by Nancy Cupp
Rosa was horrified until she realized he meant Mexican food. She forced a smile and said, “Quesadillas, burritos or tacos?”
When she came back, the girls enjoyed Rosa’s cooking. Even Rosa had an appetite. “They’re very tired tonight, they’ve been working on the red truck, it’s all in pieces. Arnold won’t have the energy to bother us tonight.”
The next morning, Blaize brought the news that they planned to have modifications done by the end of the day. They would deliver to Cheyenne tomorrow. “What that mean? Mr. Arnold takin’ us to Cheyenne to work?”
“I don’t think so, I think they’re selling the load from the truck they stole. Somehow I’ve got to convince them I’m willing to help drive. I might be able to signal someone that we’re in trouble here.”
“I hope you can get away,” said Rosa.
Blaize pouted, “She gonna jus leave us here.”
“I won’t. I’ll find some way, you two keep trying.”
“I ‘most forgot. I got this.” Blaize pulled a metal teaspoon out of her bra.
“What are we going to do with that?”
“I dunno, I jus gets ‘em, I don’t make the plan.”
“That’s good Blaize, It might work for something.” Margret looked around the space they were in. The room was wall-papered, but she knew they were in a semi-trailer. “There should still be doors back here, even if they’re locked.”
She stepped behind an overstuffed chair and ran her hand along the ugly flocked wall-paper until she felt a soft spot. She took a large picture off the wall, and rested it on the floor behind the chair. With the spoon she made a small hole, exposing the rubber seal between the two back doors.
Blaize giggled, “You gonna dig us out with a spoon?”
There was a noise at the door and Margret quickly sat down and shoved the spoon under the chair cushion.
Arnold entered and said, “Blaize can you fix her up so she looks different?” He pointed at Margret, and then looked puzzled for a moment.
“What you mean, look different? You mean like a ho?”
“Nah, she ain’t never gonna be a good ho. I mean just change her hair color, maybe a hair cut.”
“Sure I can, but I need some stuff. You takin’ me to the store?”
“Be ready in five minutes, we’re getting groceries too.” Arnold glanced toward Margret, then left, locking the door behind him.
“Quick, get that picture back on the wall, and switch places with me,” said Rosa.
Margret re-hung the picture and sat in Rosa’s spot. “I was so afraid he’d notice. Why does he want to change my hair?”
“So you can’t be recognized I suppose.”
“He jus like his girls to be pretty. He know I can do that,” said Blaize with confidence.
Arnold came back to get Blaize and carefully looked around, “Let’s go Blaize, I want to get back so you can get her fixed up tonight.”
Rosa and Margret listened carefully for sounds telling them Arnold had left. “The other one is still out there I think, I hear something,” said Rosa. The steady thump of Bruce’s rap music echoed in the metal dome.
“Yeah, but it sounds like he’s busy, where’s that spoon?” Margret dug in the chair for the spoon and then took the picture off the wall. She used the handle to poke and twist at the rubber seal until there was a small crack of light shining through. She put her eye to the spot and looked around.
“What can you see?”
“Not much, just the motor home,” said Margret.
“Let me see.” Rosa put her eye to the crack, “Give me the spoon a minute.” She jabbed around with it until the bowl of the spoon was partly through the seal, then she stepped up to look again. “Cool, now I can see the other truck, and I can see Bruce with some kind of mask on his face.”
“What? How do you see all that?”
“Take a look, you see it in the reflection of the spoon.” She stepped back and let Margret take a look.
“Cool, now we can keep an eye on them at least. Looks like he’s going to paint that truck.”
Rosa pulled out the spoon and hid it back in the chair, then Margret rehung the picture. They were giddy with excitement, at least there was a little bit of hope.
That evening Rosa cooked while Blaize worked on Margret’s hair. Blaize had bought hair dye, a scissors and styling products, in addition to make-up and feminine hygiene products.
