{"id":417,"date":"2019-12-07T14:43:25","date_gmt":"2019-12-07T19:43:25","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/donnadufresne.com\/~donnadu1\/?p=417"},"modified":"2019-12-07T14:43:25","modified_gmt":"2019-12-07T19:43:25","slug":"escape","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/donnadufresne.com\/~donnadu1\/escape\/","title":{"rendered":"ESCAPE"},"content":{"rendered":"\n

Prelude: <\/em><\/strong>A short piece originally preceded by\na more substantial work, also an orchestral introduction to opera, however not\nlengthy enough to be considered an overture.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

 \u201cCan\u2019t see a God damned thing,\u201d\nhe mumbled out loud while trying to wipe the condensation from the windshield.\n\u201cShould have gotten that cataract surgery they nagged me about.\u201d<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

The windshield wipers squeaked and thumped across the ice mist that was\nforming in the low spots along the creek. Omar drove with hands tight on the\nsteering wheel, bent forward, eyes squinting, as if getting closer to the\nwindshield could improve his vision. Dusk was closing in fast, a dark-winged\nangel lifting him from the burden of the monotony to which he had been chained.\nThe nose of his Detroit-made Chrysler was pointed east, but not for long.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Portamento: <\/em><\/strong>A mild glissando between two notes for an expressive effect.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

            \u201cWhat do you mean, he\u2019s missing?\u201d\nFrancis snapped back at her sister Lenora on the phone.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

            \u201cJust that. He\u2019s missing,\u201d Lenora\nsniffed.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

            This was the last thing she needed,\nFrancis thought. She had a houseful of guests who had just sat down to a very\nlate Thanksgiving dinner with dried-out turkey because her daughter, Faye-Lynn was\ntwo hours late. Life was stressful enough, what with kids in college, her\nuntenured professorship, essays to correct and a sulky husband who had recently\nlost his job. She was not in the mood for Lenora\u2019s sniveling ineptitude.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

            \u201cOh stop being such a drama queen,\nLenora. Of course he\u2019s not missing. He probably just went out to the store or\nsomething.\u201d<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

            \u201cNo. You don\u2019t understand. We\nfinished up dinner about 3:00\nand he didn\u2019t want dessert. He never turns down dessert. You know how he likes\nhis pie. But he insisted that he was too tired and wanted to get home before\ndark.  We\u2019ve been trying to get him to\ngive up driving, but you know how stubborn he can be. Well, about 5:00, we brought some pumpkin pie out\nto the farm, and, well, his car wasn\u2019t there. I didn\u2019t think anything of it at\nfirst, but the lights hadn\u2019t even been turned on, and I thought, well, if he\u2019d\nrun out to the store, the lights would have been on, and it was the funniest\nthing. The door was locked.\u201d<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

            \u201cWhat?\u201d Francis interrupted, \u201cWhat\ndo you mean the door was locked? That house hasn\u2019t been locked in years. Not\neven when we were growing up. Does he even have a key to the door?\u201d<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

            \u201cWell, that\u2019s just it,\u201d Lenora\ntreaded carefully, \u201cyou see, Rusty put in a lock for him just a month ago.\nThere have been some break-ins, especially out Hadley road where the farms are\nfar apart and mostly abandoned. We thought he should start locking up.\u201d<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

            \u201cHuh,\u201d Francis snorted as she lit up\na cigarette, \u201cthat must\u2019ve gone over well.\u201d<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

            \u201cHe wasn\u2019t too happy about it, but\nthen we got Harold Krider to talk to him. Harold lost his farm a year ago,\nafter his wife died. A bunch of hoodlum punks walked right into the house while\nhe was out grocery shopping at Mejer\u2019s. They rummaged through all his stuff and\nwhen they didn\u2019t get what they wanted, they set fire to the place.  It was a blessing that he wasn\u2019t there. Who\nknows what they would have done if he\u2019d been home. The house was gone before\nHarold got back, and he lost everything between the smoke and water damage. He\nsaid he didn\u2019t much care about the house, but the worst part was losing Mary\u2019s\nphotographs. He can\u2019t recall his wife\u2019s face anymore. He\u2019s living with his\ndaughter, you remember Kathleen from church. They live down near Flint somewhere. Harold says\nfolks down there wouldn\u2019t think of stepping into the backyard without locking\nup the house. Dad \u2013 he didn\u2019t like the idea, but he said he\u2019d rather get a lock\nthan be forced to move in with us. Or even worse \u2013 with you,\u201d Lenora chuckled.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Counterpoint: <\/em><\/strong>Two or three melodic lines played at the same time.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

