Bailey had very little independence. But in his chair with his hand resting on the controls, he could motor down to Bob's gas station on the corner, to Jolley's to see Fern after work, or to the church in case he wanted to torment his Uncle Joshua with theological hypotheticals. Pastor Joshua was usually very patient and willing to talk, but Bailey was sure he groaned when he saw Bailey coming.
He knew he shouldn't be out as late as he was. But that was part of the thrill too. Twenty-one-year old men should not have curfews. The only thing he felt guilty about was that when he got home he would have to wake his mom or dad to help him to bed, which took some of the fun out of his late night excursions. Plus, he wanted to head to the store and see Fern and Ambrose. Those two needed a chaperone. It had started to steam whenever they were together, and Bailey was pretty sure it wouldn't be long before he was the third wheel on wheels. He laughed to himself. He loved puns. And he loved that Fern and Ambrose had found each other. He wouldn't be around forever. Now that Fern had Ambrose, he wouldn't worry about her so much.
He wasn't living dangerously tonight. He'd tried to sneak out without the headlamp, but his mom came running out behind him. Maybe he would just conveniently leave it at the store when he left. He hated the damn thing. He smirked, feeling like a rebel. He stayed on the sidewalk and streetlights guided his way; he really didn’t think he needed a spotlight shining from his forehead. Bob's Speedy Mart was on his way and Bailey decided to stop in, just because he could. He waited patiently until Bob himself came out from behind the register and opened the door for him.
“Hey, Bailey.” Bob blinked and tried not to look directly at the light blazing from Bailey's headlamp.
“You can turn that off, Bob. Just click the button on the top,” Bailey instructed. Bob tried, but when he clicked the button the light still blazed, as if there was something that had come loose on the inside. He pulled the elastic band around so the light shone from the back of Bailey's head and he could look at him without going blind.
“That'll have to do, Bailey. What can I help you with?” Bob made himself available as he always did, knowing Bailey's limitations.
“I need a twelve pack and some chew,” Bailey said seriously. Bob's mouth dropped open slightly, and he shifted his weight uncertainly.
“Um. Okay. Do you have your ID on ya?”
“Yep.”
“Okay. Well . . . what kind would you like?”
“Starbursts come in packs of twelve don't they? And I prefer to chew Wrigley's. Mint, please.”
Bob chortled, his big belly shaking above his giant belt buckle. He shook his head. “You had me going for a minute, Sheen. I had this picture of you heading down the road with your lip full of tobacco and a case of Bud on your lap.”
Bob followed Bailey down the aisles, picking up his purchases. Bailey stopped in front of the condoms.
“I'll need some of those too, Bob. The biggest box you have.”
Bob raised one eyebrow, but this time he wasn't falling for it. Bailey snickered and rolled on.
Ten minutes later, Bailey was back on the road, his purchases tucked by his side, Bob laughing as he waved him off, having been thoroughly entertained. He realized belatedly that he hadn't righted Bailey's headlamp.
Bailey chose to head down Center and hit Main instead of cutting down 2nd East. It was a longer route to the store but the night was balmy and the air felt good on his face. And he had time. He would give the lovebirds an extra ten or fifteen minutes together before the fun arrived. The silence was welcome, the solitude more welcome. He wished he'd thought to have his dad stick his ear buds in his ears so he could blast some Simon and Garfunkel. But he had been unsuccessfully trying to escape without the headlamp.
The businesses along Main were empty and dark, the black windows reflecting his image back at him as he motored past the hardware store, the karate dojo, and the real-estate office. Mi Cocina, Luisa O'Toole's Mexican Restaurant, was closed too, the twinkle lights and strung habanera peppers swaying in the light wind, clacking against the mustard yellow siding. But the building next to Luisa's wasn't closed. Like Bob's Speedy Mart, Jerry's Joint–the local bar–was never closed. A neon orange light advertised that status, and a few old trucks were pulled right up to the door.
Bailey could hear faint music leaking out from the establishment. He listened, trying to place the song and heard something else. Crying. A baby? Bailey looked around, puzzled. There wasn't a single soul in sight.
He moved forward, crossing the paved entrance to the bar, passing the first few vehicles parked in the long row. Crying again. Parked slightly behind the bar in the gravel that wrapped around the establishment was Becker Garth's black 4X4 complete with jacked up wheels and a skull and crossbones in his back window. How original. Bailey rolled his eyes. What a douche.
