When Peter turned the
corner and found Denise waiting at the curb with three suitcases, he
leaned out the window, not sure whether to be amused or annoyed. "Hey!
It's only two weeks." His own few changes of clothes were rolled up
inside an old duffle bag thrown in the
trunk.
"You never can tell?" she
said.
"What you're going to
need?"
"Where you'll end
up."
He couldn't figure out why she
was wearing stockings, high heels, a red sleeveless dress, carrying a
small white purse. They could have been going across town to a party,
not setting off for four long days on the interstate, heading west in
an old Escort with a deep gouge rusting down the passenger's door. He
glanced in the rearview mirror and caught an edge of his unshaven jaw,
then glanced down at his tee shirt, jeans, and flapping sandals. What
a mismatched pair they'd make sitting side by side for hundreds of
miles.
Peter got out to load two of
her suitcases into the trunk. The biggest had to slide onto the back
seat; he strained to lift it but didn't ask what she had inside. Then
she sat in the car and waited for him to shut her door.
If he'd kept his mouth shut, this
wouldn't be happening, Peter thought traveling across the country with
a stranger to a place he wasn't sure he wanted to see again. But one
night after work when everybody was pouring from pitchers of beer and
talking about vacations, someone asked Peter about his plans. Usually
he just sat back and listened to the others. Answering was his
mistake, nervously blurting intentions for a trip he had planned in
detail but never expected to take: drive west for several days in a
town on the Coast he had lived in once, visit familiar places, perhaps
look up a few people. That was what he told them, through he was sure
it would never happen despite the hours he had wasted in
daydreaming.
As Peter was speaking,
Denise arrived from her job a few blocks away, taking the empty chair
across the table from him next to Glenn, her husband. "I've been
thinking of a trip west myself. I'll ride with you," she said, not
asking, just stating a fact. "Split the gas and the driving. It'll
save us time and money."
"What
about you?" Peter looked at Glenn, hoping he would be going too, but
Glenn shrugged. "Not a good time for me." Peter felt his scalp
prickling. "It's an old car that's been having problems," he told
Denise. "The cylinder head, I think." She had smiled, bright lip gloss
flecked on her teeth. "I'll take my chances."
So here they were. Peter
concentrated on the driving, maneuvering through the thick traffic in
the center of town, taking a shortcut through the industrial park, and
coming out to the highway. He started to apologize for the condition
of the Escort the back floor littered with empty grocery bags, crushed
cans, tattered sneakers then changed his mind. Denise didn't said a
word, looking out at the local scenery as if she were a tourist. This
was the first time Peter had ever been alone with her.
He and Glenn did data entry in the
same office. The work called for concentration and left little time
for small talk. Some days they ate lunch together or went for a beer;
Denise joined them now and then, part of a group chattering over
sports or the weather or government stupidities. He knew nothing about
their lives.
Glenn was ok, Peter
thought all along, but he'd never had a reaction to Denise until they
were sitting next to each other one evening at a big round table and
she pressed her leg against his, tight from calf to thigh. He reached
across for a pitcher of beer to break the contact, but she shifted
with him. Peter wouldn't meet her eyes, didn't know what to do next.
He suspected that if he dropped his hand to her knee, she would seize
it, rub it up and down. Then what? He realized that he didn't want to
know.
Her look didn't appeal to him
round olive face, flat features, thick lips, dark lidded eyes, heavy
calves. But she carried herself like a femme fatale, and he could see
men responding, as if to an invitation of a secret smoldering, a
promise of unimagined delights. For him, he knew, even if Glenn wasn't
a sort of friend, there'd only be disappointment. That evening he had
stood up and moved to the men's room just to wash his hands, then
slipped out to the parking lot without rejoining the table. Denise
never sat next to him again, not until they were in his car now, she
leaning against the passenger door, hands folded in her lap.
"Why are you all dolled up?" Peter
asked her when they stopped for a red
light.
She pulled the dress down
over her knees. "I always like to make a good
impression."
Though she was staring
straight ahead, mouth fixed, he sensed that she was smirking. "We'll
be driving from dawn till midnight," he said. "You won't meet anybody
but gas jockeys, and you'll be too tired to show yourself
off."
"Then you'll have to be the
one to appreciate me."
"Why don't
you pretend you've fixed yourself up for
Glenn?"
"It wouldn't do me any
good." She laughed. "Glenn knows all my secrets."