With the shroud of darkness came a levity Omar had not felt in years.\nHow long had it been? Esther had been gone so long now, he\u2019d lost count. When\nwas it that he\u2019d lost his freedom – his independence? He knew his daughters meant\nwell, but they saw him as a stubborn old coot. He\u2019d burn the place down\nhimself, God damn it, before he\u2019d leave the farm. They\u2019d have to take him out\nin a pine box. There was nothing wrong with him at eighty nine. He could still\ndrive and look after himself, and he wasn\u2019t popping pills like most people his\nage. Didn\u2019t even take blood pressure medicine for Christ sakes. Told the doctor\nhe could go to hell if he thought he was going to help him win a vacation trip\nfrom the pharmaceutical company.  <\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Sometimes he wondered about his daughters. They were like aliens to him\n\u2013 weeds he couldn\u2019t possibly have sown from his loins, like corn that cross\npollinated downwind and just showed up one day in the middle of your soybeans.\nThey belonged to Esther. It was her fault. He was too busy on the farm when they\nwere young, then traveling round the country for Monsanto. She kept him away\nfrom them, and they from him, as if he would devour them in the way a hog is\napt to devour its young if you\u2019re not careful to separate them. <\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Lenora was weak. Too weak to bear her own seed and easily scattered\nwhichever way the wind blew. She didn\u2019t know her own mind. She was easily\nfrazzled and older than her years as if she were a throwback to his own\nmother\u2019s generation. She wore her hair pulled back in that stringy bun, flat-chested\nand skinny as a rail beneath those baggy dresses and she was stuck out on that\nfarm, baking pies. Just like Esther, all wrapped up in the church, too pious and\na little too quick to judge.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Then there was the other one. He didn\u2019t know what to make of her.  She never took root \u2013 always an outsider.\nEven in the family. Never fit in at the school, or church, though he didn\u2019t\ncare about it as much as Esther had. Had her sights somewhere else her whole\nlife. Flew away like a goddamned milkweed soon as she graduated. She hadn\u2019t\nstopped moving since, although she\u2019d lived longer in Boston than anywhere else. He was downright\nsurprised when she\u2019d gotten married and produced three children, one after the\nother. They must be full grown by now. Hadn\u2019t seen them in what \u2013 six or seven\nyears? He heard she was a professor in a college. Made the students call her\n\u201cdoctor\u201d for Christ sakes. Well, he guessed she\u2019d earned it alright. She\u2019d put\nherself through school and never asked for a goddamned dime.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

He thought about how Lenora scrutinized everything Francis did. How\nshe\u2019d snicker over the burned casseroles and stringy bread Francis would offer\nup at Thanksgiving. That was back when Francis made the effort to drive out to Michigan for\nThanksgiving and Christmas, before she got bogged down with her own family and\nteaching. After each visit, Lenora would have enough fodder to keep her going\nfor weeks.  Jokes about Francis\u2019s\ncooking, how she\u2019d gained a few pounds, and how cluttered her house was that\ntime Lenora and Rusty took the Winnebago to Maine and stopped in Massachusetts to visit. <\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThey are so different, Francis and Skip, and wasn\u2019t the youngest girl\na solemn little thing? She didn\u2019t smile the whole time they were out here. Hard\nto believe she\u2019s in college already. Been so long since we\u2019ve seen them, hasn\u2019t\nit, Dad?\u201d <\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Lenora had rattled on about it just that afternoon while he was trying\nto watch the football game.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

He thought about how Lenora had actually gloated when Skip lost his job\na few months back. Like Esther, and even his own mother and his sisters, his\nyoungest daughter was soured by her own limitations and sweetened by the\nhardships of others. <\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

What was it Francis taught? Was it history? No, that weren\u2019t it. It was\nsome new fangled subject that he\u2019d never heard of and had no use for. Something\nabout women, as if they were a real subject. Hadn\u2019t he made a study of women\nhis whole life? Maybe he deserved a fancy college degree. He couldn\u2019t keep up\nwith everything \u2013 all the changes in the family, the world going to hell in a\nhand basket. How long had Esther been gone?<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Motif: <\/em><\/strong>Primary theme or subject that is developed.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

