by Jo Treggiari
She eased her hands out. Sourmash slumped against the window, and what was concealed by the cloth hit the glass with a soft, dull sound like overripe apples falling from a tree. The gun clunked onto the dirty carpet on the passenger’s side, and she jumped back about ten feet. Is it still loaded? She knew nothing about guns other than that they were lethal. It could have gone off. She left it where it fell, not wanting to rummage around in the papers and garbage on the floor. Don’t think of him as him. Think of him as it, she told herself as she slid into the driver’s seat.
Her fingers were fumbling sausages, her shoulders tight and painful. Sweat had dried, leaving her feeling cold and clammy. The ghostly moon was very low now and a wash of pink blushed against the horizon. It felt as if the longest night of her life was finally coming to a close.
She sat on the edge of the seat, set all the way back for Sourmash, who was much taller than her. She didn’t want to adjust it. It would feel as if she was crushing his—its—body, so instead she scooted forward to the edge. She reached for the pedals with her feet, tapping them to see how they felt. Brake in the middle. Gas on the right, clutch on the left. She thought that was correct. She blew on her fingers to warm them, and then turned the key in the ignition. It clicked over and then caught. She gave it some gas. Too much. The engine roared, the truck jerked forward, and died. She’d forgotten to release the emergency brake. Put the clutch in and then start it, she heard her cousin Clare say. She leaned forward, feeling like a little kid going for a joyride—except instead of a partner in crime riding shotgun (ha ha), the lifeless body of a killer was sitting uncomfortably close—and jammed her foot against the pedal. Right foot poised above the gas, she cranked the key again. The truck came back to life. Ari slowly let up on the clutch and the vehicle shuddered into motion, heading straight for a row of trees and a deep culvert. She braked hard again and the truck died. There wasn’t room to turn around.
She could barely see over the dashboard. The part directly in front of her, which was spatter free, was littered with pinecones, branches of dried leaves, a small animal skull. She hastily brushed it all aside onto the floor, cluttered with empty beer cans, take-out containers and magazines. If she kept her eyes fixed on the small rectangle of glass, she could avoid looking at the mess that had dripped down and pooled like old, gray oatmeal on the far side of the dash. If she breathed through her mouth and leaned into the crisp air hitting her cheek, she could avoid smelling him. It.
She focused. The rough track was definitely a road, but first she had to back up. It took forever to figure out reverse. Twice she thought she had it, only to discover after the engine juddered to a tooth-chattering halt that she was in fourth. Finally, with an awful squeal, she found the gear, floored it and shot backward. Brake! Brake! She glanced in the mirror. She was lucky she hadn’t crashed into the cottage. She jimmied it into first, although from the terrible engine noises, it might have been third, gave it some gas and pointed it straight ahead. She steadfastly avoided looking at the shrouded mound next to her, gluing her eyes to the odometer and the immediate area in front of her tires.
The track forked. She took the left branch, thinking it looked more traveled. She drove until she reached a road—a real road with split lanes and mileage markers—and only then did she allow herself a terrified giggle. The sound of her hysterical laughter reminded her of Lynn, and that un-dammed a flood of tears that threatened to drown her.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
This might be surprising but people don’t always notice me. It’s like not registering the UPS man when he’s out of his brown uniform; it doesn’t matter how tall he is or how short—all they notice is the outer shell. Sometimes a flicker of familiarity will cross their faces if they see me in the convenience store or around the school, but unless they can put me into context, their eyes just slide right past. I’m not invisible but I am camouflaged. That’s ideal. I’ve spent most of my life trying to find the right uniform. How easy it is to slip it on and off.
The poet T.S. Eliot said: “Let me also wear / Such deliberate disguises / Rat’s coat, crowskin…”
If I had my way, I would just keep pretending to be exactly who they think I am, continue this feat of acting, dumb myself down, but it has become harder lately. She sees me, even though she’s not quite sure what she’s looking at. He sees me. Even my hidey hole, this desolate place with its overgrown track road, sheltering woods and nondescript cabin, has become unsafe, though my name is nowhere to be found on the ownership paperwork.
I had my beautiful plan in place and then it all began to go wrong.
Ma always said, “Trouble never comes alone.”
First it was the girl, Ari, with her questions and snooping around. It was unfortunate that she stumbled across my killing grove in the woods by the swimming hole. I wasn’t ready to let the world see it yet; I had my eye on a bumbling Labrador retriever puppy that always tangled itself in my feet.
Ari is kind and naïve and easily influenced.
Ma Cosloy used to say “needs must” when there was some unpleasant but necessary chore on the agenda, and those were the words I spoke to Ari just before I pushed her into the cistern. It bothered me that her death would not be glorious in the way I would have liked. The timing was all wrong for my tableau; I already had my choice picked out and Ari would decompose too badly to be used for future installations. I felt guilty for being wasteful again, but my intention was that her body never be found and nothing would link her disappearance with the others to come.
Both the blow and the fall should have been fatal but I could hear the small whimpers of pain she made as she lay there, and I knew she was still alive. I’d have to climb down and strangle her and for that I’d need a good strong rope.
