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Now

,

as

I

sit

in

the

Howard

Johnson

's

near

Exit

3

of

the

Maine

Turnpike

,

writing

all

of

this

down

on

HoJo

stationery

,

I

suspect

that

Mrs.

Reppler

,

that

tough

and

capable

old

broad

,

could

have

laid

out

the

essential

futility

of

the

situation

in

a

few

quick

strokes

.

But

she

had

the

kindness

to

let

me

think

it

through

for

myself

.

I

could

n't

get

out

.

I

could

n't

leave

them

.

I

could

n't

even

kid

myself

that

all

the

horror-movie

monsters

were

back

at

the

Federal

;

when

I

cracked

the

window

I

could

hear

them

in

the

woods

,

crashing

and

blundering

around

on

the

steep

fall

of

land

they

call

the

Ledges

around

these

parts

.

The

moisture

drip-drip-dripped

from

the

overhanging

leaves

.

Overhead

the

mist

darkened

momentarily

as

some

nightmarish

and

half-seen

living

kite

overflew

us

.

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I

tried

to

tell

myself-then

and

now-that

if

she

was

very

quick

,

if

she

buttoned

up

the

house

with

herself

inside

,

that

she

had

enough

food

for

ten

days

to

two

weeks

.

It

only

works

a

little

bit

.

What

keeps

getting

in

the

way

is

my

last

memory

of

her

,

wearing

her

floppy

sunhat

and

gardening

gloves

,

on

her

way

to

our

little

vegetable

patch

with

the

mist

rolling

inexorably

across

the

lake

behind

her

.

It

is

Billy

I

have

to

think

about

now

.

Billy

,

I

tell

myself

.

Big

Bill

,

Big

Bill

...

I

should

write

it

maybe

a

hundred

times

on

this

sheet

of

paper

,

like

a

child

condemned

to

write

I

will

not

throw

spitballs

in

school

as

the

sunny

three-o'clock

stillness

spills

through

the

windows

and

the

teacher

corrects

homework

papers

at

her

desk

and

the

only

sound

is

her

pen

,

while

somewhere

,

far

away

,

kids

pick

up

teams

for

scratch

baseball

.

Anyway

,

at

last

I

did

the

only

thing

I

could

do

.

I

reversed

the

Scout

carefully

back

to

Kansas

Road

.

Then

I

cried

.

Amanda

touched

my

shoulder

timidly

.

"

David

,

I

'm

so

sorry

,

"

she

said

.

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"

Yeah

,

"

I

said

,

trying

to

stop

the

tears

and

not

having

much

luck

.

"

Yeah

,

so

am

I.

"

I

drove

to

Route

302

and

turned

left

,

toward

Portland

.

This

road

was

also

cracked

and

blasted

in

places

,

but

was

,

on

the

whole

,

more

passable

than

Kansas

Road

had

been

.

I

was

worried

about

the

bridges

.

The

face

of

Maine

is

cut

with

running

water

,

and

there

are

bridges

everywhere

,

big

and

small

.

But

the

Naples

Causeway

was

intact

,

and

from

there

it

was

plain-if

slow-sailing

all

the

way

to

Portland

.

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