A Terrible Beauty: What Teachers Know but Seldom Tell outside the Staff Room (20 page)

She considered. “How far is that?”

He wiped rain from his eyes. “Four, five hours,
maybe.”

She looked forward out the glass, thinking, then
turned back, mind made up. “I’ve got to try it.”

He slapped the roof with the flat of his hand,
sending water into his face. “Dammit, it’s too high! You’ll get out
in the middle, and stall. Once your exhaust pipe’s under water you
won’t have any power.”

She frowned, not understanding. “No power?” She
revved the engine. “I’ve got plenty, I’ll make it.”

He made one last try. “Look, this isn’t a joke, that
water could sweep you right off the bridge.”

She nodded, not listening, said “I’ll see you,” and
pulled away.

He sprinted to his truck to follow. By the time he
made the road, she was already headed into the coffee brown flood,
sending up wings of white water in her wake, as if speed would take
her through. Stomach knotted tight, he watched as she plowed her
way to the center of the bridge. That was as far as she got. He
slammed his hand down on the steering wheel. The stupid, stupid
bitch.

He hit the water in second gear, opened his door,
watching swiftly sweeping java rise to his floorboards as he
steered to the right guard rail and set the brake. That was it—any
deeper and his tailpipe would go under. He was still twenty feet
from her, but it would have to do. Taking a tow belt from behind
the seat, he stepped gingerly into muddy water. Gnawingly cold, it
clawed its way to his knees, and instantly, his legs and feet
ached.

As he came around his open door, the fast moving
current slid her car up against the guardrail where it stopped,
water backed halfway up the door. Over roiling water he heard her
muted scream from inside. The water was rising. It lapped at the
guardrails now.

How long did he have before it reached his tailpipe?
Five minutes, ten? Numb hands fumbling, he wrapped the yellow tow
belt once around the bumper, looping it over the tow hook. There
wasn’t much time, now. The water undercut the eight by eight
guardrail posts and the rail would go—her with it.

Sliding aching feet forward through the current, he
grimaced, careful to keep tension on the belt so it wouldn’t slip.
What was he doing out here soaked in icy water to his thighs? It
was her own stubbornness got her here. He could be warm in the cab
of his truck, halfway home by now. And if she was swept down the
creek so much better for him. Yet here he was making an ass of
himself—again.

Solange climbed out to sit in the driver’s window,
arms braced on the roof. “What do I do now?” She sounded scared. He
made it to the back of her car, looped the belt around her
submerged bumper. Bracing a hand against the cold steel, he eased
one cramping leg, feet dead as wood.

“Get out here, come on, on the root come on, come
on!” She watched the swirling water fearfully, wiping tangled hair
out of her face. “But my car— “ He had no time for this. “Leave it
out of gear, we’ll get it if we can. Let’s go.” She tossed him the
bag with her laptop and scrambled out over the roof, sliding down
the back window, soaked skirt climbing her thighs.

He noticed that somehow she’d managed to stay in her
heels and hot guilt flashed through him, leaving him thrumming,
breathless. If his feet hadn’t hurt so badly he might have smiled
at the absurdity of it. He drew her to him over the trunk by an
ankle, keeping his eyes on her face, then turned his back. “Climb
on.”

“I can walk.” Just then he was nearly swept from his
feet by a log skimming just under the surface. It grated painfully
across his shin as he struggled to step over it. He swore
elaborately. “Look, my feet are frozen, I’m not in the mood to
argue. Get on or I’ll drag you off and toss you over my shoulder.”
On the trunk lid she considered, rain dripping off the end of her
nose. “Okay, turn around, then.” She clung to him piggy-back
fashion and he began shuffling back. Gripping the sopping tow strap
with his left hand, he supported her with his right under her knee,
warm skin burning his hand.

“Would you mind?” He looked back, incredulous, water
swirling about his knees sucking at him. “What?”

“Your hand.”

“My hand what?”

“Move it, is what.”

He strained his neck to look back at her, not
believing. “Pardon the hell out of me.” As soon as he took it away
he felt her begin to slip. She tightened her hold around his neck,
and he had to pull at her wrists to get air.

“Jesus, cut it out, will you?”

She shinnied up his back, thighs clamping down. “I’m
slipping, I can’t help it.”

