Free American Woman by Susan Choi Page B

might.”
    â€œOh, really? Where?”
    â€œNone of your business.”
    Then he knows that she truly has nowhere to go, and knows as well that she knows it. His excitement, his almost evangelical joy at the opportunity that has befallen him—them—returns to him, and some of the speech along with it. “What if I were to tell you that I’ve recently met with some people. People whose principles we basically agree with, though we might find their tactics a little way out. People who are in trouble, the way you’ve been in trouble, although I should say they’re in trouble to a way, way, way bigger degree. They need a safe haven immediately. What would you say to all that?”
    â€œI’d say that you’ll probably help them, and they’ll be far more grateful than I was.”
    â€œNot me. You. You’ll be the hero who helps them.” She’s resisting the vision, but he’s expected her to, at the outset. “Because you have the underground know-how, the wisdom. Yes , I’m saying you have nothing to lose, it’s the truth, but more I’m saying you have everything to gain! Jenny, listen to me. These people, who need us—who need you—aren’t just any group of people. They’re people who have such a sensational story to tell that if they could just get a safe haven, and write it all down, they would make tens, maybe hundreds of thousands of dollars. For their cause, and for the people who help them. But,” he holds up a cautioning hand, “it’s tricky. Because these people need someone aboveground, who’s not compromised, to make the arrangements for them. And they need someone belowground—like you—to take care of the everyday things. The grocery shopping. The phone calls. Someone like you, who can serve as the go-between—between these people, for example, and me.”
    â€œBut I only move around because I have to. It’s risky for me.”
    â€œNowhere near as risky as it is for people who are in Time magazine every week. Who are on fucking TV every night , Jenny, whose story is wanted by everyone —”
    Now she’s staring at him, very pale. “My God,” she says. “You’re not talking about who I think you are, are you?”
    â€œWhat if I was?” he replies, and his long effort to contain himself finally fails. He grins giddily at her.
    â€œThis is just what I was always afraid of,” she gasps. “You think you’re so suave, and you’re really so reckless! You think you’re discreet but you talk —don’t tell me you came from those people to me. You met with those people, and then you came and found me!” She looks around wildly. “I’m going.”
    â€œDon’t do that,” he says.
    But she’s not even staying to argue. Before he can take in what’s happening she’s back on her feet and then actually running from him, her form receding across the deep field and slipping into the trees. He’s abruptly, completely alone. One half-circle around him the trees Jenny’s disappeared into, the other the far-off horizon. Himself at the center, as if he’s awoken on top of this mountain and everything else was a dream. He hears a ship’s horn, perhaps down on the river, perhaps a hundred miles away on the sea. Under these weird acoustical conditions it seems he might hear her heart if he tried. He hasn’t heard her car engine. He shoots up and goes sprinting across the field himself—you can take the quarterback out of the game but you can’t take the game out of the quarterback—and bursts through the trees into the parking lot, but it’s empty, apart from his car.

3.
    T here’s the long way and then there’s the very long way, much farther west into mountains before turning east by way of angling south, which means rolling gradually down through the foothills instead of