On the interstate, every time Peter
pushed the Escort past seventy, he felt a hesitation, a surging in the
engine, the car starting to vibrate, probably from bad
alignment.
"Shit."
Denise looked up as if
startled from a reverie. "Did you say
something?"
"I said, shit. It's the
goddamn car. We won't be able to go past
65."
"So?"
"We'll lose
time."
"Does that
matter?"
"We've only got two weeks.
I don't want to waste most of it on the
road."
"Who says we can't stay
longer? As long as we like?"
"We
have jobs. Remember?"
"Pull off at
any exit and there are other jobs. No worse than what we're doing
now."
"But our lives are back home."
Peter found himself agitated, as if this were a real discussion and he
had a point to prove.
"And what kind
of life do you have there?"
"Not
much. But it's the only one I've
got."
"See? There's nothing to
lose."
"But you have Glenn." Peter
pictured Glenn pounding at his terminal, lanky, red-cheeked,
fairhaired, with large knobby joints, as if he had been snapped
together. He was always earnest, intent on doing a good
job.
"With Glenn," she said, "two
weeks or two months or two years is no big
deal."
"How do you
mean?"
"I'd walk in the door, and
he'd say, 'Oh, it's you.'"
"Tell me something," Peter asked
her. "Were you really planning a trip before you heard about
mine?"
Denise studied her fingers,
bit at a split nail. "Of course not. But I have enough sense to seize
an opportunity."
"What opportunity
is that?"
"We have one car, and I
can't afford air fare."
"You both
work."
"Money never lasts with
us."
For a second, Peter was about
to ask her why, then suspected he wouldn't want to know the reason.
Instead he said, "What will you do once we get there?" The plan was
for him to drop her off at the rapid transit station in his old town,
and she'd head into San Francisco, eventually get in touch with him to
make arrangements for the drive
back.
"Indulge my
whims."
"Do you have friends
there?"
"I have friends everywhere.
It's very easy to make friends. Try it
sometimes."
"I know enough people,"
he said.
Midday they stopped fifteen minutes
for sandwiches, gas, and a toilet break, then back on the road that
barely changed for hours, a straight line of macadam cut through
contoured fields out to the horizon, a blur of farmhouses and silos,
acres of dried corn stalks, every now and then a town in the distance.
Peter told Denise to turn on the radio, but all they could get were
commodities quotes and ranting call-in shows. They listened to the
thump of tires and the groan of the
engine.
At dusk Denise took over the
driving for the first time, spending several minutes adjusting the
seat, making faces when she pulled back onto the highway. "Jesus,
Peter, this transmission feels like
tar."
"Sorry I couldn't offer more
style."
"No matter. I'm a very
flexible woman, able to shift my own gears."
When night fell and headlights cut
into the darkness, Denise
said, "What about sleeping?"
Peter held his watch to the dashboard. "We've got hours
till midnight."
"I didn't mean that. What arrangements? One room or two."
He couldn't see the expression on her face. "Two, I
suppose."
"There was a night a few months ago," she said, "when you
could have gotten into my pants."
"I remember."
"But you weren't interested."
"No."
"You may have missed the window of opportunity." For a
moment she was silent, then laughed out loud. Peter had never
seen her so amused. "So," she continued, "your virtue is safe
with me in one room. Besides, we'd save money."
"All right."
Later, after rehearsing the question in his mind for a half
hour, the exact words to use, he asked her, "Why was the window
unlocked that one time?"
"Curiosity. I wanted to find out if you're really as dull
as you seem."
"All you had to do was ask. I'm probably the dullest person
you know."
She laughed again. "Then think of all the effort we've
saved ourselves. I got my answer without working up a sweat."
They pulled off the interstate the first exit they came to
after midnight and found a motel right at the cloverleaf, a flat
cinder block building with a neon sign thirty feet in the air.
Peter paid for the room with his credit card, and Denise gave him
cash for her half, counted out the bills before they left the car
even though he told her there was no hurry. The room smelled of
an earthy dampness, the walls slick to the touch.
Peter used the bathroom first, took a shower to be ready for
a quick departure first thing in the morning. He was in and out
in five minutes, then burrowed under the spread of one bed. But,
tired as he was, he couldn't sleep, hearing Denise's sounds
behind the bathroom door clatterings on the glass shelf, the
constant on and off of faucets, a flushing roar, something
dropped on the tiles. It seemed she was in there for an hour.