Crying again. Definitely a baby. Bailey veered off the sidewalk and bumped over the gravel toward the 4X4. He could hear his heart beating in his temples, and he felt nauseated. The crying was coming from Becker's truck.
The passenger door was slightly ajar, and as Bailey got closer he could see blonde hair streaming over the edge of the seat.
“Oh no. Oh no. Rita!” Bailey moaned as he maneuvered his chair alongside the opened door. He was afraid he would bump it closed. If he did that, he wouldn't be able to open it again. He lined his chair up so his hand, lying against his armrest was only inches from the edge of the door. He raised his hand as high as he could and wedged it into the opening. He pushed as hard as he could and the door wobbled and then swung slowly open. Bailey's hand fell back to his armrest and his heart fell to his feet. Rita lay unconscious on the seat of the truck, her blonde head hanging off the seat, her hand resting against the door. She'd clearly opened the door but hadn't made it any further. Two-year-old Tyler Garth stood in the foot well, one hand in his mouth, one hand on his mother's face.
“Rita!” Bailey cried. “Rita!” She didn't stir.
Ty whimpered and Bailey felt like whimpering too. Instead, he lowered his voice and tried again, talking to Rita, urging her to respond. There was no blood that he could see, but Bailey had no doubt that Becker Garth had done something to his wife. He couldn't help Rita, but he could take care of Ty. That's what Rita would want him to do.
“Ty Guy. Hey, buddy,” Bailey coaxed, trying not to let his terror show. “It's me, Bailey. You want a ride in my chair? You like riding in Bailey's chair, huh?”
“Mama,” the child whimpered around his fingers.
“We'll go fast. Let's show Mommy how we go fast.” Bailey couldn't lift Ty onto his lap. So he beckoned to him with curled fingers. “Hold my hand and climb into Bailey's chair. You remember how, right?”
Ty had stopped crying, and he looked at Bailey's chair with big blue eyes. Bailey wheeled into the opening, pushing the door wider with his chair. He was so close Ty could literally crawl into his lap. If he would.
“Come on, Ty. I have a treat for you. You can have some candy, and Bailey will take you for a ride in his chair. Let Mommy have a nap.” Bailey's voice broke on the words, but the mention of candy was all it took. Ty knelt down in the foot well and climbed over Bailey's armrest and into Bailey's lap. He dug his tiny hand into the little white grocery sack and pulled out the Starbursts triumphantly. Bailey backed away from the door, away from Rita. He had to get help. And he was very afraid that at any minute Becker Garth would come running out of the bar and see him. Or worse, drive away with Rita dying in the front seat of his truck.
“Hold on to Bailey, Ty.”
“Go fast?”
“Yeah. We're going to go fast.”
Ty had no concept of holding on. Bailey needed his right hand to drive the wheelchair and his left to punch in 911 on the cell phone that was strapped to his other armrest. He dialed and hit speaker and then put his left arm around Ty, trying to secure him as he crossed the gravel and eased up onto the sidewalk. The 911 operator answered and Bailey started spilling out the details, shouting at his armrest and trying to steer. Ty started to cry.
“I'm sorry sir. I can't hear you.”
“There is a woman, her name is Rita Marsden . . . Rita Garth. She's unconscious in her husband's vehicle. He's hit her before, and I think he's done something to her. The truck is parked in front of Jerry's Joint on Main. The husband's name is Becker Garth. Her two-year-old son was there with her. I heard him crying. I have the kid but I don't dare stay with Rita, because her husband could come out any second. And I don't want him to run and take the baby.”
“Does the woman have a pulse?”
“I don't know!” Bailey cried helplessly. “I couldn't reach her.” He could tell the 911 operator was confused. “Look, I'm in a wheel-chair. I can't raise my arms. I'm lucky I was able to get her child out of the truck. Please send the police and an ambulance!”
“What is the license plate on the vehicle?”
“I don't know! I'm not there anymore!” Bailey slowed and turned the chair slightly, wondering if he should go back for the answers the operator was seeking. What he saw behind him made his heart seize in his chest. He was maybe two blocks away from the bar but there were lights pulling out of the lot. It looked like Becker's truck.