I was already back in the cabin, collecting what was necessary, when the other one came sniffing about. I had barely enough time to clean up a few things, strip off my gloves and make it onto the outside porch with the door firmly closed behind me. I cursed myself for not installing locks.
“Wasn’t sure anyone was home,” he said. “Couldn’t see a vehicle.” That was because I had parked in an overgrown gully invisible from the track.
I pasted a smile on my face, concealing my impatience. It made little difference, really. Ari would die of exposure or from injuries sustained in the fall. I could tie up the other loose ends, the mess in the cabin, and no one would be the wiser. Obviously I could never come back here again.
“You’ve got privacy at least. Could get up to all kinds of trouble out here, hey?”
He leered and I kept my expression noncommital, but my senses leapt to high alert.
In the wild, the bear recognizes the wolf and keeps his distance. Each establishes his own wide territory and their paths rarely cross. Bears are stupid and quick to anger. I am the wolf.
“My place is just a few miles down the road thataway,” he said, gesturing vaguely. “Good hunting in these woods.” He squinted. “You don’t seem like the type.”
“You know what they say about books and covers,” I said.
He showed all his stained teeth when he laughed, and his breath had the odor of a longtime drugger and drinker.
I leaned against the door and watched him as he prowled around the cabin, trying to peek inside through the dingy curtains. I knew he’d see nothing but still I kept one eye on him.
My mind kept wandering to my special project. The girl I have chosen to be my work of art, my princess. I was itching to get back to fine-tuning my plans for her. I could feel my anger rising but he showed no inclination to leave.
“You and I are the same,” he proclaimed, scratching the hairy belly spilling over his waistband. “Survivors. We make our own rules, am I right? Help each other out.” He stared at me and I stubbornly met his gaze. The implicit threat in his voice was crystal clear.
Sometimes I forget that the rare person notices as much as I do. Drugs had brought me into his sphere. I had crossed the line. And once he’d
tracked me here, he left me no choice. I had to dispose of him. He made it so easy. Said he wanted to show me something, led me over to his truck, sat down and pulled out a gun from under the seat. “Look at this gorgeous thing,” he said. “Gets me hard just holding her.”
I forced a smile, held out my hand. “Let me see it closer,” I said.
“Careful. Safety’s on but it’s a light touch.”
I clicked it off and shot him with his own gun, right there in the cab of his truck. The weapon was a beauty, small bore, wood stock, far too good for the likes of him. I hadn’t planned on it, but the foul words streaming out of his mouth, the stink of booze seeping from his pores, brought the gray veil down over my vision. In one smooth motion, I leveled the muzzle against his temple and fired.
The report of the gun at such close range made my ears buzz for a day or two. I didn’t mind. It was like being trapped in the busy hive of my brain where I savored the shocked look in his eyes, reliving it over and over again.
I just wish he hadn’t died so fast.
Next time, I promised myself, I would draw it out longer. Not give in to my anger. I would be calm, every movement controlled, precise. I would paint lovely lines with the tip of my knife, cleave flesh with surgical precision, compose a masterpiece.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Ari almost drove into the ditch. She’d fallen asleep again without being aware of it. The rattle of loose gravel and earth clods woke her and at the last minute she was able to wrench the steering wheel over enough to avoid taking a nosedive. The engine shuddered and died. She leaned her forehead against the window. All the adrenaline that had been propelling her since she climbed out of the cistern had vanished and she felt weaker than she ever had in her life. There weren’t even any words for the exhaustion that had descended on her like a load of bricks. Her legs were trembling and she couldn’t hold the pedals down anymore. And she was so thirsty, as if every single cell in her body had shriveled into dust.
Where were the people? Were they all asleep? She thought about her own street. Dog walkers were up early, but no one would walk a dog all the way out here. There was hardly any space along the road, and the ditch on the other side.
No cars. No buildings. Fields, grassy hills, potholes filled with muddy water and the occasional meandering barbed wire fence. The only signs of civilization were the telephone poles and a highway marker—23—a designation that meant nothing to her. The houses must be down rocky tracks, tucked away out of sight. If there were any houses.
How long had she been driving? Long enough for the sun to come up. Half an hour? More?
She glanced over at Sourmash. Her driving maneuver had shifted the body slightly so he now leaned back against the seat as if he were dozing. His arm lay disturbingly close to her leg, and she folded herself up as tight as possible. It, she reminded herself. There was a narrow space between its legs and the glove compartment. She wondered if there was anything helpful inside. A walkie-talkie, maybe? She could picture him using one. She slid her hand in, avoiding any accidental contact, and felt around until she found the button. She popped it open and drew out a wad of stuff. Dumping it in her lap, she started going through it. Auto manual, map, mini tool kit, beef jerky, a half-empty plastic bottle with a red screw cap. She held it up. A cloudy yellow liquid sloshed around. Fuck. She ran her tongue over cracked lips. Old apple juice? Urine? God, let it be juice. She opened the cap and took a cautious sniff. It smelled fruity. That’s good, right? Before she could second-guess herself she’d lifted it to her mouth and drained it. Her stomach heaved and settled. And now, her thirst temporarily assuaged, she realized something else. She was starving. She opened the beef jerky packet with her teeth, tearing into it like an animal, using both hands to shove a piece of jerky into her mouth. She was almost too tired to chew but she choked it down, ate another one, and another, barely pausing in between. Swallowing hurt. She caught a glimpse of her face in the rearview mirror. It was pale, with planes and shadows and grooves where there had been none before. Hair hung in rats’ tails. Blackening eyes. Blood streaked the side of her head. It had congealed under her reddened nose too, like a macabre mustache. She tilted the mirror away.