            Francis was only slightly annoyed by\nLenora\u2019s dig. She had learned to block out half of what her sister said years\nago, finding the country cadence of her voice and the Midwestern accent a\ntedious reminder of her own small town roots.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

            \u201cGet to the point, will you?\u201d she\nsighed, \u201cWe\u2019re in the middle of dinner, and I have to go.\u201d<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

            \u201cDinner this late? My, aren\u2019t we\nhoity-toity eating dinner at 10:00\nat night,\u201d Lenora teased.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

She had shifted with ease from sniveling caution over having to inform\nher sister that their father had gone missing, into a well-practiced\ncondescension cloaked in humor.  <\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Lenora sounded just like their mother, Francis thought. Mom had been a\nGod-fearing Lutheran, but she could twist the knife of judgment into your gut with\na smile as if she were serving up a tray of brownies.  Francis rolled her eyes. She knew Lenora did\nnot appreciate her cosmopolitan lifestyle. She also knew what Lenora was\nthinking and what the shift in her tone meant. Whoever heard of serving Thanksgiving dinner at 10:00 at night? Mom would be rolling in her\ngrave. <\/em>The ball was no longer in her court. Francis got defensive.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI told you, Fay-Lynn was late. We were supposed to eat at eight\no-clock. Anyway, how do you know he\u2019s missing? Maybe he just stopped by Floyd\u2019s\nplace for a game of pinochle.  Maybe he\nlost his key and was headed back to your place. You probably passed each other\non the highway, for crying-out-loud.\u201d<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNo, that\u2019s not it,\u201d Lenora stalled not wanting to lose the few points\nshe\u2019d gained, \u201cWhen we got out to the farm there wasn\u2019t any sign that he had\nbeen home. It snowed out here today. Just a few inches after dad arrived for\ndinner. It was done by the time he left. There was no sign that a car had been\nup the driveway.\u201d<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWell, did you call Floyd, or Harold? Maybe he stopped by for dessert\nwith some of his old friends,\u201d Francis offered.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNobody\u2019s seen him. We did call the police, but they won\u2019t activate a\nmissing person\u2019s report for 48 hours. I think you should come out here,\u201d Lenora\nadded.     <\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

There. She\u2019d said it, the dreaded thing. She braced herself for the\nstorm.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAre you crazy?! I can\u2019t just pick up and leave in the middle of\nThanksgiving! It\u2019s a 14-hour drive, for Christ sake. I haven\u2019t seen Fay-Lynn\nsince she left for college, and she\u2019s brought this boyfriend with her\u2026oh, for\nGod\u2019s sake. I have fifty-two essays to correct by Monday. I can\u2019t just take\ntime off \u2013 I don\u2019t have personal days \u2013 I don\u2019t have tenure. You think my life\nis easy? You think I have money and freedom? I have nothing! I work my ass off\njust like I have my whole life. I\u2019m still paying my own way. I mean \u2013 what have\nyou got on your agenda \u2013 an apple pie for the church supper? Jesus, Lenora.\nStep up for a change. Call me when you know more.\u201d<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Francis slammed the receiver on the phone. That was another thing. Why\nthe Christ couldn\u2019t Lenora call her on her cell phone? She\u2019d given her the\nnumber a gazillion times. Still, she called the land line every time. She was\nlucky they still kept it. Anyone in their right mind would get a cell phone,\nsend a text message, or an e-mail if they lived in the right century. Did\nLenora even have a computer? <\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Francis pictured her sister who was two years younger in body and\ntwenty years older in mind. Lenora still wore the same bib aprons their mother\nhad worn when they were children, house dresses, clunky shoes and bobby pins. She\nlived only a few miles away from their dad. She\u2019d married her high school\nsweetheart and moved into a small house on his family farm. She had no ambition\nfor bigger things, never worked outside the home a day in her life. She was\ncontent to live the same life her mother had lived: church on Sunday, pot lucks,\ncanned peaches and plenty of pies to bake. Just the thought of such a small\nlife turned Francis\u2019s stomach and an unbearable weight pressed down upon her\nchest. It couldn\u2019t be a heart attack. It was too familiar \u2013 a feeling of\noppression she had born throughout her life. It was a weight that carried the\nimage of women who were burned as witches or crushed beneath stones for\nstepping outside their prescripted roles. Her sister would always be the good\none. She would always be the witch. <\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Francis poured a fresh glass of pinot noir and rejoined the family. The\nturkey slumped in the middle of the clutter and the conversation prattled on\nwithout her. Her daughter played footsies with the boyfriend under the table.\nWhat was his name? Skip pretended to be interested in his children while he\nplayed with his i-phone on the table. <\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