“He's coming!” Bailey shrieked, increasing his speed, roaring down the street as fast as he could. He needed to cross over, but that would put him in Becker's headlights. And the headlights were bearing down on him. Tyler was screaming, sensing Bailey's panic. The 911 operator was trying to get him to answer questions and “remain calm.”
“He's coming! My name is Bailey Sheen, and I am holding Tyler Garth on my lap. I'm in a wheelchair driving down Main toward Center in Hannah Lake. Becker Garth hurt his wife and he's coming toward us. I need help!”
Somehow, miraculously, Becker Garth drove right past. He obviously didn't expect the guy in the wheelchair to be any sort of threat. Of course, he'd always underestimated Bailey. Bailey's heart leaped in relief. And then Becker hit his brakes and spun his truck around.
He sped back toward Bailey, and Bailey knew there was no way Becker wasn't going to notice the child on his lap. Bailey shot across the two-lane street, veering right in front of the oncoming truck, knowing his only chance was to get to Bob's and relative safety.
Wheels squealed behind him as Becker's truck flew past him again and tried to brake, not expecting Bailey's wild maneuvering.
“I'm turning down Center toward Bob's Speedy Mart!” Bailey screamed, hoping the 911 operator was hearing what he said. Ty had lungs and he was terrified. At least he was clinging to Bailey like a baby chimp, making it easier for Bailey to hold onto him.
There was certainly no way Bailey could hide. Ty's screams would give them away. There was no time anyway. Becker Garth had flipped around and was coming down Center, pinning them in his lights once more. The black 4X4 rolled up along Bailey's left side. Bailey could see that the passenger side window was down, but he didn't look at Becker. His attention stayed riveted on the road in front of him.
“Sheen! Where the hell do you think you're going with my kid?”
Bailey kept pushing his controls, flying along the darkened street, praying he wouldn't hit any potholes. Hannah Lake had more potholes than streetlights, and the combination was dangerous, especially in a wheelchair.
“Pull over, you little shit!”
Bailey kept moving.
The 4X4 veered over, and Bailey screamed and pulled right on his controls. His chair lurched wildly and Bailey thought for sure it would tip, but it righted itself once again.
“He's trying to run me off the road!” he screamed at the 911 operator. “I am holding his kid and he's trying to freakin' run me off the road!”
The 911 operator was yelling something but Bailey couldn't hear through the roaring in his ears. Becker Garth was drunk or crazy or both, and Bailey knew he and little Ty were in serious trouble. He was not going to live through this.
And then, in the midst of the fear, a sense of calm overtook him. Deliberately, carefully, he slowed the wheelchair to a crawl. His job was to keep Ty safe for as long as possible. He couldn't outrun Becker anyway, so he might as well travel at a safer speed. Becker seemed confused by his sudden decision to slow down and shot past him once more before he punched on his brakes, making his truck spin out on the gravely shoulder of the road. Bailey didn't want to think about what Becker's driving was doing to Rita, unconscious and unrestrained on the passenger side.
And then Becker was coming toward him again, this time in reverse, his slanted taillights like demon eyes hurtling straight for him. Bailey veered right again, but he had run out of road and his chair bumped and slid down the muddy incline into the irrigation ditch that ran parallel to the road. He wasn't going very fast, but that was irrelevant as the chair pitched and wobbled and then fell forward into the murky water that had collected in the bottom of the canal. Tyler was thrown from his arms, landing somewhere in the thick grass on the opposite side of the narrow embankment.
Bailey found himself face down in the water, his hands folded beneath his chest. His right pinky was pinned back and the pain surprised him, making him hyper-aware of the beating of his heart, a beat that was echoed by the throbbing in his finger. But Bailey knew a broken finger was the least of his problems. There was only a foot of water in the ditch. Only a foot, at the most. But it covered Bailey's head. He struggled, trying to push up with his hands. But he couldn't push himself up, and he couldn't roll over. He couldn't sit up or climb out.
He thought he heard Ty crying. The sound was distorted by the water, but Bailey's reaction was one of relief. If Ty was crying he was still alive. And then a door slammed and Ty's cries became distant and disappeared. The rumble of Becker's truck, the loud, souped-up roar that sounded a bit like the ocean in Bailey's ears, receded as well. Bailey's lungs screamed and his nose and mouth filled with mud as he tried to breathe. And the throbbing in his finger faded with the beating of his heart.