Free Zigzagging Down a Wild Trail by Bobbie Ann Mason Page A

fleece throw from her bag and spread it over her bare legs. Peyton was asleep, snoring a little. After a while, a murmur on the bus rose to a loud question.
    â€œThis bus is lost,” someone said. “Where’s he think he’s going?”
    Liz realized they were journeying on narrow roads through bottomland, not on the four-lane. Thick fog breathed at the windows. She touched Peyton’s arm. “We’re lost,” she whispered. “We’re in the Twilight Zone.”
    â€œLooks like we might drive right into the river,” Peyton said after a bit. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes.
    â€œI don’t care if we go to Timbuktu,” Liz said. “Where is Timbuktu, anyway?”
    â€œNo idea.”
    â€œIt must be somewhere.” Liz tapped the man in front of her on the shoulder. He had a short beard like Peyton used to have. “Do you know where Timbuktu is?”
    â€œOver yonder somewhere,” he said, pointing with his elbow. “Over the big pond.”
    â€œWouldn’t that be something?” Liz said to the man. “To be hijacked to Timbuktu and nobody knows where it is or how to get there—including the hijacker!” She laughed. “It’ll take us a month to get there.”
    Laughter traveled through the bus. Liz’s remarks got passed around, and a couple of passengers began goading the driver to go to Timbuktu.
    â€œThis
is
Timbuktu, I believe,” someone called out to the driver. “You’ve hauled us all the way to Timbuktu.”
    â€œThe old geezers look scared,” Peyton said to Liz.
    They seemed to be driving over water, but they couldn’t see a bridge.
    â€œHey, don’t he have a map?” someone asked.
    â€œWe’re crossing the Big Muddy,” Peyton said.
    The invisible bridge was long, and the river a void. The bus hushed.
    â€œSorry, folks, I dropped the reins back there,” the driver eventually admitted over his microphone. He turned on the overhead lights. “Don’t worry, we’ll get you home. Just hold your horses and I’ll figure out what road this is. And it won’t go to Timbuktu.”
    There was a burst of laughter and a little applause.
    â€œI don’t believe such a place exists,” said the church woman. “It’s just a notion, like Never-Never Land.”
    â€œLike heaven?” Liz said.
    â€œNo. Not at all like heaven. Heaven is a real place. It has gold streets and pearly gates.”
    â€œAnd singing,” said Peyton.
    â€œEverybody sings there, whether they can carry a tune or not,” said the church woman with a smile. “Law’, I hate to sing. I purely dread heaven.”
    â€œDo you dread heaven, Liz?” asked Peyton as the lights dimmed again.
    â€œNo. Heaven’s the least of my worries.”
    The bus quieted. Most of the passengers seemed to nod off. After awhile, Peyton slipped his hand under the fleece throw on Liz’s lap. His hand rested between her thighs like a sleeping cat. It lay there, its dark heat firing her. Then, under the blanket, his hand began undulating slowly up her leg, inside her shorts. She sat up straight, wide awake, and stared out at the fog. She inched her legs apart. And before long he was finger-fucking her hard, then smoothly, expertly. She felt the peacefulness of giving in, the delicious limbo of temptation, where everything at stake seemed make-believe. For the time being, she was waiting for the spinning images of her life to line up in a perfect row.

Thunder Snow
    Boogie tried to talk Darlene into staying home that weekend—heavy snow was predicted—but she wouldn’t listen. She had volunteered to drive up to Cincinnati to retrieve her cousin Fentress’s thyroid medicine and then carry it to her all the way down in Bell County.
    â€œI don’t want you going down there into those mountains if it gets bad.”
    â€œI’ll be on four-lanes most of