In between tidbits of conversation and half-hearted bites of a meal\nthat had taken her twelve hours to make, including the cleaning and cooking, there\nwere totally irrelevant text messages being bounced around the world. Who the\nhell was he texting, anyway? Suddenly, Francis felt an unbearable pounding in\nher right temple. Another migraine coming on, she supposed. And those essays\nsat in a black leather bag in her study, the ones she had to correct. She excused\nherself before dessert. She had to escape.  Just like her dad.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

The pain in her head was unbearable. It was more than a migraine. Her\nheart thundered unnaturally in her chest as she reached into the back of her\ncloset and pulled out the old coat. It was her security blanket, the scratchy\nwool plaid that smelled faintly of wood smoke and bacon from her mother\u2019s\nkitchen, where it had hung on a peg all those years. The sleeves were\nthreadbare, and the buttons had popped off long ago. It used to be too big for\nher, but now it barely fit around her ample hips. Bright light seemed to pierce\nher eyes. She thought she had turned the lights off. She thought about the\nessays she had to correct and how young people don\u2019t seem to have anything\nworthwhile to say. And there was all the cleaning up to do. All those dishes\nand turkey grease. More than once she had wished she had been born a man.\nFrancis curled up on the bed, remembering that time she had run away in that\ncoat her father always wore to cut wood.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Capriccio: <\/em><\/strong>A quick, improvisational, spirited piece of music.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

There was a sudden thud against the passenger side of the car.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat the hell was that,\u201d Omar muttered out loud.  <\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

The sound of his own voice startled him and it seemed to rattle around\nhis head like marbles in a jar. Omar\u2019s hands tightened on the wheel.  The Chrysler shimmied as he pulled onto the\nshoulder. Good thing he was only going thirty. <\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cMust have been a deer,\u201d he thought. <\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

His heart was pounding. He sat for awhile, trembling until he was able\nto uncurl his fingers from the steering wheel. It couldn\u2019t have been a very big\ndeer. He wasn\u2019t jolted around from the impact, even though he didn\u2019t wear a\nseatbelt and never would until his dying day, no matter what the government\nsaid. <\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

He remembered the time he\u2019d hit that moose on a trip to the Upper Peninsula. It was the first time he and Esther had\ngone away without the girls. They\u2019d rented a cabin. Where was that?  Christ, his memory was fading. Things that\nhappened in the past were more like a crazy dream. All mixed up.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

 Was the cabin on a lake? Or was\nit on a river? Where\u2019d he hit that moose, anyway? Good thing they had the\ntruck. It was like driving a tank. That moose barely made a dent in the fender.\nHe\u2019d pulled the fender out with the wench and they went on their merry way.\nFunny, he couldn\u2019t remember anything else about that weekend with Esther. Just\nthe moose.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Omar was startled out of his reverie by a fierce knocking on the driver\nside window. It nearly made him jump out of his skin. He\u2019d just gotten his\ndamned heart to stop pounding, and there it went again. He\u2019d been having\ntrouble with that. Once his heart got to pounding he had the dickens of a time\ntrying to calm it down.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Jesus Christ, it was a kid! There was a kid banging on his window. A boy\nor maybe it was a girl with a bloody gash on the head.  He rolled the window down.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat the heck! You just hit me with your car! I wasn\u2019t even walking in\nthe road \u2013 I was way over on the side! What \u2013 are you blind, old man? Ughh!  It hurts!\u201d The kid suddenly crumpled to the\nground.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Omar was shaking like a leaf. He managed to open the door, but the kid\nwas blocking the door.  He leaned out the\nwindow.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou alright?  Hey!  You! \nYou alright?\u201d<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