“Don’t worry,” he said, slipping his hand again into
the satiny crease behind her knee. “I promise I won’t enjoy it.”
His Toyota greeted them with ominous silence.

Stalled.

He set her inside on the drivers seat and she
scrambled to the other seat, bare legs flashing. Climbing in after
her, he groaned, dragging numb feet after him. Water lapping at the
floorboards, he turned the key.

The engine caught, and he let out the clutch slowly,
taking up the slack in the belt. Slipping into low range, he tried
to back out and tires spun, churning muddy water.

“Uh, uh,” he said, easing forward to slacken the
strap. “Your car’s wedged, can’t get it.” He unhooked them, let the
strap go, watched as it was swept away on the current, then backed
them out. On dry pavement, water still sloshing around their feet,
he stopped, letting bilge drain onto the road.

Numb, tired, he cranked the heater on high, and
waited for it to bring the feeling back to his legs. They peered
out fogged windows as a splintered maple bobbed down the creek,
rolled over the upstream rail, limbs flailing, finally coming to
rest against her car.

“Oh.” She moaned. “My car— “ Acting as a dam, the
tree backed the brown flood until it topped the roof. “Can’t we do
anything?”

What did he care about her car? His feet ached like
they’d been beaten with hoses. “We did it. I feel like I’ve been
worked over by the Greek secret police. I’m going home to warm
up.”

She hugged her legs to her, rocking on the seat,
trembling. “Doesn’t this junker have a heater?”

Jesus, she had guts. “This junker just kept your ass
out of the Siuslaw.” He slid the temperature lever back and forth,
but it stayed cold. “Sorry, thermostat’s gummed up again.” She
shivered, hair slicked flat about her face. Her blouse clung to
her, soaked through. She was a mess. A damned appealing one.

Drying his face with a towel from the back, he tossed
her the towel. She looked a defenseless sixteen sitting there
soaked through. Looks could lie.

“What about me? How do I get home now that you left
my car out there?” He’d had it with her whining. “I give up. Walk?
Fly? Maybe you can order somebody to take you across, huh?”

She glared at him. “You are a bastard, aren’t you. I
don’t know why you came out to get me.”

That was an easy one. “I’d do the same for any stray
cat—or bitch.”

Looking mad enough to spit, she reached for the door
handle.

He leaned across to belt her in, guarding the buckle
with his hand.

“You’re not going anywhere.” She flashed a dangerous
glance, balling her fists, teeth bared.

He was afraid she might claw, bite. “I want out,” she
said, voice rising. “Take your hand off that!”

He was calm now. “You know anybody out here?” Her
breathing came fast, breasts rising, falling. Every third breath a
small tremor shook her, chattering her teeth. She looked like a
cornered kitten. He was bitten once by a kitten.

“In Elk River? Only Myrtle,” she said, voice
trembling as she pointed across the creek. “She lives over
there.”

“That’s what I thought.” Making a decision, he gunned
the Landcruiser, heading for home.

“Where are you taking me?”

“The only place I can think of —home.”

Her eyes flashed dangerously at the word. “Oh, no.”
She shook her head no.

Hearing panic in her voice, he looked over at her.
“Don’t make it sound so lascivious. Hot shower, fire, soup,
blanket—that’s the deal. Or I can dump you right here.”

She looked out the window at trees flashing past. “I
have credit cards,” she said, voice breathy, weak. “Is there a
motel?”

“Not on my way, and I’m not taking a three hour
detour to Florence. Look at the road, at the sky, it’s still coming
down. There could be ten mud slides blocking the road between here
and the coast already.”

She hugged her legs to her chest, head on her knees.
Wave after wave of tremors washed over her, leaving her gasping.
Moaning softly; she rocked, eyes shut.

Suddenly tired, he wanted to make peace. “Look, I’m
tired, I’m cold, I’m hungry, and I’m not any more thrilled with
this than you are. I just want to go home. Don’t waste your time
being afraid of me.”

She turned her head, ear on her bare knee, eyes
unfocused. “I’m not,” she said voice low. “I’m not afraid of you. I
just can’t. I can’t go home with you.”

