s times like this when I miss him the most. We used to fight back in Casper, too. When the hard part was over, he’d lie down next to me on the bed, both arms draped over me, and all was forgiven. Now I have to imagine how that feels. Each day without him, his body becomes harder to remember.
“Alright, here’s what you do,” he says, “Anyone know your real name?”
“Nope. They call me Audrey.”
He chuckles softly. “Audrey?”
“Oh, shut up. You know I prefer using names that sound like mine. I’ve already used Maddie, Allie and Amy. Besides, I like Audrey. It’s sophisticated.”
“Whatever you say, madam. Look…just fill out your forms with that name and make up the rest.”
“Seriously?”
“Well, you can’t give your real name and address, can you?”
“Won’t she figure it out?”
“Those forms are just for taxes. Susan’ll stick ‘em in a drawer and forget about ‘em ‘til next spring, and by then you’ll be—”
“Her name’s Suzanne.
“What’d I say?”
“I hope you’re right.”
“Girl, I’m always right.”
We say our goodbyes a moment later. Once the light’s off, I start to worry again. Not about Suzanne or Cort or getting to Westport, nothing in particular, just a tingling, uneasy feeling that cuts through me like a full body shiver.
I reach for the nightstand and grab the first souvenir within reach. Momma’s blue cotton apron. It still smells like flour and cinnamon. I hold the cloth to my face and breathe in deeply. Suddenly I’m five years old, sitting on the floor of the kitchen, playing with my favorite ragdoll while she bakes apple cobbler. Then it’s Thanksgiving—I’m big enough to help her unload the turkey from the oven. Then it’s my last day at home, right before I left town with Cort. She was in the kitchen when we walked in. How she held me close, warm tears rolling down. “Addie,” she whispered, “I’m begging you. Don’t do this.”
Next thing I know I’m sobbing into my pillow. I try not to let my mind drift toward the unhappy times. That’s not what the souvenirs are for. But sometimes I just can’t help it. Sad memories are as much a part of this journey as the ones that make me smile.
#
Saturday is a half-day shift and Suzanne opens the salon an hour later than usual, which means I get to sleep in a bit. I would get to sleep in, that is, if I hadn’t been lying awake in bed since four, staring at the popcorn bubbles on the ceiling, squeezing my fists to keep from crying more. One of those mornings. Even a ten-minute shower can’t set me straight.
Suzanne knocks on the door at eight and gives me a worried head tilt when I open it. I guess my mascara isn’t doing its job.
“You alright, hon?”
“Didn’t sleep well.”
“If you want to stay home, I—”
“It’s fine,” I say. “I’ll be fine.”
“Got your license?”
“Actually…I looked last night and…I think I lost it.”
“You’ve lost your driver’s license?”
“Must’ve slipped out somewhere.”
“What about a birth certificate or a passport—?”
“Sorry.”
She rolls her eyes. “Alright, well…come on, we’ll figure it out at the salon.”
Suzanne keeps casting concerned glances at me during our walk down the street, but I ignore her, keeping my eyes pointed in the other direction. I’m too tired for another heart-to-heart.
She prints off the hiring forms as soon as we get to the salon, then stands over me while I fill them out. First, I write the name. Audrey…George. I actually like that. Sounds a lot nicer than Addie Bucknell, anyway. The address is easy—I ask to use Suzanne’s, and she doesn’t object. For my Social and telephone number I write random digits, but I use my real birthday. The same day and month, that is, with two years added, since I’ve been telling Suzanne I’m nineteen.
Most of my Saturday shift is fairly smooth. The appointment schedule is lighter, which means the clients stay in the chair longer and there’s less hair to sweep, fewer trips to the stockroom. I start to perk up at the halfway mark, remembering I won’t have to work again until Monday morning. What to do with myself on my day and a half off? I could take Suzanne out for lunch tomorrow at one of the cafes, my treat, and I’ve got enough saved up to buy one of those pretty boutique dresses—just one, since I’m saving for other things. I daydream about the possibilities while the last two hours tick by on the wall clock.
Then, with less than thirty minutes to go, she walks in.
