Crescent City Connection

Lovelace if he’d ever “touched” her.
    She’d answered, “Of course, Mom—what do you think? How’s he going to hit me if he doesn’t touch me?” and her mother had laughed. Lovelace hadn’t figured out why until years later.
    Actually, Lovelace liked it when he drank—he tended to get woozier and woozier until finally he’d just fall asleep, which left Lovelace more time with the Cokes, Oreos, and books.
    The feeling she had now was similar to the one she’d harbored that whole summer—trapped, but not hopeless. She’d get out, that much was certain, but she had to bide her time. She had to wait, and get through. Just get through.
    “You have to pee or anything?”
    She didn’t know how to answer, but she was damned if she was just going to lie there. She made some sort of hum through her gag.
    “Baby, I hate having you tied up like that. You want me to take the tape off?”
    She hummed again, as loudly as she could.
    “Well, let’s stop up here. You can go behind some bushes.”
    He stopped the car and cut the tapes, even rubbed her wrists.
    “Now you go pee, but don’t try to mess with me. I’ll just catch you.”
    She knew he would. Besides, it was better to gain his trust a little, hope he’d let down his guard. Maybe next time she could talk him into a gas station bathroom, and that would be it—she’d be free.
    When she came back, he was holding out a Coke to her, its top already popped. It was cold, and she needed it.
    “Can I sit in the front—with you?”
    “You know I’m different now, Lovelace.”
    She made her eyes go wide. “Really?”
    He opened the door for her—she’d won a concession.
    “I’m not conservative anymore—I’m a liberal.”
    She didn’t know what she’d been expecting to hear, but it wasn’t that. Even in her confused state of mind, she recognized that it was an extremely odd thing for a kidnapper to say.
    What the fuck do I care?
she wanted to shout.
You’re a sickie and a weirdo and I hope you rot in hell. Why the fuck do I
care what your damn politics are?
    “Nooo!” she said, drawing it out, as if shocked out of her mind. “I don’t believe it.”
    “Hey, I saw the light. I bet you thought it would never happen.”
    “Did it—” she couldn’t think of the phrase “—Did it… uh… come in a flash of…” Of what?
    “You making fun of me?”
    She was feeling a little odd, as if she couldn’t quite follow the conversation.
    “Making—uh—fun? Of course not, I wouldn’t…” Her hands felt slightly numb and her brain was just… not… revving… up.
    At the last minute, she got it: the Coke.
    The can slipped through her fingers and started dribbling out its contents as a flicker of fear passed through her. Till now, she had thought only of making her move, of biding her time until the right moment.
    She saw that she had underestimated her adversary.
    The fear left and as she went under, she felt a darkness, a heaviness, a cottony weight descend upon her, and she recognized it.
    She knew it.
    It was her old friend Depression.
    * * *
    Skip arrived home to find Steve glued to the television like the people in the airport, riveted by news of Billy Hutchison’s assassination.
    “Oh, no. Not you, too,” she said.
    “Hey. Me and the whole world. You mean you don’t want to know about this stuff? It’s not every day the good guys get somebody. Refreshing for a change.”
    She sat down. “You’re kidding. Right?”
    He laughed and pulled on a long-neck Dixie. “Reality check here. This is me, Steve. Not some raving redneck.”
    She got up again, breathing easier. “Yeah, well,” she muttered, “lines are getting a little blurry.”
    “Tell me there’s not a piece of you that’s going, ‘Nyah nyah nyah nyah nyah.’”
    She winced.
    “See. There is. You don’t want to think about it, but there is.”
    “It’s creepy. It gets you on a real childish level.”
    “I know. I think I’m going to go make a peanut butter sandwich.”
    “I’ve got to get ready for a healing.”
    As she stood in the shower, it occurred to Skip that Steve hadn’t even asked her how it went with Aunt Alice. When she came out, the phone was ringing.
    It was Layne: “Do we have to wear, like, black robes or anything?”
    “They didn’t mention it.”
    “Okay. I’m at the Big House. Kenny’s dressed up in a little suit and tie, all ready for weirdo-church.”
    She heard Kenny in the background: “Hey, man, come on.”
    He was