He pushed the door and the body rolled over flat on the ground so he\nwas able to open the door and step out over it. Gingerly, he kicked the kid who\nwas barely visible, wrapped up in an oversized red plaid hunting jacket that\nlooked like something he would have worn back in the thirties.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cOuch! Don\u2019t touch me!\u201d the kid sat up on elbows and squinted up at\nOmar.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Omar still couldn\u2019t figure out if it was a girl or a boy. The child\ncouldn\u2019t have been more than thirteen or fourteen. Hard to tell at that age.\nThese days, anyway. They all dressed alike, girls and boys. He held out his\nhand, thick and calloused from years of farming. He was shocked by the slender\nbone-like fingers, cold as ice that clawed at his own gnarled and arthritic\ntalon. He pulled upwards and the child rose up seemingly from the dead, and stumbled\nforward. He put his arm around the waif-like shoulders and brought her\/him\nlimping around to the passenger door.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

They sat for awhile, two trembling birds in the dark of night. He kept\nthe engine running and turned the heat up. The kid slumped down into the wool\ncoat that must have been five sizes too big.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Omar cleared his throat, \u201cYou alright? Can I give you a ride somewhere?\nYou want to go to the hospital or something?\u201d <\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

He wished he had packed some water or food in the trunk. He was so\ncareful to pack his bags before he left for Lenora\u2019s, knowing that it would buy\nhim some time for the get-away if he didn\u2019t have to go back to the house after\ndinner. But he hadn\u2019t thought of packing anything to eat. The kid didn\u2019t reply.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

There was something about the way the kid moped. The high forehead\nplastered with curly black bangs. \u201cYou know, you kind of remind me of my older\ndaughter when she was about your age. What are you, thirteen? Fourteen? She had\nhair like that. No matter how short she cut it, she still had those wild black\ncurls that stuck to her forehead,\u201d Omar paused, waiting for a response.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

He remembered something strange just then. Francis was such a handful\nwhen she hit her teenage years. It was the late sixties and she was rebellious.\nHe seemed to remember something about her running away around Thanksgiving.\nShe\u2019d gotten ticked at her mother about something or other. It was cold out.\nThey were expecting Esther\u2019s parents, from Minnesota. They were due to arrive any\nminute. It must\u2019ve been the night before \u2013 that would\u2019ve been Wednesday.\nAnyway, Francis took off on her bicycle about dusk, and after a couple of\nhours, Esther began to fret. He wasn\u2019t too worried about it, himself, knowing\nthat she\u2019d get hungry and come home, but he had to keep the peace, so he hopped\nin the truck and drove up and down those long, lonely roads looking for her. He\nhad the deer-jacking lights on top of the cab. It was like driving under a\nflood light. Then, about four miles away from the farm, he saw her walking her\nbike along the side of the road. There she was head hunkered down inside that\nbig old wool jacket that had belonged to his father\u2026<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Omar looked over at the kid, \u201cHuh,\u201d he grunted. \u201cIsn\u2019t that something?\u201d<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat?\u201d the kid snapped.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWell, that coat you\u2019re wearing, it looks almost identical to one that\nbelonged to my dad, way back when. I was just remembering my daughter running\naway in that coat. Same old red and black plaid like we used to wear for woodcutting\nand hunting before the government stepped in and made us wear orange. Had a hat\nthat matched. Might even have had mittens and britches at one point.\u201d<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI\u2019m not a girl,\u201d the kid sulked.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWell, don\u2019t worry about it. I can\u2019t tell anymore. You young folk all\nlook alike after awhile,\u201d <\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Omar put his left blinker on and pulled off the gravel shoulder and\nonto the road, contemplating turning around back toward Hadley.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhere to then? You want a lift home?\u201d<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNo!\u201d the kid snarled, \u201cHome\u2019s the last place I want to go. Just drop\nme off in Flint,\nif you\u2019re going that far.\u201d<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Omar sighed, his heart still pounding away in his chest. He didn\u2019t know\nif he had enough patience left in him to put up with a sullen, spoiled brat of\na kid, and he had no intention of driving down to Flint. His intent was to drive up north and\nfind that cabin he and Esther had rented that time he hit the moose. Was that\nwhere he was going? What road was this, anyway? Had he missed the turn-off?<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cSo, where\u2019re you coming from, son?\u201d<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

