Real Bad Things(2)
In Boston, no one knew about Warren, about the gap in Jane’s life, the hole she filled with lies. When the conversation shifted to family, she typically smiled, said they weren’t close, downed most of her wine, and drowned any convulsive need to confess that she’d been small-town famous once on account of a crime.
They’d all sworn—Jane, Georgia Lee, Jason, Angie—to never tell another soul about that night. Then Jane had gone and broken that promise.
She clutched the handle of her suitcase to steady herself, gathered some air into her lungs, pulled the T-shirt away from her neck.
“You all right, honey?” A woman who looked older than her years due to cigarette lines around her lips offered a look of concern. “You look a little pale.”
“I’m fine,” Jane lied. “Thank you,” she added with a smile when the woman was taken aback at Jane’s clipped reply.
Past the security gate, women with large purses and men in bent-bill caps welcomed loved ones with bear hugs. Snatches of that comforting yet assaulting accent met her ears, like the letters shuffled across tongues only to fire out of the mouth once they hit the tip. No one greeted her. But she could swear they did a double take despite her changed appearance, even though nothing had shown up on the local news or social media channels yet. She’d checked.
Jane hadn’t seen Diane in so long she wasn’t sure she’d recognize her. Before the slew of texts a few days previous, they’d rarely communicated; they hadn’t spoken on the phone in years. She wasn’t sure she’d recognize Diane’s voice if she heard it. Her body would know, though. A biological link to her mother, like some primal response to a predator.
She reached the restroom and braced herself. Women startled when she walked into restrooms, as if they’d never seen a woman with short hair and hips not built for birthing. Arkansas being a concealed carry state, she decided not to correct the person should the situation present itself. As soon as she walked into the restroom, the automatic air freshener clicked on and spritzed its floral scent, nearly scaring the shit out of her. But no one else occupied a stall. She considered that good fortune, a sign of things to come. She splashed her face, avoiding the mirror and any desire to compare and contrast the girl she’d been to the woman she’d become. No need. The limp hair and white skin that screamed malnutrition were things of the past. At least, she hoped so.
Her hands shook. She had to pull herself together.
Five minutes later, she’d traversed the length of the airport, from rental cars to baggage claim to ticket counters. No sign of Diane.
Outside the building, she texted: Where are you? She stared at her phone. A notificationless screen stared back. Not that she expected Diane to respond. She couldn’t help but wonder if Diane had no intention of picking her up and had asked for Jane’s flight information just to mess with her. There was a fucked-up comfort in that, in wishing for something from her mom and confirming that Diane didn’t care. That felt like home.
She mapped out her destination. No buses that ran at reasonable times. No Uber or Lyft or cab that could or would arrive in less than an hour. A rental car, out of the question. Over an hour to walk. She’d walked farther, but not with a suitcase and a backpack. And not across the bridge, the one she’d had so much trouble crossing after her release that she’d left town to avoid navigating it altogether. After another glance at her phone, she hefted the backpack onto her shoulders, gripped the suitcase, and stepped off the sidewalk.
Empty fields surrounded the barren service road that wound its way to town. At the four-way stop, she paused. If she took a right, she’d eventually reach the hill towns of the Ozarks, where she was as likely to trip across an artist colony as a blown-out meth trailer. Ahead of her, in the distance, the lights of Maud Proper beckoned with promises of deep-fried savory and sweet delights, a small indie bookstore, brewpubs with live bands most nights. Probably shitty food, she reasoned, to soothe a sudden ache. Any other Thursday night, she’d occupy a bar seat at her favorite restaurant, inhale the warm-hug scent of a Parker House roll, let a fine rare sirloin melt on her tongue, a beefy red coat her throat. Luxuries for a life she hadn’t thought possible when they arrested her at seventeen. She cursed herself for not indulging in one last meal before leaving Boston.
And to the left, down in the river valley, Maud Bottoms: ugly sibling to Maud Proper. Devoid of anything warm or fine. Prone to both varietals of flood—slow onset and flash—and to tornadoes that never touched the gilded houses up on this hill. The wrong side of the river, with its sad lack of trees or functioning streetlights. Its flat stretch of land and plethora of one-story metal buildings that housed dead or dying industries reminiscent of Rust Belt towns. Apartment complexes constructed like bunkers with their concrete walls and flat roofs and linoleum floors that lacked heat and walls that lacked color. Chain-link fences, broken windows. No fancy restaurants. No mini mansions or curb appeal. Always looking up at that other part of their city on a hill.
That’s also where they kept the jail. Couldn’t spoil Maud Proper with something as base as that.
After one last pull of Maud Proper air, she made the turn onto the one-lane highway toward home.
More than once, she tripped and nearly twisted her airplane-bloated ankles as she made her way steadily down the hill. Lush, manicured cemeteries for the old families gave way to lush woods with well-maintained trails, which then became scattershot forest before all vegetation over six inches ceased where the trees had been cut down.