No Story to Tell (45 page)

Something smashes into her from behind, and she claws at the slimy branches of the half submerged tree. The water swirls violently against her threatening to pull her loose. Carefully she works her way toward the shore, solidness finally finding her feet. Crawling up the bank, she collapses, far too exhausted to cry. Her hands search over her stomach, pressing, urging her child to again signal its presence. She marvels over what they have just accomplished. Still unborn, and yet together they have cheated death. What bigger obstacle can fate possibly throw their way?

Rising on unsteady feet, she begins to thread her way back through the maze of underbrush. Cold begins to grip her, the night air dipping sharply. Shaking uncontrollably by the time she reaches the truck, she climbs in, turns on the heater and struggles back into her damp clothes. Staring out at the raging river, she is horrified by the vast craziness of what she’s almost done.

Reaching into the darkness, she finds her purse and pulls out Elliot’s map. Unfolding it across the steering wheel, she can just make out the borders of vague countries. Holding it by the top corners, she lifts it higher and loses her breath. Beaming through at her, clear as his voice, is a thin pinprick of moonlight. Grabbing the map into one hand, she swings around and pounds at the interior light as it flickers back on, erasing the telltale shaft of light. Slowly her attention is called to the mess of papers strewn across the seat and floor. Mrs. Spiller’s bible lays splayed upside-down, curious bits of paper protruding from it. Picking one up, Victoria brings it closer to the light and examines it closely. Her hand flies up to cover her mouth. Reaching down she picks up the bible and carefully, almost reverently begins to leaf through it. She cannot believe what her eyes are seeing. There, tucked between the brittle yellow pages, are tightly folded one-hundred-dollar bills. Old Testament and New: a whole bible full of good fortune.

A sound encroaches on the night. Stuffing Elliot’s map back into her purse, she grabs up the bible and bolts from the truck. Scrambling up the hill to the highway, she can just make out a vehicle in the distance. It’s a truck. A big truck. A big semi truck full of something and on its way to somewhere. She knows she will get but one chance to do this. Walking straight out to the center of the road, she begins to wave frantically even though the truck is still too far away to see her. It keeps bearing down, its headlights just beginning to split the darkness around her. Clearly the driver hasn’t seen her. Doesn’t expect to see her, or anything else except for maybe the odd startled deer caught in his headlights. She begins to seriously doubt her plan but holds her ground. Suddenly an explosion of noise erupts the night, the big rig huffing and skidding and fuming itself to a stop.

“That’s a mighty fine way to end up roadkill, young lady!” the driver hollers out the window.

“Sorry,” she says, climbing out of the ditch she’s run into at the last moment. “I was afraid you wouldn’t see me.”

“You’re afraid I wouldn’t see you so you stand in the middle of the road! Not such a great strategy, I’d reckon.” He chuckles kindly, relieved that a serious catastrophe has been averted. “What the heck you doing way out here this time of night anyhow?”

“Uh. My car broke down.”

She waits as he checks his mirrors for her nonexistent vehicle. He nods, knowingly. An easygoing man, he is a veteran of the road and has long ago learned that one can never tell who might cross one’s path, but when someone does it is usually best to not ask too many questions.

“Where you headed?” he says.

“Where you going?”

He laughs heartily. “Winachee Falls. I can take you that far, but after that you’re on your own. Okay?”

“Okay. That’d be great. Thanks,” she says, then crosses around in front of the headlights, which each blink once as she walks by, and crawls up into the cab. The truck bounces and shakes then slowly begins to pick up speed as he effortlessly wrestles it through several gears.

“Name’s Frederick,” he says, offering out a large, callused hand. “But folks call me Fred.”

“Hi Fred,” she says, as she shakes his warm hand. “You can call me Victoria.”