 Omar liked the way the word son<\/em> had pried itself loose from his\nlips. That was something he\u2019d always wanted to be able to say, the word \u201cson\u201d\nin that grandfatherly way \u2013 the way his own father would have used it when they\nsat down to have a heart-to-heart talk. But he hadn\u2019t been dealt such a hand.\nHe had been saddled with daughters and trapped in a house full of women his\nwhole life. It seemed to him, that he had always lived in a petticoat prison.\nFirst tied up in his mother\u2019s apron strings, his sisters tying the knot even\ntighter with their clutching ways, forcing him to stay on the farm, which, when\nyou come right down to it, was just another woman tying you down. Then the wife\nand his own daughters who were nothing more than jail keepers shackling him in\ntheir good intentions. His only escape from the harshness of that soft and\nfeminine world had been the war. He\u2019d have traded driving a tank through France and\nbeing shot at by Germans any day for the quiet desperation of his so-called\nlife which had been metered out in years by a woman\u2019s hand. The shrapnel in his\nleft knee was the only reminder that he had once tasted freedom. For six months\non the front line he had felt alive.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI\u2019m not your son. And it\u2019s none of your business,\u201d  <\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

The clenched-teeth reply was so well practiced, Omar knew that the kid\nmust have said it a thousand times to someone else in his life, practiced it in\nthe mirror, grunted it into his pillow at night and sneered the words as he\nslammed the door to do his chores in the morning.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Who did the kid remind him of? He wondered. It wasn\u2019t really Francis,\nbut someone close. The way he held his jaw, jutting forward so that his lower\nlip protruded into an Indian pout; eyes narrowed like little slits cut out in a\nfreckled mask. All full of piss and vinegar bottled up inside.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou know, I\u2019m not going anywhere\u2019s near Flint. I was headed up north, to tell the\ntruth,\u201d Omar tried to explain.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI don\u2019t care,\u201d the kid mumbled, \u201cI\u2019ll go wherever. Just away.\u201d<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Omar wondered what could have happened to set the kid off that way.\nWhat terrible thing had riled him up enough to leave his home? Did he have a\nmother? A deer-jacking father who was patrolling back roads at this very\nmoment? He didn\u2019t want to pry, but he did know from experience that a kid\ndoesn\u2019t just up and leave home for no reason. Hadn\u2019t he run away once? When was\nthat? What reason would he have had to leave\u2026?<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou can drop me off wherever you want,\u201d the kid yawned and tucked his\nhead further down into the jacket, using it as a pillow to lean against the\nwindow.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Sonatina: <\/em><\/strong>A short or brief sonata.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Lenora shivered as she stood in the middle of the kitchen. She reached\nfor dad\u2019s old hunting jacket, but it was missing from the peg where it had hung\never since she could remember. Funny, she hadn\u2019t thought of it in years. Dad\nmust have put it away somewhere.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI don\u2019t know why he keeps the house so cold. He\u2019s got a full tank of\noil, and the woodstove in the kitchen. You\u2019d think he\u2019d want some heat at his\nage,\u201d she shook her head and went into the parlor to turn up the thermostat.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHuh. That\u2019s odd,\u201d she called out to Rusty who was still in the kitchen.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat?\u201d he asked.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThere\u2019s music on the piano,\u201d she whispered as she turned on the lamp.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