Puzzled, he drove on through the cold rain. When the
road emerged from the trees to follow the bank of the river, the
rain let up some, and he could see the Siuslaw running alongside
the road slow and wide. Melting snow filled it to its banks, brown
water reaching the lower limbs of firs on the far side. He turned
off onto a gravel road by the river, stopped, yanking the hand
brake. “This is it.”

She moaned, not seeming to hear.

As he opened her door she made herself smaller,
hugging bare legs close. He touched her cheek, and felt a cadaver.
You didn’t realize how warm were the living until you’d touched the
dead, and she was dead cold. Now it made sense—she had hypothermia,
had it bad.

She wouldn’t live long if she got much colder, and
there wasn’t much time to warm her up. Taking her icy wrists in his
big hands, he pried them apart, pulling her out of the cab.

“We’ve got to warm you up, kid,” he said, “I’ve felt
warmer corpses.” He slung her over his shoulder, finding her
surprisingly heavy as dead weight. Somehow he got her in the boat,
and up to the house. In the upstairs bath, he stripped off her
heels and lowered her gently into the tub, pillowing her head on a
folded towel. The tub’s brass nozzle belched steaming hot water
into the old claw-foot. She lay, moaning fitfully, the cold room
swirling with steam. Had he been quick enough? If her core
temperature fell to 96, her heart would stop. From the feel of her
she was close.

On his knees next to the iron tub, arms over the cold
rim, he gently massaged her feet, legs, hands, arms, temples. As he
worked he watched her. For all her sarcasm, all her toughness, face
open in sleep, she was a sleeping leopard, claws sheathed for the
moment.

Water lapping at her chin, she drew his hand back to
her cheek. “Mmm,” she said, “that’s nice. I was so cold.” She
squinted up at him. “Where is this?”

“My house.” She moaned again, eyes flickering open.
“Just what are you doing?”

“You were cold, I drew you a bath.” Her head lifted
unsteadily off the towel and predictably it slipped into the water.
Irritably she pushed his hands away, “Stop it, I’m okay.” Reaching
down, she smoothed her skirt. She scowled through half-opened eyes.
“I’m okay, you can get out now.”

He nodded, sat back, drying his arms with a towel.
“You’re welcome.”

“And by the way, I run my own baths, thank you.”

“Letting you go into a coma would have been much more
delicate.”

“I need dry clothes. I’ve got to go.”

Unsurprised, he leaned back against the sink,
crossing his arms. “It’s getting dark. You’re not taking my boat
and you’re not taking my truck, so what? You’re going to swim the
Siuslaw and walk ten miles back to your submarine? I’m not giving
you dry clothes for that. Wear your wet ones and have a nice
trip.”

“I . . .I can’t stay here.”

“Okay, fine.”

He went outshutting the old panel door behind him,
and the crystal doorknob fell off its spindle to crack onto the
tile. Cursing energetically, he strode for the stairs, her voice
following him down the dark hallway.

“Bring me some dry clothes!”

Like hell he would.

• • •

Solange cringed in embarrassment, hands pressed over
her eyes.

He seen her as she flopped like a dead fish in the
tub. Well, why should she care. He must hate her anyway for what
she was doing to his life, his career. He must— And yet he
persisted in treating her with the most infuriating kindness.

And now for the second time today, he’d saved her
life. Why, when all he had to do was do nothing, and all his
problems would be, if not solved, at least set aside for the time
being? Why would anyone do what he had done? for a stranger, for an
enemy?

Lying back until water tickled the down on her upper
lip, she listened, eyes closed, to the overflow’s idiotic babbling,
remembering the touch of his hand on her face. Willing herself not
to think, she concentrated on the water, so hot it hurt, as it
wicked the cold out of her. Moment by moment, she felt her strength
return.

She brought up a foot to cling to the brass knobs
flanking the long spigot. Cold, slick, beaded with condensation,
they squeaked satisfyingly when she worked them with her toes. She
closed her eyes, dreading the hours ahead. Stupid to try to run her
way across the flood, but now there was the night. Not more than a
few hours before she could sleep. Really, how hard could it be? To
eat, drink sparingly, say little, reveal nothing, ask nothing,
grant nothing, keep her feelings wrapped up tight. How hard? Twelve
hours—not long at all.

She smiled, comforted, opening her eyes. She
could—she would—make it through one night in his house. She would
leave it the same as she had come. The same woman. No
different.