The Running Girls(2)
Maybe it had been the gulf. As much as she loved the bright lights, nothing could compete with her love of the murky waters off Galveston.
More likely, she’d put up with me for so long because of the time I spent away on the refineries, he thought with a rueful smile as he recalled the passion with which she would always greet him when he returned from his time away.
Randall then crashed, as that happy recollection was dashed by the memory of the last time he’d seen Annie.
That catastrophic argument that had resulted in Annie striking him, before she’d taken Herbie on a walk she never returned from.
It was another hour before the Galveston Greyhound was due to leave. Randall battled through the hurrying crowd, feeling frail and invisible as he dragged his leg to the counter of a Starbucks and ordered a black coffee. The order-taker—his name badge declared he was a barista, but Randall couldn’t get on with such terms—barely looked old enough for high school. When he asked Randall for his name, Randall’s first response was to clam up, as if it was some sort of a test.
“So we know who to call for,” said the boy, with a weariness that suggested it wasn’t the first time he’d said those words to a befuddled old guy.
“Frank.” Randall whispered the name, as if everyone was listening; as if someone would stop and say, “Aren’t you the man who murdered his wife?”
Randall could still taste the coffee two hours later. Dank and earthy, it coated his mouth as if it had infected his saliva. The Greyhound to Galveston was less crowded and he’d managed to bag a seat on his own. Everyone was busy on their screens but Randall was entranced by the landscape. They were still on the endless gray track of the interstate, but the gulf was close. He felt it in his blood, imagined the smell of salt in the air beyond the confines of the bus.
When he caught his first glimpse of the water, as the bus approached the causeway into Galveston, Randall was surprised by his visceral response. He was a BOI—Born on the Island—and it was the only real home he’d ever known. He found himself crying for the first time since that night when the guard had locked his cell door shut. He tried to suck in the sobs, his body shaking as he forced the tears back. He rested his forehead on the cold, flat windowpane, his focus on the rippling waves, as he imagined the feeling of the warm water on his body, the sense the gulf always gave him of being part of something larger than himself.
People swarmed the shore, scuttling along the promenade and populating the beach. Randall wondered if any of them would know him. His social circle had been so small as to be nearly invisible sixteen years ago. Now, surely, only a handful of people would remember him, though he imagined the number who knew of him would be much greater.
He was on his feet the second the bus stopped. In another minute, he closed his eyes as his boot landed on the gray slab of concrete of the depot, the smell of salt-tinged air unleashing a thousand memories, each of which, one way or another, contained Annie.
Annie in a light, billowing yellow dress standing outside the pleasure pier as if she owned the whole town; Annie, naked, stepping into the warm gulf waters as he watched, mouth hanging open, tripping over his clothes to join her; Annie in her wedding dress, smiling as he leaned in to kiss her; Annie, scowling before turning away with Herbie, her red hair flowing behind her as she rounded the corner, never to return.
Would it always be this way, he wondered as he picked up his bag from the hot concrete. It didn’t matter. It was a risk returning, but there was nowhere else to go. Seeing the house would bring back more memories, but he’d rather be trapped with the ghost of his wife than alone in a town where she’d never lived.
Randall ignored the line of taxis. What better way to reacquaint himself with his hometown than a three-hour hike home? His right knee cursed him but he dragged himself out into the bustling crowds, through the historic town center toward the port, the smell of the water, and the detritus odor of algae, combining poorly with the hint of ammonia in the city drains. He kept his eyes toward the ground like he’d learned in prison, but still felt alien gazes focused on him. He tried to picture what he’d looked like sixteen years ago when the patrol car had hauled him in. His hair was longer but thinner now, his eyes shadows of what they’d been. He was trimmer, but his skin felt loose and papery on him. What would Annie think of him now? He’d always been punching above his weight with her by at least two or three divisions, and it was hard to fathom why she would have stayed with him during this last transition into old age.
The heat and exhaustion finally got the better of him two miles along Seawall Boulevard. The thought of another two-hour hike to come was enough to pull him into a small bar and order a diet soda. He smiled as he made eye contact with the young barwoman. Like Annie, she had red hair, and her smile in return was enough to knock him off balance.
“I don’t suppose you could order me a cab?” he managed at last.
“Where you going, hon?” said the woman, surprising him with a hint of Louisiana in her voice.
“Near Jenkins Road. A bit off the tracks, but there’s a road.”
From her jeans pocket, the woman retrieved a cell phone and arranged for the cab. Randall told her to keep the change from the ten-dollar bill he placed on the counter and left to wait for his ride outside.
Fifteen minutes later, a silver car glided soundlessly to where he stood. The driver buzzed down his window. The man looked to be about Randall’s age, though he carried it much better. Healthy tan, teeth an impossible white. “You Randall?” he said. “Jenkins Road?”