The Woman Who Wouldn't Die

On the Saturday morning Sandy Manning left Florida, she packed six worn suitcases and three pillows for the kids, and she said her goodbyes on the phone and in her sister's living room, and if she cried once she cried a dozen times. And then she loaded everybody up in a little gray station wagon for the ride to the Amtrak station, where in the few minutes she had while waiting for the Silver Service she opened up the newspaper and checked her horoscope.

It said: "Let go."

She had whispered about the plan for days, weeks, months. For a long time, nobody thought she was serious; after all, she had left town once before, a few years ago, only to come back a short time later. So saying a thing and doing it are two different enterprises, as Sandy Manning will tell you. But she will tell you, too, that sometimes you have to do a thing, even if you're not absolutely positive it is the right thing, because when you examine your options you realize you have no other choice.

So she had thought it all out. She had her priorities. And her first priority was not to run into Mike Jones on her way to a nail appointment. Or at the Texaco. Or anywhere else, for that matter. Her first priority was not to run into him at all.

And so on Halloween night, Sandy's family threw her a going-away party at a karaoke joint, and since Sandy is a woman who appreciates symbolism, she sang the old Gladys Knight hit about leaving on a midnight train to Georgia. And right then, everyone knew her departure was a sure thing, sure and true.

Where she went, that's a secret. Just say it's a place far, far away. A place where she has people who care about her and the prospect of a good job. A place where she will live in a nice house in a safe neighborhood, and the kids will have their own bedrooms, freshly painted in their favorite colors, and out back there will be a trampoline to jump on before they do their homework.

On the Saturday Sandy left - one year and a day after Mike Jones went free - her train stopped in a Central Florida town where the sun cut dappled patterns on the cobblestone as she and her children walked toward Pizza Hut for one last celebration. If you are going to do a thing, Sandy figured, it is best to do it right. So she put a dollar in the jukebox, and Tracy Chapman belted out Give me one reason to stay here. And everybody thought the pizza tasted so, so good.

After that they were on the train again. The kids pressed their faces against the glass and smiled at the glittery night sky.

"We're on our way, babies," Sandy said.

And when in the mist of the dawn the train whisked across the state line, carrying them up and away, she sank to her knees on the cold, rattling floor, unfolded a note she had written to God, and prayed.