“Audrey.” Mrs. Stroud sounds constipated. “You’re still here.”
“Afternoon, ma’am.”
“Yes, I suppose it is the afternoon. Where’s Suzanne? I’m wondering if she can squeeze me in.”
I nod toward the office. Suzanne’s been back there since the last client left. “I’m sure she’ll be out shortly.”
Mrs. Stroud hangs her coat on the rack and sits in the chair next to the sink. I glance over and catch her narrowing both eyes at me.
“Where are you from, Audrey?” she finally asks.
“Here and there. No place in particular.”
“You look very familiar.”
I squeeze the broom handle to keep my hands from shaking. “Not sure where you would’ve seen me. I’m new in town.”
“This may be a strange question, but have you ever been on television?”
“No.”
“It’s uncanny. I swear I’ve seen you, I just—”
“You haven’t.”
“Sorry?”
Easy, girl. I keep my eyes on the broom, too rattled at first to realize I’m sweeping a clean spot. “I mean…people always tell me that. I guess I have one of those faces.”
Suzanne enters the room from the back office and walks to the sink, smiling politely at Mrs. Stroud. “Audrey,” she says quietly. “Go get me some Ken Rayburn.”
There’s a strange distance in her voice, like she’s talking in her sleep, and I don’t like the way her eyes dig into me when she walks by. I nod and head toward the stockroom, but stop cold when Mrs. Stroud pipes up again.
“Suzie, doesn’t Audrey look like somebody? I swear I’ve seen her on television.”
Suzanne shrugs. “Beats me, Marsh. I don’t have a TV.”
Mrs. Stroud cranes her neck toward me. “What’s your last name, Audrey? Maybe that will jog my memory.”
“Um…George.”
“Audrey George. Audrey George.” Mrs. Stroud says my name a few times, enunciating different syllables. “Were you ever—?”
I throw the broom to the floor. The handle rattles loudly against the tiles.
“You’ve never seen me before, alright?”
Her head shoots up from the sink. “Excuse me?”
“I’ve never been on TV. Just shut up about it.”
“Audrey,” Suzanne snaps. “Go to the office.”
“But I—” She thrusts a trembling finger toward the door. “Fine.”
I skulk to the back of the room, glancing at the mirror long enough to see the satisfied smile on Mrs. Stroud’s face as she leans back over the sink. What I wouldn’t give to walk over and hold her head underwater, just for a minute or two. Then we’ll see who’s smiling.
#
The salon is empty when Suzanne finishes with Mrs. Stroud, so she locks the door and flips the window sign to CLOSED. I’ve been peeking at her through the cracked office door since she sent me back here. When she finally walks in, I sit up straight in my chair and pretend to be reading a catalog.
“Audrey,” she says, closing the door behind her, “you cannot talk to my clients like that.”
“But she—”
“I know, Marsha’s a pill. She’s also a regular who tips well. Thankfully, I’m the only place in town that carries her lavender conditioner.” She takes a seat in the chair opposite me and takes a deep breath. “You won’t be able to work here.”
“I’ll apologize to her, it’s—”
“No…these forms you gave me. Your Social Security Number isn’t registered, the phone number you gave is out of service. Then there’s the missing license. Is your name really Audrey George?”
I swallow hard. The fluorescent lights feel ten times brighter. “I wouldn’t lie, Suzanne.”
“Are you…” She trails off, searching for the right words. “Honey, are you in trouble?”
“No.”
“I know it isn’t my business, but does this have to do with your boyfriend? If he’s endangering you, then I can help. But you need to be straight with me about who you are.”
“I didn’t lie. Honest.”
Suzanne’s lower lip quivers but she doesn’t cry. I bet she never does.
“Alright,” she says gently. “You can stay at the house tonight, but I want you out in the morning.”
Suzanne snatches her coat and purse from the desk, and a moment later I follow her out of the office. Our walk back to the house is torture. Single-file down the sidewalk, not a word or a glance between us. I go straight to my room when we get home but I’m too tired to start packing right away so I just lie down on the bed and close my eyes. I’m about to drift off when Cort calls.
