The Woman Who Hitch Hiked With Cats (I)
1. Leavingsong
Rides happen.
She didn’t know where she was going or what she was looking for, and was only certain of that basic fact of forward motion. That, for the moment, seemed good enough.
She was a thin, slight woman with terrified eyes, and she looked so out of place walking down the side of the road with her thumb out that most drivers avoided her unconsciously. Her dark hair was drawn up in a tight bun, and she wore a knit cap. She was swaddled in an oversize Army jacket in faded camo and baggy jeans over three pairs of sweat pants. She wore two pairs of socks beneath hiking boots that remained a full size too large, so she had stuffed them carefully with newspaper. Her sex and size were therefore disguised with this armor from the Salvation Army. In her right front pocket rode her only weapon, a six inch folding case knife that she had stolen from the place she once called home and a man that she had once loved and called her husband.
Almost twenty hours since her last ride, and a solid thirty miles farther west, a car finally responded to the signaling thumb and pulled over. It was an old car, a boat, and the big block engine that powered it pulsed reassuringly as it puffed thick white clouds of carbon monoxide from the tailpipe.
As she moved toward it, the fear rose up. Fear of rapists and crazy men. Fear of the compromised position that riding in the passenger seat across from a stranger placed her in. But the tingling pain of frozen hands and face fought with the fear and beat it into submission. She put her hand in her pocket, squeezed the knife for reassurance, opened the door and sat down.
Involuntarily, she sighed as the warm air closed around her. The heater was on high and the car smelled pleasantly of pine with a vauge hint of upholstery shampoo. She turned and faced her benefactor, trying to keep the wariness from her eyes and failing.
The older woman smiled, nodded, and got them back onto the road. A few moments of silence passed, then:
"What’s your name, my dear?"
"Faith." she lied.
The older woman raised an eyebrow and smiled again. "Well," she said "that’s not an important truth."
The woman who was not named Faith swallowed past a dry throat. But that smile was genuine enough, and both the eyes and tone were kind. And, more importantly, she was warm for the moment and moving at a fast clip towards her unknown goal.
"Where are you headed?" was the next question, as if that last thought had been spoken aloud.
"West." Faith replied, truthfully enough. "Just west."
The driver accepted this as if it made perfect sense, as if she picked up strangers wandering towards general compass points every day.
"I can’t take you far." the driver told her. "But every mile helps, does it not?"
Faith nodded. Suddenly she felt the urge to explain herself, to tell this stranger everything. Why she was running, who she was running from, the cloudy mystery of where she was going.
The driver laughed. "No need, my dear. That is another unimportant truth. At least for the moment. What is important is that you understand the why of things. Why you are leaving. Do you understand that, at least?"
Faith paused. Then nodded. She did.
The driver nodded back, amiably enough. "Perhaps a man beat you. Perhaps he did other horrible things. Perhaps that was not even the worst of it. Perhaps the worst of it was those long stretches where he did nothing. Those long stretches of peace that turned to dread and…"
Faith stared at the driver, her eyes threatening tears. A bizarre sensation swept through her, a feeling of vibration. The world outside the car, moving past them, seemed to haze over and cloud. The vibration reached into her body and set up a sympathetic trembling.
"I apologize." the driver said, quietly. "I overstepped my bounds."
The sensation was subsiding, but Faith remained uneasy. "I feel…"
"You feel the leaving song, my dear. More accurately, you sing the leaving song. You are not running from something, child. You are not leaving anyone. You are running from everything, and leaving everything."
Faith stared. Crazy, she thought. Just a crazy old lady.
"But…enough." the crazy stranger said. "Ten miles ahead is a restaurant that serves a fine soup and delicious sandwiches. You are hungry, aren’t you?"
Faith’s stomach growled in agreement.
The driver chuckled. "Until then, enjoy the warmth. There will be other rides, but you must remain wary, child. Promise me."
Unsure of what else to do, and seeing no harm in it, Faith did so.
The driver seemed satisfied. Guiding the car expertly with one hand, she reached into a compartment between them and brought out a bill. She reached it to Faith, without making eye contact. "Please take it." she said. "You will need it."
Faith began to demur, when the driver turned her gaze back. There was something in those eyes. Something that caused the vibration to return. Something that made refusal impossible. She took the bill, with a hand that surprised her by remaining steady.
A few minutes later they arrived at a lonely wooden building by the side of the road. Lights blazed out into dusk from two windows and the smell of soup hung thick in the air.
As Faith left the car the driver spoke a final time.
"When you began to hear the song, child — was it in a dream?"
Faith hesitated. Then nodded.
"And what was the dream about?"
Faith sighed, feeling silly but compelled nonetheless. "I dreamt of my father’s gun." she said.
"A good portent indeed." Those eyes flashed, and she sounded amused. "Make me a final promise, please.
Faith touched the money now curled around the knife in her pocket. What harm could there be?
"Listen for the cat." the driver told her. "He’s looking for you, and he’s a wily creature, but synchronicity is far from certain. Promise."
Faith did so, trying rather weakly to convince herself that this was simply a harmless madwoman asking for meaningless promises. But those eyes wouldn’t let her, nor would that vibrating sensation that had now sank deep into her, barely discernable but defiantly there.
Before she closed the door, Faith asked a question of her own.
"What’s your name?"
The older woman cocked her head. She gazed at Faith for a long moment.
"My friends call me Char." she said, simply. "And I must go. I have appointments to keep."
Faith thanked her and let the heavy door swing shut. The big car rumbled from the gravel parking lot and roared away down the road. East, back the way they came.
Faith pulled the bill from her pocket and started. It claimed to be a 40 dollar bill, and boasted a portrait of a strange man with blank eyes and a disturbing smile. In all other respects, however, it appeared real.
Just a crazy old lady after all.
But, having no other options — and less than two dollars in change — she entered the warm restaurant and ordered the soup of the day and a roast beef sandwich. To avoid a possible bad scene, she offered to pay in advance with the strange bill. It was accepted by the bored looking cashier without a blink and she was given thirty-four dollars in change in equally odd smaller bills.
She was too tired and hungry to worry for the moment. She sat down and ate, and enjoyed the warm atmosphere of the otherwise empty restaurant.
The soup and sandwich were as delicious as promised.
