The Fugitives Read Online Free PDF Page B

at stake. And what look does a novelist wear when writing?
    I trudged along, my boots disappearing into snow that was up to my knees. I kept my arms raised a little, held out at my sides, for balance; lifted my feet from the holes they’d just made and put them down again, making new holes, each step a complicated procedure. I worried, pleasurably, about nothing but the next step. The act of walking in the deep snow became the purest thing in life. If I chose I could turn around and see all the steps I’d taken, the accumulation of holes, a line of them stretching back to my porch, and they’d add up to nothing if I didn’t take the next step successfully. I knew that there was an objective at the end, but it was each tricky individual step that needed to be attended to, and that was what pleased me. Don’t fall. Don’t lose a shoe. But near the next corner I misjudged the invisible border separating the sidewalk from the road, tripped, and crumpled, harmlessly, onto my side. The event seemed to take place in slow motion, and when it was over I lay there, on the deserted street, warm and comfortable except for a vague creeping sense of ridiculousness, lying there in the gutter like a drunk. I got up then and brushed the snow off my clothes, looking at the small white crater I’d made. I felt myself beginning to think again.
    I arrived at the library half-expecting to find it locked and dark, an apologetic handwritten sign on the door, but the parking lot was plowed, salted, and half-filled with vehicles. Two boys climbed the snow piled high at the margins of the lot, finding tremendous amusement in picking up enormous chunks of the stuff and throwing it at each other, grinding it into each other’s jacket and hat, kicking it in arcing eruptions that brightly veiled the air between them and then spattered like sleet upon hitting the ground. A woman stood in the center of the lot talking on a cell phone, the device mashed up against her face, an index finger plugging her other ear. She twisted and bobbed, a curious little dance, I thought, until I realized that she was trying to hang on to clear reception. It was a problem here, I’d discovered, not unhappily. The woman moved toward the edge of the lot where the boys were, hunching both shoulders now, her hands still pressed to the sides of her head. When the ice and snow from the boys’ play skittered close to her feet she turned and jogged quickly away: a mistake. The chunky wooden heels of her boots had zero traction even on the salted asphalt and her legs shot out from under her. She landed hard on her side, and remained there, a look of perplexity on her face, as if she were trying to interpret the foreign language of pain. Her phone lay some feet away.
    The boys—I’d thought one or both of them might be hers—ignored her. I stood frozen and indecisive, then lurched forward, a gloved hand out.
    “I’m OK.” Leaning back on her elbows, she planted both feet on the ground and hoisted herself up. I bent to pick up the phone and held it out to her. She was about five-seven in those treacherous heels, shoulder-length very dark brown hair, an attractive, somewhat flat face, high cheekbones, a considerable underbite, almond-shaped dark brown eyes, and a dark complexion. Definitely Asian or part Asian, I figured. Clothes that were, in the present locale, jarringly stylish.
    “You sure?”
    “Oh, yeah. My butt absorbed most of the impact.” She took the phone. “Thanks. Shoot. All morning I’ve been looking for a signal in this freaking place.”
    “Not from around these parts? Hear tell there’s a pay phone at the dry goods store.”
    “No offense.”
    “Oh, I wasn’t touting the local cell reception. I’m not the chamber of commerce. This country needs more backwaters as far as I’m concerned. Welcome to Kaczynski, Michigan. Digital nothing. Streets named after trees, and schools named after presidents and trailblazers. And points on the compass.