“You sound tired,” he tells me.
“I didn’t sleep last night.”
“Sorry, babe. I—”
“Suzanne fired me.”
Cort goes quiet for a moment. “You don’t have a job anymore?”
“Nope. Want to guess why?”
“How would—?”
“Those stupid forms. You said she wouldn’t even look at them. She ran a check on me today, Cort. Now she knows I lied about everything.”
“Does this mean you’re leaving soon?”
There isn’t a trace of surprise in his voice.
“You knew this would happen?”
“How was else was I supposed to get you to leave? You’re talking about staying in that dumpy little town, cutting hair for the rest of your life.”
“How dare you. I was—”
“How dare I? You spoiled little bitch. You left me on the side of the road, remember?”
“What was I supposed to do?”
“I told you what to do, where to go. But you didn’t listen. Now here we are. Hope you’re happy, Addie.”
He ends the call without another word. No goodbye. No I love you. No sleep tight, honey. Probably just as well. I won’t sleep much tonight.
I can hear Suzanne puttering around in the dining room while I’m packing the souvenirs into my duffle. She finally retires to her room around ten. I wait a few more minutes before sneaking down to the living room, where she hangs her keys on a little hook near the door. As quietly as I can, I remove the salon key from her ring and slip outside into the cool, starry summer night.
With the duffle over my shoulder, I start down the main block. One last stop before I hit the highway, and then I’ll be on my way to Westport. Again.
#
“Not yet,” Cort told me. “Keep going.”
My hands were too shaky to steer straight, and my tears were so thick I could barely see out the windshield. If any other vehicles had been on the road, we might have crashed. But we’d been off the highway for more than twenty minutes, and there wasn’t another pair of headlights or taillights in sight.
“Just a little…further.”
“We gotta stop,” I sobbed.
Blood had spread from the hole in Cort’s stomach across the front of his T-shirt. His summer tan had drained to an ashy grey, and every time he breathed I heard a gurgle in the back of his throat. His eyes were bluer than ever, like they knew something I didn’t.
It was my fault. Cort told me to watch the car’s owner while he loaded our stuff inside. Keep the gun on him, Cort said. Shoot him if he moves. It was a windmill in the distance. Only caught my eye for a few seconds, those huge blades turning in the breeze. By the time I looked back the man already had his pistol out, aiming at Cort. He squeezed his trigger before I could squeeze mine. He didn’t miss. Neither did I.
Cort rolled down his window and threw his gun into the brush.
“What are you doing?” I asked, half-shrieking.
“Lose the car too. Don’t drive it after today.”
“What?”
“Get where you need to and leave it behind.”
The blood pooled on the seat beneath him, filling the space around his jeans. With one eye on the road, I reached into my duffle between the seats and pulled out a blouse. “Here.” I shoved it against Cort’s chest. “Put pressure on it.”
“Addie, stop.”
“Do as I say!”
“Stop the car.”
I didn’t understand. The scenery hadn’t changed in ten miles. Same cottonwoods and yellow grass, same clouds casting puffy shadows on the road.
“Here?”
“Help me back in that grass.”
“Cort, you need—”
“Addie, I’m just asking for this one thing.”
I hammered the brakes and killed the engine. Cort slumped out as soon as I opened the passenger door, held in place with his seatbelt. I unbuckled it and eased him down to the dirt. He could walk with one arm around my shoulder, at least for the first few yards off the road. Once we entered the grass, he started to stumble.
“Just up ahead,” he said.
“Up ahead where?”
“We’ll be there soon.”
The grass grew taller the further we moved. Soon the blades were brushing my shoulders and scratching my neck. The sun broke through the clouds and heat rose from the soil. The sweat made his arms slip.
“I can’t go much further, baby,” I told him.
He slipped his arm from my shoulder and tumbled to the dirt. I rolled him onto his back but he was too heavy for me to lift. The tears made me choke.
“Cort, you need to get up.”
“Feels nice.”
“I can’t just leave you.”
Then he whispered something I couldn’t quite hear. It sounded like, “whisper.”
“Whisper? What do you—?”