When she came back into the room, Peter opened one eye from
the pillow and saw her standing at the picture window in a long
nightgown, her body outlined by the neon glow, the heavy shape of
her legs, the contour of her small breasts. His arousal
surprised him. It wasn't her, he told himself; it was being in a
strange room with a strange woman. He rolled over and faced the
wall, wanting no part of Denise.
When his alarm watched buzzed at 6 a.m., she was already
dressed, in slacks and a fine knit sweater this time, heating
water for the instant coffee left on a table by the door. He
threw on his jeans and tee shirt, strapped the sandals. She
pulled back the curtains to a grey morning, and they sat in
plastic chairs drinking the thin, tepid coffee and eating stale
rolls.
"Some fun," Denise said.
"I've been in worse places."
"With worse people?"
"I remember places better than people."
"You're kind of a place yourself."
"How do you mean?"
"A shape on the landscape. Something for the passersby to
glance at and forget."
"Somebody who won't climb through a window if you opened it
for him?"
"Exactly."
"Then it's a lucky thing you have Glenn."
"My luck is amazing."
The Escort wouldn't start, not after five minutes of Peter
twisting the ignition key and grinding the starter. A few times
the engine sputtered, but died as soon as he gave it gas. He
beat fists on the steering wheel. "Goddamn it, goddamn it,
goddamn it."
Denise covered his hand when he moved to turn the key again.
"You'll wear down the battery. It's probably flooded. Let's
just sit for a while."
He shook his head and winced. "What a goddamn way to live."
"What way?"
"A car like this piece of shit."
"It's not good to get so emotional about a machine."
"Oh yeah? How else are you going to get to San Francisco?"
"Something else would have come along."
"What?"
She gave a small shrug. "I'm not like you. When an
obstacle arises, I trust my luck."
He wrenched the key so hard he thought it would snap. But
the engine roared, spewed out a surge of thick black exhaust.
Peter turned on the radio himself this time, dialed through
the static crackle until he heard a voice, somebody reading from
the Bible, a cadence filled with yeas and verilies. He left it
on even when a preacher's voice urged people to cast off their
sinful ways. "Maybe we should pay attention," he said.
"You and me?" Denise laughed. "We're two people who
resisted temptation. Think of all the goodness points we earned
last night."
"I didn't think you kept track."
"It's not a bad idea to have an ace in the hole."
He turned the volume down to an meaningless hum in the
speakers. "I'd have thought Glenn had stored up enough points
from both of you."
"We must know different Glenns," she said.
"The one I know plays by the rules."
"Mine is working off demerits."
"From what?"
"He'll have to tell you that. One of my rules is never to
talk about poor Glenn."
"Why are you here -- off by yourself?"
"I didn't notice him stopping me."
"What kind of a marriage is that?"
"Ours."
At a gas station, they filled the tank and brought
sandwiches and soda from a cooler, eating in the car, Denise
driving now, touching a napkin to her lips after each bite and
brushing crumbs from her sweater as soon as they fell. When a
glob of mayonnaise dropped onto Peter's tee shirt, he saw her
watching and deliberately left it there until she reached over
and wiped it away.
"Your life needs a woman's touch," she said.
He looked at her and swallowed his anger, silently counting
one to fifty, refusing to say anything.
"You've never been married." She continued as if he had
responded. "You've probably never even asked anybody. You're
the kind of person who lives in a room with all the shades
pulled. Afraid you wouldn't know what to do if you saw something
interesting out there. So it's better not to find out."
"No!" He snapped the denial.
Denise gave him a surprised look. "No what?"
"I asked somebody once." Peter felt his leg trembling and
clamped both hands down on his knee.
"And?"
"She said yes."
"So?"
"It didn't work out." He stared out the window, far ahead,
into a vague distance where he thought he saw the outline of
mountains, dark shapes wavering out at the edge of his vision.
When he moved to turn the radio up, Denise pinched his fingers in
hers and snapped it off.
"Time for you to tell me about your life," she told him.
"That's not something I talk about."
"It happened out where you're going, didn't it?"
He nodded.
"Are you trying to find her? Repair your past after years
of regret?" Denise made her voice breathless: "Darling, it was
all a terrible mistake."
"She's not there any more. I wouldn't be going back if she
was."
"She broke your poor heart."
"I broke her jaw," he blurted, then reached out as if to
snatch back the words.
"Whoa!" Denise let out a snort. "Silent Peter?"
"I got jealous. It's always been that way. Whenever
there's a woman in my life, I get fierce with jealousy." He
found it easy to speak now, as if finally revealing his shame had
made it trivial, no worst than admitting he bit his nails.
