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My gaze swings to the source of the motion, and I freeze.
A filthy, wrinkled woman stands in front of my car, naked from the waist up. An old prairie-style skirt hangs from her waist in an ironic juxtaposition; scandalous on top, modest on the bottom, leaving only half her body to the most disturbing imagination. Her hair is wiry and gray, tangled in a heavy mass that likely hasn’t seen a brush in weeks. If she has teeth, she doesn’t show them, not even to snarl. Her chin juts from its lowest point, the only thing that lets me know she’s angry. I blink, stunned by what I’m seeing and unable to make sense of it, but also unable to turn away. I think I’ve seen this before. Déjà vu with no context or possibility.
I come to my senses and avert my eyes, using fumbling hands to roll down my window. To say something. Anything. Topless women aren’t supposed to be standing by an open roadway so heavily trafficked. I start to ask her if she’s cold. To offer her the sports coat currently folded neatly across the passenger seat of my car awaiting its return to my shoulders. It’s Italian silk, but I have another one at home. A car whizzes by in a rush, not Billi like I hoped, but a carload of whistling, taunting high school boys. Ignoring them, I attempt to forge ahead like the good Samaritan my mom raised me to be.
“Can I…” the words trip from my open mouth, fighting to break free from the shock of the moment not yet worn off. Too late, I realize my mistake. Too late, I notice the gun in her hand.
My reflexes misfire all at once as I rush to shift into reverse, back up, and get the hell out of here. Every intention I have is a split second too slow. Before the gear makes it into position, the old woman lets out a scream, raises her gun…
And shoots me.
Glass cracks a half-inch strip on the right corner of the windshield but thank God it doesn’t break through. A BB gun, an old one at that, possibly an original Red Ryder like the one fromA Christmas Story. She walks a few steps toward my car, wagging a crooked finger and yelling what I can only assume are obscenities in my direction. If her house were covered in gumdrops, she would be my exact childhood mental image of the witch who ate Hansel and Gretel, her gun a poor substitute for a broomstick.
I would turn back around and tell her to insult me to my face, but I’d rather not get shot at again, BB gun or otherwise. I’ve already been forced to fix the windshield against my will. I’d rather not be forced to fix a bone, or worse, a wounded eye. I drive backward a dozen more yards until I make it to the main road, then peel out onto the pavement. I’ve made it one mile, maybe two, when I hastily round a curve and nearly collide with Billi’s car.
She stops in the middle of the road and rolls down her window, so I do the same. We’re eye to eye, driver’s side to driver’s side, but I’m the only one breathing heavy.
“You already left her house?” Billi says. The rain requires her to shout.
“She shot me.”
Her head jerks back in unbelief as she looks at me, then slowly turns toward the house. “What do you mean she shot you?”
“I mean, she pointed a gun at me and shot it.”
“A gun? She tried to kill you?”
“It was a BB gun, but still. It cracked my windshield. And I would venture to guess that she’s still back there screaming curse words at me, probably calling down the wrath of God on my head as we speak.”
Billi looks at me before rolling her eyes. “A BB gun won’t kill you, and I doubt God listens to that kind of talk.”
“Maybe not, but the lady is crazy.”
“What about the interview? Are you going back?”
“No, I’m not going back. If you want to, be my guest. But I’m staying as far away from her as I can.”
Billi’s mouth falls open. “I’m the one who didn’t want to come here in the first place. Itoldyou that.”
“Well, you were right,” I say. We stare at each other for a long moment, caught in an in-between world of trying to make sense of things and knowing nothing does. God, she’s beautiful. Once I have a reason to stare, it’s hard to look away. I could look at Billi for hours and might except for—
“You have to go back.”
I blink, the spell officially broken by her idiotic idea. Sally’s not the only crazy one in this town. “I’m not going back. She shot at me. Did you not hear me say that? Frankly, I think it’s a very important point.”
“She shot at you with a BB gun that would barely wound a small bird. And you have to go back and get her story. If you want to break whatever case is lying in front of you, and if you want to cover the memorial accurately, you’re going back.”
I don’t like her sarcasm at the use of a BB gun. How was I supposed to know it wasn’t a lethal weapon? That’s like telling someone Jason used a foam knife to attempt murder on Friday the thirteenth. If it looks real and feels real and you’re tripping over your own feet in the dark trying to get away, finding out mid-stab that a weapon wasn’t made of steel doesn’t keep life from flashing before your eyes.
But she’s right. I have a job to do, and no one is here to do it for me.
“Fine, but you’re still going with me.”
“I should probably get back to the hotel…”
“Nice try, Blondie. Now, turn around and park your car in front of that house over there, and hop in my car. We’ll go together this time. Unless your Magic 8-Ball has a different idea.”
Her shoulders sink in defeat. “When I asked it this morning if I could stay home, it said, ‘My sources say no.’”