He reached up and grabbed my arm, his hand clenching tightly.
“No,” he said, blood filling his mouth. “Westport.”
“Westport?”
He smiled and let go, leaving a bloody ring on my forearm, then laid his head down and closed his eyes.
#
I unlock the salon door and glance in both directions before entering. There isn’t a single person in sight. Apart from a bar lit up around the corner, all of the neighboring buildings are dark. Even on Saturday night, this town is sleepy.
Using the countertop to guide me through the darkness, I make my way to the cash register. Suzanne stashes most of the money in her office safe but she keeps a couple hundred in the register, ready to go for the next shift. Between this and the money I’ve made this week, plus what’s left of my apple-picking earnings, I’ll be in decent shape when I reach Westport. Assuming I get there soon.
The register clangs open, and I slip all the twenties and fives into my pocket. I sling the duffle over my shoulder and take one final look around the salon, breathing in the shampoo and conditioner smells one last time. Then I turn around and my breath catches when I see Suzanne standing in the open doorway. Her face materializes as the lights flicker on.
“You know,” she says quietly, “I thought you were the answer to my prayers at first. But this makes more sense.”
“Suzanne, I—”
“Don’t bother. The police are on their way.”
“What?”
“I heard you leave through the front door.” She sighs. “I was hoping you’d head straight for the highway, but I had a funny feeling. Now here we are.”
She reaches into her purse and removes something shiny. My heart does somersaults when I realize it’s a handgun. She waves the muzzle toward the door.
“Come on, Audrey. Or whatever your name is.”
“You have a gun?”
“I’m a single, middle-aged woman. Of course I own a gun.”
I nod and walk to the door. She keeps her eyes on me, narrowing them with each step that brings me closer.
“Stop there. Turn around, hands on the counter.”
“Suzanne, I’m begging you.”
“I don’t want to hear it.”
“It’s my boyfriend. You can’t let him find me.”
Her lips tremble. “Do as I say.”
“He’ll kill me, he said so. I…I had to get away.”
“Why didn’t you tell me that?” The gun rattles in her hands. “I would have given you the money if…you looked me in the eye, Audrey.”
“I was so scared.”
“I’m not asking again. Turn around.”
It’s no use. I can’t talk my way out of this one.
“Here,” I say, reaching into my pocket, “here, take the money.”
“You think I care about that now?”
“Seriously.” I take a step closer. “I don’t want it.”
“Back up.”
“I’m so sorry Suzanne.”
“I told you, back—”
I pull out the peeling knife and sweep it through the air, one quick motion. The blade’s so sharp, it barely staggers when it passes through the soft skin around Suzanne’s throat. Her eyes narrow at as she brings both hands to her neck, dropping the gun. Then the blood comes, oozing between the gaps in her fingers. I’m not quick enough to catch her as she falls to the floor, so I crouch down and hold her head up with both hands. The blood runs warm against my skin. She opens her mouth but can’t speak.
“Sshhhhhh. It’s alright,” I tell her.
I squeeze strands of her hair in my hands, cradling her head in place while her body shakes. Her eyes are still on me. Wide, brimming with tears, furious and terrified. I gently set her head on the floor. As her breaths fall short, I reach down and squeeze her hand. For whatever reason, she squeezes back.
“Thanks for everything,” I say softly.
Snatching up the gun and my duffle, I run to the door but I’ve waited too long. The police cruiser turns the corner as I step outside. I slip the gun into the back waistband of my jeans as the car pulls up to the curb. Deputy Loeb quickly gets out. Seeing the blood on me, she races over.
“Audrey?”
“It’s Suzanne,” I wail. “She’s inside.”
“What happened?”
“I don’t know. I heard a struggle, and then a man ran out—”
The deputy brushes past me and I follow her back into the salon. She kneels over Suzanne, checking for a pulse.
“Towel,” she snaps. “Get me a towel.”
I toss her a hand towel from the cutting station. As she presses the cloth against Suzanne’s throat, I step back and stand behind her, over her left shoulder.
“Suzanne?” the deputy says. “Can you hear me, honey?” She cranes her neck toward me. “Call 911.”
