Abigail

I wrote this the other night, trying to write something more realistic than I usually do, something without violence or 'action.'  I don't think it's a bad character piece, but my biggest complaint is that the story doesn't really GO anywhere. 

Anyway, I thought I would share it here, with all of you, warts and all.  

The long dusty road seemed to stretch out forever before Abigail Hunter. The summer sun beat down on her thin, white hair but its heat didn't reach Abigail's bones. She pulled her sweater tighter around her thin shoulders, adjusted the canvas bag hanging over her back, and concentrated on putting one foot in front of another.

 Cherokee was at least two hours away by foot, and that was if she had stuck to the main roads. Taking these backroads, frequently crossing through pine forest, using the sun to guide her, was only adding more time to the journey.

Abigail had passed a few rural homes, eyed cars parked in dusty drives and in concrete carparks, but she had resisted the urge to check for keys. The police would already be looking for her. Why take unnecessary risks?

She'd taken a big enough risk filching a change of clothes from a wash line. If the laundress had come out and caught her, Abigail didn't like to think about what she'd have had to do.  Thankfully, that hadn't happened. She'd grabbed the clothes - ragged jeans and a weatherworn cotton shirt - stuffed them in the canvas garbage bag she'd walked off with, and walked into the nearest woods.

The house she'd stolen the clothes from had been isolated and there hadn't been any sign of a car, but the theft had set Abigail's heart to pounding in her chest. Adrenaline had surged through her veins, just like it had in the old days, and her hands had shook with excitement.  There had been no fear.

Abigail had changed clothes in the woods. She'd kept the crap shoes the prison had given her, although she swore if she found a decent pair of shoes just lying around, she'd take them at the first opportunity. She'd kept the underwear too, and her sweater, but she'd shucked out of the Day-Glo orange shirt and pants and stuffed them beneath a blackberry bush.

For a minute, she'd stood in the forest, the clear sky above her, blue as a robin's egg, the sun beating down, bright and hot. She'd felt as if she was reborn. Then she'd pulled on her stolen clothes and walked deeper into the woods.

As Abigail walked through the pines, she upended the canvas garbage sack they'd given her when they'd put her on trash detail. She had thought about throwing the sack away, but a good sack could be useful. Stuff it full of paper or leaves and it could be a pillow. Fill it with rocks and you could bludgeon somebody to death with it. So, she kept the sack.

She trudged on, putting one foot in front of the other. She left the forest and found herself on a back road. The road was old and cracked, filled with pot holes. It didn't look like it had been maintained in a long while and Abigail took that as a good sign.

Not many folks lived in this part of the county. The land was mostly pine forest with the occasional old house every few miles. Most of the houses weren't in any better shape than the road, and some were in worse. She passed one old house, sagging and dark, slowly being devoured by kudzu, that pernicious vine that Abigail's father had hated with a passion.

Abigail didn't like to think about her father. It put her in a bad mood. Made her feel all tight and queer inside, like a jack-in-the-box with a broken spring. There hadn't been much love between Abigail and her father, even before she had left home. Afterwards, whatever soft sentiments she'd had toward the man had evaporated.

A few years ago, the prison chaplain had asked to speak with Abigail. When she was sitting in his office, the chaplain had told her that her father had died. Passed on, as the chaplain had put it. Abigail had thought the expression made her father sound like a kidney stone and, behind her eyes, she had chuckled at the thought.

The chaplain had asked her if she wanted to talk. Abigail had said no, and she had gone back to work in the laundry. Afterwards, stuffing wet sheets into the big industrial dryers, Abigail had regretted not talking to the chaplain.  It would have gotten her out of work for at least a couple of hours.  Maybe the rest of the afternoon if she could have mustered up some crocodile tears.

The sky was darkening now, clouds drifting across the sun's face and a chill wind blowing from the east.  That wind smelt wet and Abigail didn't look forward to the thought of walking in a downpour.

The first cold drop of rain hitting her face made her shudder. She stepped off the road, back into the pine forest, looking for a tree to shelter under.

The sky was black now, filled with rain clouds. The few errant raindrops was turning into a steady curtain of cold water.  Abigail swore as she huddled beneath a tree. Lightning flashed and thunder rumbled.

She abandoned the tree and resumed walking, shoulders hunched against the rain and the wind.  Unexpectedly, she came across the ruins of a mobile home, abandoned in an overgrown lot, just off the worn road.

The door was open. The interior was dark and smelt of mold, but it had a roof that would keep the rain off of her. Abigail stepped inside and sat down on mouldering shag carpeting. Lightning flashed, briefly illuminating the interior of the trailer. It was a deceptively big space with a few old bean bag chairs kicked into one corner. The light gleamed off of empty beer cans and an abandoned box of condoms.

High school kids, thought Abigail. Probably used this place to party on the weekends, back in the day.

The rain pounded on the ceiling so loudly Abigail could hardly hear herself think. She stood and wandered around the trailer. In the tiny kitchen, she rattled empty drawers and opened dusty cabinets. She found a box of matches and thrust it into her pocket.

Part of the trailer's flooring had collapsed at the far end, where the bedrooms and bathroom had been. She didn't want to risk falling through the floor, or twisting an ankle, so Abigail returned to the front door. She sat and watched the rain fall in thick gray sheets. It didn't look like it would let up any time soon. Setteling in, to wait out the storm, she wondered where the police were looking for her.

Abigail knew she wasn't the only prisoner who had made a break for it when Fat Albert, their guard, had collapsed by the roadside.  She had seen a couple of the younger women high tail it down the road, as she stepped into the pine woods. Some of the other prisoners, the short-timers mostly, had clustered around the fallen man. Maybe they thought if they helped him, they'd get sprung early. That wasn't an option for Abigail.

The police would probably go after the younger women first. They'd probably think they were more dangerous. Probably.

But they were stupid. If they had vanished into the trees, like Abigail had, their escapes might have lasted longer. But three women running down the side of the road in Day-Glo orange prison work suits? They were probably already back in jail.

Which meant that the police would be focusing their attention on finding Abigail. They were probably underestimating her. After all, she was close to sixty years old. The cops probably thought she was a frail old lady. And, true, Abigail might not have been as strong as she was in her youth, but she was tough as old shoe leather. You couldn't last in the box if you weren't tough.

Abigail estimated that she'd probably covered about twenty miles before the rain had started. Even if the cops had brought in tracker dogs, her meanderings through the woods, along the edge of back yards and across highways and streams, would make tracking her harder. The rain would be a big help, washing away her scent.

All she had to do now was be smart. Avoid unnecessary risks until she reached Cherokee. There was a train yard in Cherokee. If she was careful, she could hop a freight train and put more distance between herself and the prison. And the longer she was free, the better her chances of getting away and not dying inside that damned box.

At some point during the storm, Abigail drifted into sleep, lulled by the drumming of the rain on the roof. When the rain stopped, the sudden silence woke her. She blinked, stared out the trailer's door, at a damp, moonlit world. She had no idea how long she had been asleep or what time it was. Her body was stiff and ached from the day's exertions, but Abigail ignored the small aches and pains.  She stood, stiffly, and stepped out of the trailer.

Cherokee was still a ways away, and traveling by night was no more dangerous to her than traveling by day. Slinging her canvas bag over her shoulder, Abigail resumed her journey westward by moonlight.