Runaway

herself. As Mrs. Jamieson might say—and as she herself might with satisfaction have said—
taking charge of her own life.
With nobody glowering over her, nobody’s mood infecting her with misery.
    But what would she care about? How would she know that she was alive?
    While she was running away from him—now—Clark still kept his place in her life. But when she was finished running away, when she just went on, what would she put in his place? What else—who else—could ever be so vivid a challenge?
    She had managed to stop crying, but she had started to shake. She was in a bad way and would have to take hold, get a grip on herself. “Get a grip on yourself,” Clark had sometimes told her, passing through a room where she was scrunched up, trying not to weep, and that indeed was what she must do.
    They had stopped in another town. This was the third town away from the one where she had got on the bus, which meant that they had passed through the second town without her even noticing. The bus must have stopped, the driver must have called out the name, and she had not heard or seen anything in her fog of fright. Soon enough they would reach the major highway, they would be tearing along towards Toronto.
    And she would be lost.
    She would be lost. What would be the point of getting into a taxi and giving the new address, of getting up in the morning and brushing her teeth and going into the world? Why should she get a job, put food in her mouth, be carried by public transportation from place to place?
    Her feet seemed now to be at some enormous distance from her body. Her knees, in the unfamiliar crisp pants, were weighted with irons. She was sinking to the ground like a stricken horse who will never get up.
    Already the bus had loaded on the few passengers and the parcels that had been waiting in this town. A woman and a baby in its stroller were waving somebody good-bye. The building behind them, the cafe that served as a bus stop, was also in motion. A liquefying wave passed through the bricks and windows as if they were about to dissolve. In peril of her life, Carla pulled her huge body, her iron limbs, forward. She stumbled, she cried out, “Let me off.”
    The driver braked, he called out irritably, “I thought you were going to Toronto?” People gave her casually curious looks, nobody seemed to understand that she was in anguish.
    “I have to get off here.”
    “There’s a washroom in the back.”
    “No. No. I have to get off.”
    “I’m not waiting. You understand that? You got luggage underneath?”
    “No. Yes. No.”
    “No luggage?”
    A voice in the bus said, “Claustrophobia. That’s what’s the matter with her.”
    “You sick?” said the driver.
    “No. No. I just want off.”
    “Okay. Okay. Fine by me.”
    “Come and get me. Please. Come and get me.”
    “I will.”
    Sylvia had forgotten to lock her door. She realized that she should be locking it now, not opening it, but it was too late, she had it open.
    And nobody there.
    Yet she was sure, sure, the knocking had been real.
    She closed the door and this time she locked it.
    There was a playful sound, a tinkling tapping sound, coming from the wall of windows. She switched the light on, but saw nothing there, and switched it off again. Some animal—maybe a squirrel? The French doors that opened between windows, leading to the patio, had not been locked either. Not even really closed, having been left open an inch or so from her airing of the house. She started to close them and somebody laughed, nearby, near enough to be in the room with her.
    “It’s me,” a man said. “Did I scare you?”
    He was pressed against the glass, he was right beside her.
    “It’s Clark,” he said. “Clark from down the road.”
    She was not going to ask him in, but she was afraid to shut the door in his face. He could grab it before she could manage that. She didn’t want to turn on the light, either. She slept in a long T-shirt. She should have pulled the quilt from the sofa and wrapped it around herself, but it was too late now.
    “Did you want to get dressed?” he said. “What I got in here, it could be the very things you need.”
    He had a shopping bag in his hand. He thrust it at her, but did not try to come with it.
    “What?” she said in a choppy voice.
    “Look and see. It’s not a bomb. There, take it.”
    She felt inside the bag, not looking. Something soft. And then she recognized the buttons of the jacket, the silk of the