Blame: A Novel by Michelle Huneven Page B

asked them. And while we’re at it, what does he want?
    The two stirred, shifted, gave nothing away.
    After Christmas came good news, and she wrote:
     
     
    Benny A. says that you wish to meet with me, and if that’s still true, in about a month I’ll be transferred to an honor work camp near Malibu. It’s much closer to you and will be a much easier place to visit than where I am now. I hope to see you there.
    Sincerely, Patsy MacLemoore

7
    Handcuffed and shackled (feet and waist) for the ride south, Patsy sat in the front of the van with the driver. Two male convicts, likewise cuffed and shackled, and a male guard occupied bench seats in the back. Patsy expected her spirits to lift after passing through Bertrin’s gates, but there was nothing gladdening in the heavy stink of the stockyards and the dirt-brown low hills. The men muttered among themselves behind her. Their chains clinked softly. The scenery did not change. The sun shone through her window, and she dozed in its warmth.
    She opened her eyes when the van slowed. They were leaving the freeway in Bakersfield. Big treat, the driver announced, and pulled into the drive-through lane at a Wendy’s—unbelievably, the same Wendy’s she’d frequented in high school. The same plate-glass windows and blue vinyl booths, the usual truckers and roughnecks who’d hissed and made kissing noises at her and her girlfriends. Three miles due east, a flat, easy bike ride away, her parents were no doubt home in their house on the fairway, on Clubhouse Drive.
    The driver bought them cheeseburgers, french fries, and chocolate shakes. Biting into the hot, crisped meat brought tears to her eyes. Melted cheese and mayonnaise oozed onto her knuckles. She got lost in the saltiness, the juice, the warm, moist layered thickness of the burger pressed against her face. They all ate without speaking, rummaging in their french fry bags and gulping like dogs.
    Less than an hour later, salty saliva flooded her mouth. Oh no, she said, Officer? They were on the interstate, between exits, so she looked frantically for a litterbag or receptacle. Finding nothing suitable, she tucked her knees to one side and vomited onto the van’s floor, her retching loud and helpless, like a strange and desperate form of sobbing. This made one of the men behind her gag too.
    Oh Jesus shit, the other convict said. Shit shit. You stinking sons of bitches. If you can’t hold your burgers, don’t eat ’em.
    Hell, the sick man said. It was as good coming up as it was going down.
    Bile stung high in her throat, behind her nose. Her eyes watered. She was weeping, it seemed, and no longer fit for regular food. The driver got off at Frazer Park and had them clean up in a gas station parking lot, the job hampered by handcuffs and shackles and the van’s interior carpet. She scooped up her mess with paper towels and, shuffling and clanking alongside the guard, carried the clump to the Dump-ster behind the station. On the other side of the Dumpster was a berm of filthy snow and acres of high desert scrubland before the scraggly town of Frazer Park. She stood for a moment taking in the cold air, the sweep of pewter-colored mountains. She imagined slipping off into the scrub, then up a canyon, evading pursuers, sleeping curled around a campfire on the dirt.
    The guard grunted, and as Patsy turned to go back to the van, a teenage girl came out of the restroom and registered the shackles with a visible start. No doubt curious to see who wore such things, the girl looked directly into Patsy’s face. Patsy met the gaze with frank coldness—eight months in prison had made her fluent in intimidation. The girl averted her eyes and scuttled.
    I must remember that for students, thought Patsy.
    •
    They reached the camp in the green hills north of Malibu in the late afternoon, when the light was pale and fuzzing up with marine moisture. Two guards met them at the entrance and performed a cursory search of the van before