There hadn\u2019t been music on that piano for almost her whole life. No one\nplayed the piano. It had belonged to her grandmother and hadn\u2019t been touched\nsince gram had passed away. The piano had sat like a dry heap of bones in the\ncorner ever since she could remember. Her father wouldn\u2019t let anyone open it up\nand play it. More than once he\u2019d threatened to chop it up for firewood.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Lenora fingered the yellow brittle pages with their thick notes dancing\nacross taped edges. She couldn\u2019t imagine who would have been playing the piano.\nSurely it was out of tune. She gently pressed down on one of the black keys and\nit twanged like an old saloon gal. She remembered her grandmother, bent with\nage and barely able to reach the pedals and how she would play those funny old\nsongs and everyone except Dad would gather round and sing.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Canon:<\/em><\/strong> A musical form where\nthe melody or tune is imitated by individual parts at regular intervals. The\nindividual parts may enter at different measures and pitches. The tune may also\nbe played at different speeds, backwards, or inverted.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Omar settled into the road, the pitch black night broken up by a thin\nwhite line, an occasional flurry of snow, the windshield wiper \u2013 squeak, thump\n\u2013 squeak, thump. It was hypnotic, that dry heat of the car and the purr of the\nengine. He remembered a similar drive. Only the car was an old model-T and the\nheat \u2013 well there was none. The transmission whined like an old mare, and the\nroad was rough, still unpaved. He had sat in the passenger seat. An old man had\npicked him up hitchhiking. It was colder than hell \u2013 must\u2019ve been the same time\nof year. He was about fourteen years old, and \u2013 yes \u2013 he\u2019d run away. He\u2019d had a\nfight with his father over some damned thing, and his father\u2019d lit into him.\nKnocked out his front tooth. What were they fighting about? What could have\nbeen so important? <\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

He thought of his daughter Francis, the one that got away. The one who\nescaped as he had tried to do so long ago and his eyes began to tear up, making\nit even harder to drive. That old man in the model-T had turned right around\nand brought Omar home. He guessed it turned out alright. He got his tooth\nfixed, anyway. Never had harsh words with his father again. <\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

He tried to imagine Francis living in Boston and what her life was like. He\u2019d never\nbeen out to visit her. He couldn\u2019t remember what she looked like now. All he\ncould remember was Francis hunkered down in that old coat next to him, lower lip\npuckered out, black curls plastered to her forehead\u2026just like the kid sitting\nthere now.  Why had he fought with his\ndad?<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Omar thought back on the dull walls of that old farmhouse with its\nbrown and gray wallpaper and mixed up patterns in the curtains. It was a black\nand white crazy quilt, that house. The print on the walls never matched the\ndrapes. It was dizzifying, and the air was always too close. Thick and heavy\nfrom his father\u2019s pipe, it sat on your chest. He could feel that nebulous\nweight now, like a curtain of smoke you couldn\u2019t grab and push away. <\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

The piano. That was it. He could see the old upright in the corner of\nthe parlor where his mother gave piano lessons to countless children from town.\nThey paraded out to the farm for half-hour lessons once a week, their\nthick-calved mothers clutching purses and sitting on the bench in the hall.\nOmar would sit on the hooked rug on the floor, playing with blocks of wood while\nhis mother taught. Eventually, he\u2019d sit in his mother\u2019s lap and finger the keys\nuntil she taught him the scales and then how to read the little notes that\ndanced across the page so hopefully.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

 He remembered that tiny glimmer\nof hope, how the strings of notes beckoned him away as if they were little\npixie girls come to save him from the awful silence of the house and the farm\nbeing so far out, and away from town. Sometimes he imagined the black and white\nkeys were a railroad track, his fingers the train. Someday that train would\ncome and he would head east and never look back.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Was that what they\u2019d fought about \u2013 that Thanksgiving he ran away? It\nmust have been after that music teacher from the school came out to visit. What\nwas her name \u2013 Miss Herbert? She\u2019d stopped by to inform his parents there was a\nscholarship available to a music school back East. She hoped that in a few\nyears, they would consider the application process. She said he was very\ntalented and that his mother had taught him well, and that he could go places.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHuh,\u201d Omar mumbled, \u201cgo places, my foot.\u201d<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

He remembered kneeling on the floor in his room upstairs, ear to the\nheat grate so he could hear the conversation in the kitchen. <\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

And then his father\u2019s words, \u201cHe don\u2019t need to be running off to music\nschool. That\u2019s no life for a boy. We need him on the farm. He\u2019s the only one.\nThe rest are daughters. Who\u2019ll run the place?\u201d<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

And his mother\u2019s apologetic concession, \u201cI\u2019m sure he can continue his\nmusic from home, play for the choir, and give lessons like I do.\u201d<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

That was the day the music stopped. It no longer danced across the page\nwith its fragile little banner of hope. The train that ran through his fingers\non the keys just up and froze. Ran out of steam. No sense in following a track\nto nowhere.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