“Fuck you fucking fuck, look what you’ve done to me,” she screamed, bits of jerky spraying from her lips. Did his hand move on the seat?
The smell of the meat was overpowering all of a sudden. The taste, greasy and rotten on her tongue; and the juice, rank, too sweet. Was it his urine after all? She gagged. The cab felt too small. She cranked her window down further and leaned out, gasping for fresh air to clear the stench, but it was too late. The jerky hurt as much coming up as it had going down. She got out of the truck and collapsed against the side, ribs heaving. She tried to spit but she was still too dehydrated.
She shoved her hands in her hoodie pouch and pulled out Stroud’s phone. Her grip was slack and she dropped it into a mud puddle near the truck’s front wheel.
“Fuck,” she screamed as she yanked it out and wiped grungy water onto her sleeve. A few shards of glass fell out onto the road. She powered it up with no real expectation and stared in disbelief. Two bars.
What was the landline number? It took a few seconds for her to remember.
Her hands were shaking so much that she flubbed it the first time. Come on, come on, she told herself furiously, forcing her fingers to cooperate.
Her mom answered on the first ring, “Hello,” and Ari heard it all in her voice: fear, grief, desperation, hope.
“Mom,” she said. “Mommy.”
There was a moment of silence and then her mother’s voice rose in register higher than Ari had ever heard it.
“Ari! Where are you? Bill! Bill, it’s Ari!” she screamed.
“Highway 23.”
“We’re coming. Stay right there.”
She collapsed onto the tarmac, in the shadow of the truck, making herself as small as she could. She kept the phone tucked in both hands until it died, and then she counted in tens to one hundred over and over again, folding her fingers down like a little kid. The wait seemed interminable.
* * *
She heard the sirens before she saw the police cars, a whole phalanx of them coming up over the hill and screeching to a halt, and then she saw nothing at all but her parents running toward her.
CHAPTER TWENTY
I was eleven and a half when the grays first started seeping in. My world with the Cosloys had always seemed monochromatic and dull. A washed-out environment that made the occasional flash of color appear exotic. But this was different. It was not the tilled earth and the blank sky and the weather-beaten old boards bleached by wind and rain that faded around me. It was my own eyes that slowly failed.
Not everything vanished all at once. At the beginning it was almost imperceptible. Blue went first. So sad when every sky becomes a cloudy, dismal one.
When the reds finally faded, slipping away completely in my sixteenth year like blood on the water, I mourned them.
* * *
Even though I couldn’t see the glorious red his blood made against the glass, still I could feel the heat of it. Taste the peppery richness in the air molecules. Smell the copper tang. It shines as bright as a new penny.
The sense of red. And blue. Yellow, and green; the idea of pure pigment is still locked away in my brain’s memory. All the gradations—the subtle change in shade from red to orange, the explosive quality of crimson, the inky perfection of indigo—I can close my eyes and still see them.
Cone monochromacy is exceedingly rare.
It can be caused by shaken baby syndrome, yet might not present until later in life. That’s what I read.
When I was about ten, Pa and Ma Cosloy sat me down after church and explained a few things to me. They told me about my mother. They told me about the foster home. They told me about the hospital reports.
Ma Cosloy’s gray, dry lips were pressed so tight together they disappeared into the weather-beaten skin around her mouth. “Yo
ur mother,” she said, “was no good. Happens sometimes but it’s a waste of time to fuss over it or worry about the past. She got herself in trouble when she was barely fifteen, not more than a child herself.”
I felt my ears grow warm with shame.
“In and out of the hospital you were. Month after month, from birth. Lord, they must have thought you were the clumsiest child there ever was. Always rolling off the changing table, falling down the stairs or tripping over your own two feet.” She snorted and then was quiet. The bone in my wrist twinged. When I came to them, my left arm was in a plaster cast. The break still bothers me on cold, wet days.
“ ’Member that hunting dog I had when you were six or seven?” Pa Cosloy said. “The black and brown? Went after the chickens all the time?”
“That dog would eat the laundry off the line if you let him,” Ma said with a grim laugh.
I nodded. Captain had the softest fur, with swirls of feathery hairs around his paws and between his toes, and a pink tongue that snaked into my ear if I leaned down close to him.
“You can’t really blame the dog. It was his breeding, his nature. Something got twisted up inside him, passed on in the blood, something that couldn’t be fixed.”
I shifted on the bench so that I could sit on my hands. Under my left palm I felt the head of a nail. I pressed down hard upon it, willing the pain to drown out my anger. Captain used to meet me off the school bus, his tail wagging so hard it shook his whole body from rump to head. He was the only thing I had ever felt affection for.
“It was a kindness to put him down,” Pa said.
