Tracklist:
The Lonesome River – The Stanley Brothers
Oh Very Young – Cat Stevens
Suicide Is Painless – Johnny Mandel
17
A thick, mournful mist rose from the harvested fields and slowly spread toward the muddy Ohio. Even though he ran for his life, Dean found that the cold droplets of fog calmed him and lay a soft lens upon the harsh, uncaring world.
Emerson ran beside him, her white Amish cap long gone and her black hair streaming behind her.
“How much farther?” she asked between breaths.
“A few minutes,” puffed Dean. “I can see the lights of the bridge.”
The damp asphalt road paralleled the river. No cars approached and none followed at this late hour––a fact that relieved but also worried Dean. He would have knocked at one of the handful of houses near the bridge, but given the cold welcome they’d received the previous night it seemed prudent to simply keep running.
As they ran closer to the bridge a thicket of steel girders emerged from the fog, a sight which reminded Dean of how Captain Phoenix and the landing party of the U.S.S. Partridge would re-materialize after a visit to a planet usually inhabited by sex-crazed alien women. The main structure over the river was completely obscured, but slow, red flashes in the white mist marked aircraft-warning bulbs at the pinnacle of the two towers.
“That is bridge? But it is blue,” said Emerson.
Dean slowed his pace and tried to catch his breath. “It’s called the Blue Miracle. Painted peacock blue.”
“Why a miracle? It was hard to paint?”
Dean rested his hands on his knees and tried to catch his breath.
“No. Because it hasn’t fallen into the Ohio.”
He led Emerson up metal steps that spiraled high into the cold mist and led to a pedestrian walkway along the western side of the bridge. A peacock blue, waist-high metal railing separated this walkway from the main deck and protected it from vehicular traffic.
Emerson leaned over the edge and peered into the white nothingness.
“I can’t see the river!”
Dean clapped his hands together and rubbed them vigorously. “It’s great, isn’t it? I’ve always thought a good fog brings out character in a person. Like having a flat tire in the freezing rain, or a flat tire in a blizzard. Actually, any flat tire.”
As they walked toward the Indiana side, a horn sounded a long and low warning, like the dried-up moan of a boat crossing the Styx.
Emerson startled at the sound and clutched at Dean’s hand.
“What was that?”
“Just a barge on the river. Hurry! There’s a town on the other side of the bridge.”
“These people in the town will not help us, just like everyone else. The security forces will give me back to Duke Nichego and torture you because they are bored.”
“Maybe in Kentucky, but this bridge leads to Indiana,” said Dean. “Is that a car? Quick, get down!”
They lay on the sharp grate of the walkway. Beads of mist settled on the soft hair of their arms and the river slapped wetly on faraway banks. A pair of headlights glowed through the fog and a car roared past at high speed toward Indiana, a jarringly loud specter in the stillness of early morning.
“I don’t know why we’re hiding,” said Dean. “Amish don’t have cars.”
He helped Emerson to her feet and they walked at a brisk pace over the mist-covered Blue Miracle. Near the center of the bridge, Dean heard the growl of another engine. The headlights of a second vehicle glowed from the Kentucky side.
“I’ll flag this one down.”
Dean swung a leg over the metal railing, intending to step into the roadway, but Emerson grabbed his arm.
“I’ll come with you,” she said.
“It’s too dangerous in this fog. The driver might not see us in time.”
Emerson smiled. “Someone forgot how he jumped from a plane yesterday.”
“Okay, okay.”
Dean took Emerson’s hand and helped her over the railing. They held hands and stood over the double yellow lines of the roadway as the approaching headlights grew into a blinding glare.
A large truck with a massive silver grille squealed to a sudden stop. The engine shut off but the headlights stayed on, attracting curious moths as the radiator fan pinged a last, dying rotation. A pair of doors creaked opened and boots smacked the asphalt. The steps approached slowly and carefully, like a grizzled hunter on the prowl.
Dean held a palm against the light. “Hello, there. Can you help us? We’re stranded and need a ride. We’re not really Amish. That’s not to say we stole these clothes, if that’s what you’re thinking. We only borrowed them and decided to go for a walk. Is anyone listening? Hello?”
Duke Nichego stepped in front of the truck.
“Hello, Angelika.”
“No!” shouted Emerson, and covered her mouth.
“I don’t know why my fiancée is so frightened,” said Dean, as Emerson pulled him away from the gleaming blue eyes of the mud-covered hunter, “but you should apologize for scaring her like that. Also, her name isn’t Angelika.”
Emerson slapped his arm. “That’s Duke Nichego!”
The sound of a rifle bolt clacked from the other side of the truck, and a male voice spoke a short, foreign phrase.
“No, don’t kill him yet,” said Nichego. “I have many questions for this bride-stealing bastard.”
“I didn’t steal her. She ran away because you’re a pig.”
“What did you call me?”
Emerson stepped in front of Dean and pointed the silver two-shot revolver at Duke Nichego.
“He’s right. I ran away because I never wanted to marry you. From the beginning it was all fun and happy agreement between you and everyone else, but never me! I hate everything about you, especially those disgusting socks!”
Nichego bowed his head. “Angelika. I know I have been bad person, but that is in the past. Shut up, Vassily! I can hear you snickering. Dear Angelika, if you come with me I will spare the life of this moderately successful stand-up comedian. When we return to Kamchatka, you can have an affair with two dozen moderately successful stand-up comedians, that is how much I love you.”
“He’s Dean Cook, not Dane. Most important of all, he is my husband.”