He remembered now, how he came down the back stairs, heavy footed as if\ngravity would pull him through the cracked linoleum in the kitchen and down\ninto the cellar. How he glared at his father and pointed his finger at him and\nscreamed.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou have no right! You have no right to choose my destiny! What makes\nyou think I want to be a stupid farmer, like you!\u201d<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

That\u2019s when his father up and hit him with a left hook. Spitting his\nfront tooth onto the floor, he\u2019d grabbed his father\u2019s wool coat and left the\nhouse. He could still hear the screen door slam behind him, and feel the\nscratchiness of the wool in that coat which was two sizes too big for him. The\nred and black plaid coat his father wore for cutting wood.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Finale: <\/em><\/strong>Movement or passage that concludes the musical composition.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

It was Faye-Lynn who found her. She and Skip had just cleared the table\nfor dessert when they noticed that Francis wasn\u2019t in the kitchen. She went to\nher mom\u2019s room, and there she was \u2013 all curled up in an old red and black plaid\ncoat.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhere\u2019d she find that old thing?\u201d she laughed to herself.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

She went over to the bed and bent over her mother, giving her a little\nnudge to wake her up. But something was wrong. She seemed odd, her body limp\nand her doughy skin cold to the touch.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cMom?\u201d another little shake, \u201cMom?\u201d a little louder.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

It was too late for resuscitation. She\u2019d gone quickly. They said it was\nan aneurism. Time of death 12:02 A.M.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Coda: <\/em><\/strong>Closing section of a movement.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Omar heard piano music rattling around in his head. It was some\nconcerto, Chopin? Tchaikovsky?  Funny, he\nhadn\u2019t put the radio on, and he never listened to classical music anymore. The\ncar radio was permanently fixed to the country station. In the distance, above\nthe notes of the piano that now sounded like shattering glass, he heard the\nkid\u2019s voice call out in alarm.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHey Mister! Hey! You alright? Watch where you\u2019re going! Hey!\u201d<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

And then blackness and silence except for his daughter\u2019s voice. Was it\nFrancis?<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cDad?  Dad?\u201d<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

They found the car out on 390, headed north. There\u2019d been a deer, an\nicy patch, a crash, but the cause of death was the heart. He was wearing his\nold hunting britches and cap \u2013 the ones that were red and black plaid which\nhadn\u2019t been worn in years. They smelled of moth balls. Oddly, there was a\nmatching jacket on the passenger seat; identical to the one Francis was wrapped\nup in, only with a blood stain from an unknown source. Time of death: 12:02\nA.M. <\/strong><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Prelude: A short piece originally preceded by a more substantial work, also an orchestral introduction to opera, however not lengthy enough to be considered an overture.  \u201cCan\u2019t see a God damned thing,\u201d he mumbled out loud while trying to wipe the condensation from the windshield. \u201cShould have gotten that cataract surgery they nagged me about.\u201d … <\/p>\n

Continue reading “ESCAPE”<\/span><\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"nf_dc_page":"","_monsterinsights_skip_tracking":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_active":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_note":"","_monsterinsights_sitenote_category":0,"jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_access":"","_jetpack_dont_email_post_to_subs":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_tier_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paywalled_content":false,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paid_content":false,"footnotes":"","jetpack_publicize_message":"ESCAPE is a story about an old man who goes missing, the tension between two daughters, and how memory and reality become both fused and confused by a red plaid jacket.\n","jetpack_publicize_feature_enabled":true,"jetpack_social_post_already_shared":true,"jetpack_social_options":{"image_generator_settings":{"template":"highway","default_image_id":0,"font":"","enabled":false},"version":2}},"categories":[1],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-417","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-uncategorized","entry"],"jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"jetpack_featured_media_url":"","jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"jetpack_shortlink":"https:\/\/wp.me\/saDBMs-escape","_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/donnadufresne.com\/~donnadu1\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/417","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/donnadufresne.com\/~donnadu1\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/donnadufresne.com\/~donnadu1\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/donnadufresne.com\/~donnadu1\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/donnadufresne.com\/~donnadu1\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=417"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/donnadufresne.com\/~donnadu1\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/417\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":418,"href":"https:\/\/donnadufresne.com\/~donnadu1\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/417\/revisions\/418"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/donnadufresne.com\/~donnadu1\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=417"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/donnadufresne.com\/~donnadu1\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=417"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/donnadufresne.com\/~donnadu1\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=417"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}