Chapter 12.
I was in bed, but not asleep. It was nearly midnight and Lillian started boofing. She’s an Australian Shepherd and That’s the sound she makes when she barks. It’s sort of a muted, self-conscious bark.
Well, like I said, she started making this sound of hers. I couldn’t get her to stop, so I got out of bed and decided to find out what was bothering her. I pulled on a pair of blue jeans, turned a few lights on as I went through the house, and eventually found myself at the back door, where Lillian stood boofing and even growling. I switched on the backyard light, and squinted into the darkness. The air seemed thick. The moon was once again hiding behind the clouds. Fog was settling in, covering the woods in a steaming blanket. It seemed, somehow, to illuminate the trees, giving them a shimmering aspect, as if the Northern Lights were shining down onto them.
Well, I opened the door and Lily burst out of the house like she was on a rocket. She skidded a bit on the first step as she launched herself into the woods.
I grabbed a flashlight, slipped on a pair of moccasins and headed after her. There are several hundred acres of untouched state land adjoining my twelve acres and I had no idea what had gotten Lillian so worked up. I didn’t hear coyotes. There hadn’t been any signs of bear near the house, and it never crossed my mind that a human might be out there.
I stepped down off the deck, went down the three wooden steps (Lily had flown right over the bottom two), and I was in the back yard. I didn’t hear anything but my dog. She was far ahead of me, boofing up a storm in the black night.
I called after her. There was no response, nothing but her muffled grumbling, fading farther and farther away.
Nothing.
Then I was in the woods with the flashlight, making crazy patterns on the trees and the rocks, the roots, the stumps, and everything. Other than the now-distant racket that Lillian was making, all I could hear was the sound of my own feet, the swish of weeds whipping against me, and the bell-like sounds of water dropping off leaves onto the ground, accelerating into a brief torrent when my head or my shoulders brushed against the occasional low-hanging branch.
There’s no trail that I can make out. I’m fighting my way through the underbrush, crossing the occasional deer path, when all of a sudden my dog lets out a yelp and comes charging back toward me like the Union troops at the first Battle of Bull Run. She slides past me and cowers at my feet. I turn around, bend down and pet her.
The sounds of running and heavy breathing fairly explode behind me. I twist at the waist, but before I’m standing, crash! Something has slammed into me. Something pretty substantial. It knocked me into a crusty old Hornbeam and my flashlight went flying and out. I could have had a stroke. It’s one thing to slink out into nothingness with a flashlight and a case of curiosity. It’s a completely different thing to be knocked ass-over-teakettle by an unseen projectile in the dark of night.
Lillian stood her ground and growled, bless her heart. This woman, Mary Lou Turnage, that is, bounced off me and landed in a heap next to the dog. Her knee had caught me in my right shoulder, and I was down on the ground, beside her. Adrenaline took over from what little sense I had at that point and I dove on top of her, pinning her elbows to the ground with my own and jamming my knees into the tops of her thighs. The moon was still hidden by clouds and the night was black as pitch. Imagine my surprise when I realized I had my hand on a female breast! This had become a rare and wonderful evening for me. It had a little bit of everything going for it.
Once I reacquired my equilibrium, I said, “Oops, sorry,” relaxed my body and rolled off her. The next thing I knew, this woman was slapping wildly at my face and on my arms and chest. Her hands were flying like a whirligig in a tornado.
My hands were up to the sides of my face, deflecting her blows, and I fought my way up to my knees. Eighty yards behind me, the porch light was on and my eyes were starting to adjust to the darkness. In a few moments, her frenzy subsided and she wilted like a plucked flower. It was like the spark of life went out of her. I stood and offered my hand to her. She took it without looking up into my eyes and I helped her up, bending at the knees to place one hand behind her shoulder. I could feel her hot flesh beneath my fingers. The right shoulder of her blouse was nearly gone. Her shoulder blade was wet with blood.
She backed away from me like a trapped animal. I could sense she was looking for a place to run, a way to get out of here and away from me. She turns away from me and she’s crying now. Her shoulders visibly sink with each spasm of grief. She is defeated, exhausted at last.
I ask her if she is okay and she turns to me like she’s coming out of a dream.
“Yes. Yes, I’m okay,” she says, wiping tears and broken dusty leaves from her cheek with the ripped sleeve of her gypsy blouse.
“What are you running from?” I ask.
She shrugs her shoulders and tosses off another deluge of tears.
“Come on,” I offer. “Come up into the light and let’s see if you’re okay.” She follows me, sheeplike now, and wordless.
I stumble across the flashlight and then I bend down and recover it. I turn on the torch and use it to point the way back to my place. Little Red shuffles along beside
me. Neither of us can think of a thing to say.
When we get out of the woods and fully in the light of the house, I steal a look at her. She’s quite a mess. Dirty, disheveled, and bloody. It’s bizarre and surreal.
I don’t want this night to end. Do you understand? For the first time in years, I am involved with people and excitement. I have been blown out of my boring and stable safety zone. I suppose that’s why I will find myself I making so many poor decisions in the next two days. Who knows?