"What happened?"
"We were at a party. Her friend's apartment. I got up for
drinks and found her dancing with somebody else. All harmless,
but I went wild. Dragged her outside, punched her, kept punching
her until people pulled me away."
"Were you drunk?"
"No. I never get drunk. The way I am comes from inside me.
"What does?"
"Whenever I have anything, I get furious with myself because
I expect to lose it."
Denise took her foot off the gas and turned toward Peter.
"Would you hit me?"
"For what?"
"I don't know. Dancing with a stranger."
"Why would I? You're nobody to me."
By evening, the rock face of the mountains was closing in,
as if just over the next rise of the foothills. But they drove
another hour, Peter at the wheel, and didn't seem to get any
nearer, through the inclines were steeper now. He was leaning
forward on the seat, tensing his body, thinking the car would
slide backwards if he relaxed.
"You're going to be this way for the rest of your life,"
Denise said. "Aren't you?"
"How's that?" He spoke through clenched teeth.
"Miserable."
They reached the crest and began an abrupt descent, picking
up great speed, Peter taking his hands off the wheel, glancing at
Denise for a reaction, waiting for her to cry out. But she sat
with her hands folded, and he was the one to slam into a skid at
the edge of a ditch.
Then uphill again, the Escort shuddered, sending jolts up
through his legs. The metal seemed to be flapping with
vibration, and their speed slowed no matter how hard he pressed
the gas. He slammed the transmission into low gear and they
crept upward, reaching the top just as a great rush of steam
rushed from under the hood. "Fucking head gasket!" he cried.
Denise began laughing, first quietly, openmouthed, barely
making a sound. Then she roared, arms wrapped around her middle,
tears running down her face. "Oh, Peter! Nothing ever goes
right for you!"
Ahead, as they coasted downhill, he saw the arch of a
bridge, a great sweeping river that glittered in the sunset, and
beyond a town, all white, a wonderland set against the mountains.
He just steered, without power, moving from simple inertia,
rumbling over the bridge onto the main street, where he turned
against the curb before he lost all momentum.
They found the town's one hotel a block away, just four
rooms on the second story over a bar. Denise took her smallest
suitcase from the trunk and Peter his dufflebag. He left her in
the room to walk to a garage, where the one attendant, a kid
working the gas pumps, told him the mechanic was gone for the
day. He'd have to wait till morning.
When Peter got back, he saw Denise at a table in the bar
talking to two men leaning forward on their stools, both in
tapered jeans and cowboy boots, one with a wide brimmed felt hat
and a mustache. She introduced him to the men, and he sat at the
table with her, reported what the kid had said.
"If it's a gasket," the one with the mustache, Curtis, said,
"they'll have to order the part. Could take days."
"It looks like we may have to change our plans," Denise
said. Peter saw that she was smiling, as if they were acting out
an elaborate joke.
"Plenty to do around here," Curtis told them. His friend,
Eddie, nodded. Curtis signaled the bartender for more beers, one
for Peter, another vodka martini for Denise.
Eddie offered Denise a cigarette, and she took it, rolling
the filter on her thick, glossed lips. Peter had never seen her
smoke, not for two long days in the car, not back home when she
was with Glenn. Curtis snapped a flame from a polished silver
lighter, and she drew in deeply, exhaling a stream of smoke in
their faces.
Both Curtis and Eddie hooked boot heels over the rungs of
their stools, swiveling back and forth, hovering over the table.
Denise was talking to both of them, rattling on about nothing,
but Peter could see her watching him out of the corner of her
eye, awaiting his reaction. She moved her fingers away from her
face, her jaw only inches from the arm he propped on the
tabletop.
Peter stood at once. "I'll be back."
He thought Denise shook her head, once, abruptly, like a
spasm. But he went up to the room and stretched out on the
double bed, her suitcase open on one side, soft silk garments
draped over the sides. He wouldn't touch anything.
After a half hour, Peter got up, pushed his teeshirt under
his belt, and ran a hand through his hair. He was certain Denise
would be gone when he got downstairs, her other two suitcases
missing from his useless car, already miles from this town with a
stranger who was now her friend. He wondered which man he would
find left at the bar, Curtis or Eddie, maybe neither.
For a moment he thought he might stay in this town.
Forever. Or until something happened. But he knew when his car
was finally fixed, he would turn around and go back home,
spending the days on the road wondering what he and Glenn would
talk about when he got there.
Fiction
from Web del Sol