man’s face was sharp in the sunlight, features and expression clear. Tietjen looked at the gun in his hand; it seemed to have no reality at all.
“How old is your wife, Frank?” he asked at last.
“Sixty-three.” Corliss did not ask why he had asked.
Tietjen thought a little longer. “Look, where are we now?”
“Far side of Saxon Woods, a bit below Scarsdale. Maybe twelve miles from Manhattan if you make it over to 9A and cross on the Henry Hudson Bridge.”
Tietjen thought of the sun dropping like a heated penny into the Hudson River in the springtime; of the chatter of rails in the subways. Looked up at the old man beside him. “Let me off somewhere in here, Frank.” He dropped the gun on the seat of the car.
Corliss stared straight ahead of him. “I can take you as far as Tuckahoe, that’s five miles closer.”
“And be worrying all that time that I’ll grab the gun again. I’d be worrying too. Let me off here, Frank, while I’ve got the guts to be a gentleman about it.” Tietjen smiled. “I hope your wife is all right.”
Corliss slowed the car down. “I hope you can save something, John. Look, take the damned gun; if you’re going to be on foot you may need it. God knows what you’re going to run into.”
Tietjen shook his head. “I really don’t like the damned things, Frank. Thanks for the ride.” The car came to a stop and he was out with the door shut behind him in a moment. Burning his bridges. “Thanks. Have a good trip.”
“You too. Look, if you do get to Bridgeport—”
“Thanks for that, too, but I won’t. Now, go.” Tietjen slapped the fender.
The car started forward.
He stood alone, watching Corliss’s car vanish, an icy sparkle in solid sunlight. Then Tietjen started walking after in what he hoped was the direction of Manhattan. His legs were as stiff as cardboard. I don’t know where the hell I am, he thought, and for a moment that seemed almost comic to him. Let Corliss take off and didn’t even ask which way to go, that’s where virtue gets you: somewhere in Westchester without a ride. Still, it was pleasant to feel like a good guy, like he’d done the right thing; the warmth of it cut the March wind just a little.
Then the voice reminded him: you don’t know where you are. You don’t know what has happened in the city or when you will see home again.
The thought sobered him. He was walking without a plan, no way of knowing which way to take. The voice inside his head took up the low chant that urged him on. The image of those cars overturned, burning, came back to haunt him with a renewed sense of vulnerability. How could he be walking, just walking, alone, as if it were any time, any suburban road. The flat vista of the roadway made him more vulnerable; he missed the safety of granite walls rising on either side. For a moment he thought of turning tail, finding Corliss, reaching Bridgeport and the offered shelter, the kindness there.
There would be no kindness in the city. And no rest anywhere else. Tietjen turned a shoulder on retreat and continued along the road.
After an hour, certain that he had taken the wrong roads, Tietjen began to approach houses, hoping to ask directions. There had been no one on the road since Corliss’s car had vanished from sight, and his fear had ebbed a little. The idea of reaching Manhattan seemed exhausting but possible; less absurdly quixotic than it had been that morning. But the first house he stopped at had been broken into: smears of blood on the door turned him back to brood as he continued on the road. There were others like that house, shutters askew, doors ajar. Tietjen avoided them. Other houses stood like fortresses on quarter-acre lots; he avoided them, too, after a round of shots was fired at him from an upper-story window. From behind a tree he had howled furiously: “I only want directions! Am I on the right road for Manhattan?”
The answer was another shot.
So he kept walking, trying to judge
“How old is your wife, Frank?” he asked at last.
“Sixty-three.” Corliss did not ask why he had asked.
Tietjen thought a little longer. “Look, where are we now?”
“Far side of Saxon Woods, a bit below Scarsdale. Maybe twelve miles from Manhattan if you make it over to 9A and cross on the Henry Hudson Bridge.”
Tietjen thought of the sun dropping like a heated penny into the Hudson River in the springtime; of the chatter of rails in the subways. Looked up at the old man beside him. “Let me off somewhere in here, Frank.” He dropped the gun on the seat of the car.
Corliss stared straight ahead of him. “I can take you as far as Tuckahoe, that’s five miles closer.”
“And be worrying all that time that I’ll grab the gun again. I’d be worrying too. Let me off here, Frank, while I’ve got the guts to be a gentleman about it.” Tietjen smiled. “I hope your wife is all right.”
Corliss slowed the car down. “I hope you can save something, John. Look, take the damned gun; if you’re going to be on foot you may need it. God knows what you’re going to run into.”
Tietjen shook his head. “I really don’t like the damned things, Frank. Thanks for the ride.” The car came to a stop and he was out with the door shut behind him in a moment. Burning his bridges. “Thanks. Have a good trip.”
“You too. Look, if you do get to Bridgeport—”
“Thanks for that, too, but I won’t. Now, go.” Tietjen slapped the fender.
The car started forward.
He stood alone, watching Corliss’s car vanish, an icy sparkle in solid sunlight. Then Tietjen started walking after in what he hoped was the direction of Manhattan. His legs were as stiff as cardboard. I don’t know where the hell I am, he thought, and for a moment that seemed almost comic to him. Let Corliss take off and didn’t even ask which way to go, that’s where virtue gets you: somewhere in Westchester without a ride. Still, it was pleasant to feel like a good guy, like he’d done the right thing; the warmth of it cut the March wind just a little.
Then the voice reminded him: you don’t know where you are. You don’t know what has happened in the city or when you will see home again.
The thought sobered him. He was walking without a plan, no way of knowing which way to take. The voice inside his head took up the low chant that urged him on. The image of those cars overturned, burning, came back to haunt him with a renewed sense of vulnerability. How could he be walking, just walking, alone, as if it were any time, any suburban road. The flat vista of the roadway made him more vulnerable; he missed the safety of granite walls rising on either side. For a moment he thought of turning tail, finding Corliss, reaching Bridgeport and the offered shelter, the kindness there.
There would be no kindness in the city. And no rest anywhere else. Tietjen turned a shoulder on retreat and continued along the road.
After an hour, certain that he had taken the wrong roads, Tietjen began to approach houses, hoping to ask directions. There had been no one on the road since Corliss’s car had vanished from sight, and his fear had ebbed a little. The idea of reaching Manhattan seemed exhausting but possible; less absurdly quixotic than it had been that morning. But the first house he stopped at had been broken into: smears of blood on the door turned him back to brood as he continued on the road. There were others like that house, shutters askew, doors ajar. Tietjen avoided them. Other houses stood like fortresses on quarter-acre lots; he avoided them, too, after a round of shots was fired at him from an upper-story window. From behind a tree he had howled furiously: “I only want directions! Am I on the right road for Manhattan?”
The answer was another shot.
So he kept walking, trying to judge
Similar Books
