she says, but the room is tilting more now. She shuts her eyes so it can settle.
When Lisa opens her eyes, her throat is parched and her head aches. It is light outside, enough to make her want to pull the drapes. The bedside clock says 9:20. She turns over and finds Danny’s side is vacant. He’s not in the bathroom or on the balcony.
She stays in bed a few minutes longer, then gets up and dresses. She doesn’t look in her handbag, doesn’t want to look. Instead, she goes down the hall to the elevator. Lisa watches the numbers light up and then go dark as she descends. The elevator door opens and she steps into the lobby. The breakfast section is bustling. Elderly women wearing purple hats and name tags crowd around a waffle maker, children scamper around the room. A man who looks as hungover as Lisa grimaces at the poached egg on his paper plate.
As Lisa is about to head for the walkway, she sees Danny seated alone in their midst, a Styrofoam coffee cup in his hand. Something shifts inside her with an almost audible click. When she opens the handbag, all the money is there. The elevator closes behind her, and she walks toward a man who knows as well as she does that their luck couldn’t last.
Where the Map Ends
T hey had been on the run for six days, traveling mainly at night, all the while listening for the baying of hounds. The man, if asked his age, would have said forty-eight, forty-nine, or fifty—he wasn’t sure. His hair was close-cropped, like gray wool stitched above a face dark as mahogany. A lantern swayed by his side, the twine securing it chafing the bullwhip scar ridging his left shoulder. With his right hand he clutched a tote sack. His companion was seventeen and of a lighter complexion, the color of an oft-used gold coin. The youth’s hair was longer, the curls tinged red. He carried the map.
As foothills became mountains, the journey became more arduous. What food they’d brought had been eaten days earlier. They filled the tote with corn and okra from fields, eggs from a henhouse, apples from orchards. The land steepened more and their lungs never seemed to fill. I heard that white folks up here don’t have much, the youth huffed, but you’d think they’d at least have air. The map showed one more village, Blowing Rock, then a ways farther a stream and soon a plank bridge. An arrow pointed over the bridge. Beyond that, nothing but blank paper, as though no word or mark could convey what the fugitives sought but had never known.
They had crossed the bridge near dusk. At the first cabin they came to, a hound bayed as they approached. They went on. The youth wondered aloud how they were supposed to know which place, which family, to trust. The fugitives passed a two-story farmhouse, prosperous looking. The older man said walk on. As the day waned, a cabin and a barn appeared, light glowing from a front window. Their lantern remained unlit, though now neither of them could see where he stepped. They passed a small orchard and soon after the man tugged his companion’s arm and led him off the road and into a pasture.
“Where we going, Viticus?” the youth asked.
“To roost in that barn till morning,” the man answered. “No folks want strangers calling in the dark.”
They entered the barn, let their hands find the ladder, and then climbed into the loft. Through a space between boards the fugitives could see the cabin window’s glow.
“I’m hungry,” the youth complained. “Gimme that lantern and I’ll get us some apples.”
“No,” his companion said. “You think a man going to help them that stole from him.”
“Ain’t gonna miss a few apples.”
The man ignored him. They settled their bodies into the straw and slept.
A cowbell woke them, the animal ambling into the barn, a man in frayed overalls following with a gallon pail. A scraggly gray beard covered much of his face, some streaks of brown in his lank hair. He was thin and tall, and his neck and back
When Lisa opens her eyes, her throat is parched and her head aches. It is light outside, enough to make her want to pull the drapes. The bedside clock says 9:20. She turns over and finds Danny’s side is vacant. He’s not in the bathroom or on the balcony.
She stays in bed a few minutes longer, then gets up and dresses. She doesn’t look in her handbag, doesn’t want to look. Instead, she goes down the hall to the elevator. Lisa watches the numbers light up and then go dark as she descends. The elevator door opens and she steps into the lobby. The breakfast section is bustling. Elderly women wearing purple hats and name tags crowd around a waffle maker, children scamper around the room. A man who looks as hungover as Lisa grimaces at the poached egg on his paper plate.
As Lisa is about to head for the walkway, she sees Danny seated alone in their midst, a Styrofoam coffee cup in his hand. Something shifts inside her with an almost audible click. When she opens the handbag, all the money is there. The elevator closes behind her, and she walks toward a man who knows as well as she does that their luck couldn’t last.
Where the Map Ends
T hey had been on the run for six days, traveling mainly at night, all the while listening for the baying of hounds. The man, if asked his age, would have said forty-eight, forty-nine, or fifty—he wasn’t sure. His hair was close-cropped, like gray wool stitched above a face dark as mahogany. A lantern swayed by his side, the twine securing it chafing the bullwhip scar ridging his left shoulder. With his right hand he clutched a tote sack. His companion was seventeen and of a lighter complexion, the color of an oft-used gold coin. The youth’s hair was longer, the curls tinged red. He carried the map.
As foothills became mountains, the journey became more arduous. What food they’d brought had been eaten days earlier. They filled the tote with corn and okra from fields, eggs from a henhouse, apples from orchards. The land steepened more and their lungs never seemed to fill. I heard that white folks up here don’t have much, the youth huffed, but you’d think they’d at least have air. The map showed one more village, Blowing Rock, then a ways farther a stream and soon a plank bridge. An arrow pointed over the bridge. Beyond that, nothing but blank paper, as though no word or mark could convey what the fugitives sought but had never known.
They had crossed the bridge near dusk. At the first cabin they came to, a hound bayed as they approached. They went on. The youth wondered aloud how they were supposed to know which place, which family, to trust. The fugitives passed a two-story farmhouse, prosperous looking. The older man said walk on. As the day waned, a cabin and a barn appeared, light glowing from a front window. Their lantern remained unlit, though now neither of them could see where he stepped. They passed a small orchard and soon after the man tugged his companion’s arm and led him off the road and into a pasture.
“Where we going, Viticus?” the youth asked.
“To roost in that barn till morning,” the man answered. “No folks want strangers calling in the dark.”
They entered the barn, let their hands find the ladder, and then climbed into the loft. Through a space between boards the fugitives could see the cabin window’s glow.
“I’m hungry,” the youth complained. “Gimme that lantern and I’ll get us some apples.”
“No,” his companion said. “You think a man going to help them that stole from him.”
“Ain’t gonna miss a few apples.”
The man ignored him. They settled their bodies into the straw and slept.
A cowbell woke them, the animal ambling into the barn, a man in frayed overalls following with a gallon pail. A scraggly gray beard covered much of his face, some streaks of brown in his lank hair. He was thin and tall, and his neck and back
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