“I don’t have a phone.”
I slip Suzanne’s gun out of my waistline.
“Run out to my cruiser and get the handheld radio. It’s on the passenger seat.”
I level the muzzle of the gun with the back of Deputy Loeb’s skull. The gun feels heavy and cold in my hands.
“Audrey, now.”
It’s a pity. The deputy really does have lovely hair.
#
Authorities are still searching for Gleason and Bucknell, who were last seen together more than two weeks ago outside Casper, Wyoming. Sheriff Kilmer told reporters on Friday he believes Gleason has most likely fled to another state, or possibly Canada. The sheriff also stressed that the search for Bucknell is still underway, despite no—
“Here,” Gary says, cutting to static as he flips the radio dial, “let’s have some music.”
Gary has a deep voice like an opera singer and his curly red beard spreads down to his collar.
“What was that?” I ask. “The story we were just listening to?”
“That?” He arches an eyebrow at me. “You haven’t heard? Been all over the news.”
“I don’t watch the news. It makes me sad.”
Gary laughs heartily. “I get that. Nah, there’s just this crazy guy out there. He was datin’ some high school girl out in Wyomin’. Her mother told her she couldn’t go out with him. So he goes to their house, shoots the mother dead, kidnaps the girlfriend. Then he…” He trails off. “You sure you wanna hear this? It’s as sad a story as you’ll hear.”
I nod. It sounds strange, listening to someone else tell it.
“Anyway, he shoots some fella on the side of the road and steals his car. Then they’re sayin’ he drove to some farmhouse, killed the old lady who lived there and left the car in her barn. That’s all they know. No one’s seen him for a couple weeks.”
“What about the girl?”
“Ain’t found her, either. Hope she’s alright, but with…yeah, I hope she’s alright. I’ll leave it at that.”
My hands still shake a little, but they get steadier with each passing milepost. After leaving the salon, I changed my clothes on the side of the road and found a creek bed to wash the blood off my skin. I must’ve done a decent job because Gary hasn’t mentioned anything about my appearance since he picked me up. The darkness helps. Sunrise could change everything, but I’ll cross that bridge when the time comes.
“What kind’a music you like?” Gary asks. “Oldies?”
“Sure.”
He turns the dial and the static fades into the final verses of ‘Here Comes the Sun.’ One of Cort’s favorites. I’d know it anywhere. I can practically hear him singing the refrain, strumming along on that cheap guitar his dad gave him.
“Can I ask you something, Ashley?”
“Sure.”
“What’s a girl like you doin’ hitchin’ on the highway late at night?”
“I’ve got places to be.”
“Where you headed?”
“Westport. Ever been?”
“Sure, a few times. Pretty nice this time of year.”
“My boyfriend’s expecting me. It’s his favorite place.”
“He’s got good taste.” He drums his hands on the steering wheel, following the beat. “‘Fraid I can’t take you the whole way. I’m stoppin’ in Tacoma, where my girls are. But it won’t be far from there. Might even be a bus if you can wait ‘til mornin’.”
“That’s fine. I’ll get there when I get there.”
Gary turns down the radio. “Sleep if you’re tired, I don’t mind.”
“Thanks.”
I reach for the duffle between my legs and open the flap. On top of the clothes and other souvenirs rests my bottle of Dr. Pete’s Summer Apple Shampoo. I take it out of the bag, pop up the cap and bring it close to my nose, inhaling as deeply as I can. One whiff and the memories come racing back. Bumping into Suzanne on the sidewalk, listening to water splash in the rinsing sink, sweeping up all that hair, standing in the stockroom while the smells overpower me. And Suzanne, poor, sweet, Suzanne. I’ll miss that salon. So many lovely things to remember.
Gary nods at the bottle. “What do you have there?” he asks me.
“A souvenir I picked up.”
“Souvenir? Just a bottle of shampoo, ain’t it?”
I wish he hadn’t said that. It really ruined the moment.
Ben Gamblin is the pen name of a professional writer who publishes crime and mystery fiction. He lives in Tacoma, WA, with his partner and several critters of various sizes.