“What are you talking about, Angelika? You cannot marry an American just by wishing for it. There are bribes to be made, dancing girls to be hired, and Broadway numbers to be sung.”
Emerson tossed a folded paper at his feet. “There is wedding certificate. That is proof.”
Duke Nichego took the certificate from the damp asphalt.
“Terry Joe Bukowski? Destiny Klara Schicklgruber? I do not see your name, dear Angelika. This paper is fake and not even good for cleaning up toilet explosion.”
“It doesn’t matter. I’d rather have a fake marriage to a fake person than see your disgusting face ever again.”
“This is why I love you so much,” said Nichego. “Such spirit of mouth!”
Emerson pointed the muzzle of the gun at a pink cloth sticking from Nichego’s jacket. “Is that a sock?”
“It is my underwear,” said Nichego, hastily pushing the sock into his pocket. “I have forgot to change.”
Emerson stepped back, one hand pushing Dean. “That is the point, Konstantin––you will never change. You are the master of lies, every girl in Petropavlovsk-Kamchatsky knows that. We are leaving now and you will never see me again. Follow us and I will shoot. If you do not believe me, also believe I will shoot myself with this weapon before I let you touch me.”
Nichego sighed. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped mud from his face. “I knew wedding in San Jose was bad idea.”
“Barbados was better package,” said Vassily, from the side of the truck. “So nice and on the beach.”
Dean and Emerson had backed ten yards away from Nichego when another pair of lights glowed from the Indiana side of the
bridge. A vehicle approached, engine howling as it sucked in fog and insects and tires rubbing the damp asphalt like fingers across a wet metal fence.
“Good,” shouted Nichego. “I hope it is American security forces, here to accept a generous donation for rescuing my bride Angelika from this nasty kidnapper.”
The white Chevy Malibu slowed to a stop and doors squealed open in the fog.
“There he is,” said Frank Cook. “Dean! Thank God we found you.”
“Stay back, Dad! These guys have guns.”
“So do we,” yelled Billie.
She walked forward, both hands around a black automatic that pointed at Nichego.
“This is my lucky day,” said the Duke. “I catch all of my birds in one bush. You and the man in dress will be tortured like no sock merchant has been tortured before. Where is the little black book with detailed notes on my sock collection? If you return this, perhaps I will be merciful and put you in trunk of car. Of course, I will set car on fire.”
“Don’t get involved in this, Mother,” yelled Dean. “I don’t want anyone to get hurt.”
“Someone’s getting hurt all right,” said Billie. “Number one on the list is that asshole aiming a rifle at my son.”
Dean spread his arms. “Why are you even here?”
“It sounds silly, after thirty-five chances in the past,” said Frank. “But we wanted you to have a happy birthday for once.” He pulled the white trenchcoat tighter around his chest. “Holy Jeff Koons, this fog is cold!”
“I’m thirty-six, Dad, and old enough to have a happy or unhappy birthday by myself now.”
Billie lowered the automatic. “You don’t want a party? Dean Orlando Cook, that’s like saying you don’t love your family.”
“Of course I do, Mom, and thank you for that question. I’ve just been really busy and had to leave suddenly for a conference in Charleston, where in nine hours, by the way, I have a very important speech to give in front of Robert Timmins.”
Duke Nichego nodded. “The motivational speaker? Very nice. Now listen to a speech I hope will motivate everyone. To put it simple––I am crazy person. I have tortured more people and stolen more socks than anyone in history of world. Did you hear of Japan tsunami? That was me––top of leaderboard was guy in Japan until I destroy his entire sock collection with giant wave. Give my bride Angelika to me, and everyone is walking away, not drowned in river or dead with bullet in face. If she does not go with me, definitely there is face-bullet action.”
Emerson stamped her foot.
“Never!” she shouted.
“Dean,” said his father. “Let her go with this man. After all, they’re engaged, and you barely even know the girl.”
Billie nodded her spiky blonde head. “We’ll drive straight to Charleston, and you’ll get to speak in front of Tim Robbins or whoever the flip he is.”
“Robert Timmins, and I can’t do that. I promised to keep her away from this maniac, and that’s the end of it.”
His father waved his arms with a jangle of gold bracelets. “In the heat of passion certain things are said. We understand and that’s fine, Dean, but she’s a crazy foreigner engaged to another crazy foreigner who wants her back. Just walk away, son, and we’ll help you get through this.”
“And to Charleston,” said Billie.
Dean took Emerson’s hand and squeezed it. They backed away from both groups toward the edge of the road.
“I can’t for three reasons,” he said. “First of all, you can say I’m a failed writer, failed speaker, and failed person in every way, but I always keep a promise. There’s not much honor left in the modern world, so don’t ask me to give up mine. Secondly, she’s my wife, and that means I don’t turn her over to sock-crazed Russians at the drop of a hat.”
Nichego made a snoring sound. “Bored! Tell us third reason.”
“Last of all, I love this girl from the tips of her toes to the top of her beautiful, stubborn head!”
Dean took the two-shot revolver from Emerson’s hand.
“What are you doing?” she whispered.
“Trust me. Don’t say anything, just trust me.”
The pair slid over the protective barrier to the pedestrian walkway, and climbed up the waist-high railing at the edge of the bridge. They stood hand-in-hand above a thick river of fog, backs to everyone.
“Dean! Stop!” screamed his father, a tube of scarlet lipstick near his mouth.
“Bozhe moi,” said Vassily.
Duke Nichego raised his hands. “Angelika, I take it back! Do not do this!”
Dean and Emerson nodded once to each other, and jumped.