“Is there someone we can call?”
“I don’t want to call anyone! I don’t want to see anyone. I don’t want to be your sidekick and rob banks, Clyde. I want to be alone now. I want you to go. Okay?” My voice sounded snarly but I didn’t care. I needed him to leave. As soon as word got out that Bonnie Rae Shelby had “disappeared” he was going to figure out who I was. I just wanted to get far enough away that it wouldn’t matter that he’d seen me.
He sighed and swore under his breath. Then he stood up and started walking away. Several cars whooshed by, each a blast coming out of nowhere, and I wondered suddenly if Clyde was on foot. Maybe that’s how he’d seen me. I don’t know how he could have otherwise. I looked around me, as if there were answers in the mist. Instead, I just got dizzy and more confused. I didn’t even know where I was.
I stood up and hurried after Clyde. He was already lost in the fog, so I started to jog a little, stuffing my hands in the baggy pockets of the sloppy sweatshirt, listening for his footfalls, hoping he hadn’t veered off. I shook myself. He couldn’t veer off. There was only one direction he could go on the bridge without turning back toward me. I wasn’t sure why I was chasing him, after having just successfully chased him off, but I suddenly didn’t know what else to do.
The sound of my feet against the bridge changed subtly, and I realized I’d reached a place where it widened and construction cones separated the driving lanes from a pull-out area. There was a white work truck with “Boston Municipal” written on the side parked in the service zone. A beat-up, orange, older-model Chevy Blazer was pulled off behind it, hazard lights pulsing. Clyde sat on the thick bumper, knees wide, hands clasped between them, as if he’d been waiting for me to arrive.
“Is that yours?” I pointed at the Blazer.
“Yeah.”
“Why did you park it here?”
“I couldn’t very well stop back there in this fog. I would have caused a pile-up.”
“Why did you stop at all?”
“I saw a kid, standing on the railing, getting ready to jump into the Mystic River.”
“How?” My voice was slightly disbelieving, even accusing.
He looked at me blankly, obviously not understanding my question.
“How did you see me through the fog?”
He shrugged. “I guess I just looked at the right time. There you were.” I stepped back in surprise and considered his answer, puzzled.
“So you pulled off up here, and walked back? For me?” I had gone from disbelieving to incredulous. “Why?”
He stood up and turned away, walking toward the driver’s side door, ignoring my question. “Are you done jumping for tonight, Bonnie?”
“What if I said no?” I challenged and crossed my arms.
He stopped and turned slowly. “Look. Do you need a ride somewhere? A bus station? Home? The hospital? Wherever it is, I’ll take you there. Okay?”
I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know where to go. I turned in a circle and rubbed my arms, considering my options, plotting the next step, and I was at a loss. And I was tired, so incredibly tired. Maybe I could just tag along with Clyde until we passed a hotel. Then he could drop me off, and I could sleep for a few days or a few years, until my world righted itself and I had some clarity or some courage, both of which I seemed to be lacking at the moment.
A police car blazed past and then another, their lights making the foggy darkness feel like a smoke-filled nightclub, complete with a psychedelic disco ball. Clyde and I both flinched as the sirens wailed, and Clyde’s eyes met mine. “You comin?”
I nodded and scurried to the passenger side. I had to wrench on the handle a little, but on the second attempt it came open. I slid up onto the tattered seat, pulling the door shut behind me, hugging it as Clyde inched away from the curb and merged into the trickle of traffic coming off the bridge. The inside of the Blazer was still warm, and the radio was set on a classical music station. I didn’t like classical music much. It surprised me that Clyde did. He looked more like the Pearl Jam type, or maybe Nirvana. His knit cap and the week’s worth of stubble on his jaw made him look a little like Kurt Cobain. He kept his eyes forward, but I guessed he knew I was scoping him out, as well as the inside of his ride. He was obviously going somewhere. He had a few boxes, a couple of army bags, a stack of blankets and a pillow, and a very ratty looking houseplant. Behind the second row of seats I could see what looked to be the neck of a guitar case. The urge to pull the case over the seats and into my arms was sudden and intense, as if cradling it would help me find my way, or at the very least, comfort me the way the instrument always had.
“You goin’ somewhere?” I asked.
“Out west.”
“Out west? What is this, a John Wayne movie? There’s a lot that’s west of Boston. How far out west?” I asked.
“Vegas,” he said, and turned down the strings.
“Huh.” Vegas. That was quite the drive. I wondered how long it would take. I really had no clue. It was all the way across the country. Major road trip.
“I’m headed that direction too,” I lied enthusiastically. He looked over at me, his eyebrows disappearing under the thick edge of his cap.
“You’re headed to Vegas?”
“Well, maybe not that far, you know, uh, just . . . west,” I hedged. I didn’t want him to think I wanted to tag along all the way to Vegas, although suddenly I thought I might. “Can I ride with you for a ways?”