Sunday
I reach over Jeannie's lap to get into the glove box. We're out of cigarettes.
"Told you we should have stopped," she says, and smiles. When she looks away to roll up her window I see that downward turn
of her lips, how even in profile she's frowning. She told me when we first met that she can pull a good pout, and she can.
I think about telling her to go to hell, and I also think about pulling over right here, and letting the air conditioner blow
the sweat off my back while I make this fucker rock.
Instead, I turn on the radio.
And lord, how we're sweating. Even with the air on. Sun's high, coming in from every direction in the universe, and not a
cloud in the sky. This is Arizona - sun and road and dirt, and sun, and sun, and sun. When we stopped a couple hours back
(when I did not get cigarettes) a couple of the locals told me that it was hot here even in the winter. Since it's the
middle of August, I said, "I'd hate to see how it is in summer," and then I laughed. They didn't laugh.
"This would be more romantic in a Cadillac", Jeannie says. I look at her, smile a little, say, "I'd like to see a fucking
Cadillac do 110 for more than forty five seconds." She smiles. I realize that I probably look handsome, driving all fast.
Then, sooner than I expect, I see flashing lights from maybe eight cops in the rearview coming up out of the horizon.
The car can't speed up much more.
In the old days, when you robbed a bank, the tellers would sneak timed ink canisters in with the money, so that they'd fire
off when you were on the run and ruin all the bills. Apparently, they still do. Jeannie's got about a gallon of blue in her
hair. I tell her, "you look like a clown."
She wipes a bit of blue paint off the end of my nose with her fingertip. "It's all ruined. We don't have a single good
dollar." She giggles a little, a little high, and stops, a little sudden. She's trying to smile. The cruisers are getting bigger in the rearview.
I hear something on the radio about a pursuit, and they say Jeannie's name. There's a sound behind the reporter like an engine running. I hit mute, and hear blades whirring: there's a helicopter over us.
I never thought I'd be happy to see a crucifix.
We were going too fast for me to read anything off the sign at the city limits. But you better believe I saw that crucifix. Crucifix coming out of a spire, coming up out of a church. I haven't been to church in a decade. I'm not a praying man. And I'm not about to become one. I hit the dirt lot going so fast I almost spin out when I hit the brakes.
Jeannie doesn't seem confused when I drag her inside.
Sunday morning sermon. We throw open the doors to a church full of people. It smells like sweat. The preacher only stops preaching when we're in front of the altar.
Jeannie's wearing the jeans and tank top she changed into while we sped away from the bank. She told me when we first met that she's never worn a dress. Oh well.
The preacher almost faints when I pull my gun. I reach over the altar and get blue ink on his Bible. "Find the part with the vows."
Sirens and gravel crunching outside. Through the church windows, you can see a dust devil from the helicopter's blades. That's right, I think. Get a good shot. My baby would look better in a dress.
Car doors opening. They tell us to come out, peacefully. They think we've got hostages.
"Make it fast," I tell the preacher.