Storm Track

Long line of women be happy to have your job ’stead of picking up sweet potatoes, she told herself. Mexicans, Asians, A-rabs, you name it these days.

Must’ve been like the United Nations when the police tried to talk to Numi and Tina, who worked the noon to eight shift Saturday and Sunday. Here it was Tuesday morning and that was still all anybody could talk about—that naked body, the black stockings, the fancy wine, the man who’d called twice to see if she was there yet. Not that they were saying much more than that, ’cause nobody’d really noticed the murdered woman when she checked in except for Mr. O’Day.

Sister Clara’s car radio was always tuned to a gospel station and Rosa sang along with one of their favorite hymns, but her mind wasn’t with the words.

Even though she was on duty Sunday night when yellow tape was being strung all over that end of the place and police cars and ambulances were coming and going, nobody’d interviewed her ’cause they must’ve been told that she got off work at four on Saturday, before the murdered woman arrived.

None of the others seemed to remember that she came back around five-thirty after doing her weekly shopping because she’d gone and left her Bible in her locker. She hadn’t thought anything about it herself till she got there Sunday night and they told her what’d happened in Room 130.

That’s when she remembered driving around the back corner of the Orchid Motel in Sister Clara’s quiet little car and there was this white man coming out of that very same room. He closed the door and hung the Do Not Disturb sign on the knob and soon as he saw her, he turned away quick-like.

“Jesus, lift me up and lead me on,” she sang along with the radio. “Till I reach your heavenly throne.”

If any policeman had’ve asked her Sunday night, she might’ve told about that man right then and there, but all the guests down at that side of the motel, them that didn’t just up and check out, had to be moved over to the front side and Mrs. O’Day had kept her hopping till after the police left.

And if anybody’d been with her in the bathroom at two o’clock this morning when she was sitting on the stool reading the Ledger, she might’ve bust out with it then, but they weren’t and she didn’t. By the time she returned to the lounge, she’d had second and third thoughts about what this secret knowledge could do for her.

“For my sins you did atone,” sang the choir.

Yesterday’s Ledger lay on the car seat beside her, neatly folded so that the man’s picture was staring right back at her.

Probably had plenty of money. White men like him usually did. And here she was, needing a new car real bad, what with winter coming on. That old rustbucket of hers stayed in the shop more than it stayed on the road. Wouldn’t have to be a fancy car, just something nice and dependable like Sister Clara’s.

Sister Clara was always warning her to stay out of white people’s business.

Easy enough for her to say, thought Rosa, and her a preacher’s wife with a husband to give her everything— nice house, nice car, nice clothes she don’t have to go out and work among white folks for. Still, it won’t none of her business to bear witness against that man. “Thou shalt not suffer a whore to live.” Isn’t that what the Bible said? Not up to her to avenge the killing of a white harlot.

Anyhow, she didn’t have to decide right now, she told herself. Like Mary, she was going to sit back and ponder all these things in her heart.

“Jesus, lift me up and lead me on.”

* * *

He couldn’t believe his luck. Ever since it happened, he’d checked his rearview mirror for every white Civic that he met, noted every white Civic parked on the streets—who knew Honda had such a big slice of the car market? And didn’t they make Civics in any damn color except white?

Then suddenly, there it was!

He was waiting at a stop sign when the car sailed by, the gold cross affixed to the license plate, the Jesus bumper stickers with their blood red letters on a white background. The one on the left read, “Jesus loves YOU!” The one on the right, “Jesus died for your sins.”

Without thinking twice, he immediately switched his blinker from a left-turn arrow to a right-turn. As soon as the westbound lane cleared, he pulled out and headed after the white Civic, his heart pounding. He didn’t have a plan. All he’d hoped—a blind illogical hope, he’d begun to think—was that he could somehow find her before she heard about Lynn’s death, connected it with him, and went to the sheriff.

Finding her was first. He hadn’t really thought about what he’d do after that.

She drove as if she were late, weaving in and out of morning traffic. Fortunately, the heaviest traffic was leaving Cotton Grove, not entering it, and he was able to close the gap between them. Nevertheless, she was four cars ahead of him and he almost lost sight of her when she suddenly whipped into the central turn lane and zipped across in front of an oncoming car with only inches to spare.

He was forced to wait for six cars before he could follow and by then, the white Civic was nowhere to be seen.

Damn, damn, damn!

To be this close and then lose her.

He kept to the posted thirty-five miles per hour even though every instinct told him to go even slower so he could look carefully. Unfortunately, this was a residential street in a black neighborhood with black kids collecting on the corner to wait for their school buses. He couldn’t afford to drive too slowly or they’d notice him.

Notice and remember.

He told himself that Cotton Grove was a little town and this black neighborhood was proportionately small, too. How long could it take to quarter the whole area?

As it turned out, he didn’t have to. Two blocks down, he spotted the white Civic parked in the driveway of a neat brick house. He carefully noted the house number as he drove by but didn’t have time to make out the name