Margret fidgeted while she sat with muddy orange goop on her newly trimmed hair. Blaize was enjoying the process of transforming Margret’s mousy brown, unruly hair into a fashionable style.
“You gonna be blonde and beautiful when I gets done, now sit still or your highlights won’t come out good.”
“I’ve never had much luck with my hair, it seems like it just flops back where it wants to go.”
“That why I cut it special, you gots to go with how it go natural. White folks got hair that so difficult! Now sit still, I gonna fix you eyebrows, they looks like hairy caterpillars. Mr. Arnold gonna think you sumpin’ special.”
“How do you know so much about cutting hair and stuff?”
“I does ever’ body’s hair back home, they come outta the swamp to have me do ‘em.”
“So why didn’t you set up a shop? You could make a good living as a beautician.”
“‘Cause ain’t no body got money for they hair in the swamp. I jus does it for free ‘cause they can’t pay me no way. Them womens live hard, and they need to feel good sometimes.”
By the time Rosa came back with their supper Blaize was nearly done with blow-drying Margret’s hair. Arnold demanded the scissors back, now that she was done cutting. He did a double take when he saw Margret as a blonde. “Nice work Blaize, nobody will recognize her now,” he said. Margret’s heart sank, knowing it was true.
Blaize finished by gently patting make-up on Margret’s bruises. “Now take a look at you-self in the mirror,” said Blaize. “You looks good!”
“Margret, you’re beautiful. She did a nice job,” said Rosa.
Margret looked in the mirror Blaize held up for her. She was amazed by the result. The color made her face brighter and her hair naturally fell into place when she shook her head. “I’ve never had a hair cut that works before! Blaize I’m serious, you could go to any city and make a fortune as a beautician.” Margret started to tear up, “I can be pretty.”
Blaize smiled, admiring her work, but she was quiet.
13
Hot Load
“Margret, get over here. You’re cooking this morning and hurry it up. I ain’t got all day.” Margret glanced at Rosa, trying to give and gain comfort when their eyes met. Arnold held her arm as he walked her to the motor home, past the stolen truck.
The old Lucille was now a black truck. They’d cut the top off an International cab and welded it on to the Volvo. The rest of the truck was the same, but at first glance the wrinkled brow look of an International made it unrecognizable. They’d added new decals and a new company name, SuperTrans.
Bruce was waiting in the motor home when Arnold brought Margret in. He couldn’t hide the look of surprise on his face when he saw her.
“Blaize did a good job didn’t she,” said Arnold. “This one ought to sell okay now, make me some good money. Blaize tells me she’s a virgin too, that’ll be a premium price.”
Margret backed up against the sink, she couldn’t believe Blaize had given him that information. They talked about her like she was an animal to be auctioned to the highest bidder.
“What the hell you talkin’ about? You ain’t sellin’ her, I need her to help me drive since you’re no good to drive. She’s mine anyway.”
Arnold grabbed Bruce’s shirt and almost lifted him off his chair. With his face inches from Bruce’s he growled, “Listen you little shit, I don’t need to drive. I put in my time with the old man, grunting tarps around in high winds and chaining up in the ice and snow. You ain’t the one that rode the truck over the side of a mountain with hi
m.” Arnold dropped Bruce back in his chair. “Margret, make pancakes.”
“So let me use her to drive. We have to keep the truck rollin’ and I can’t drive for four days straight with no sleep.”
“Why not? The old man did.”
“Yeah—that’s why he’s dead.”
Margret had never made pancakes in her life. She was almost in a panic until she realized there was a mix in the cupboard.
“How you gonna keep her from doing something when you’re sleeping, stupid?”
“Give her incentive. If we don’t get back by a certain time, we kill Rosa.”
Margret gasped and dropped a whole egg, shell and all, in the mix when she heard that. “I won’t try…”
“Shut-up,” both men said.
Arnold considered the idea, “I guess there’s no risk to me if you screw up and get caught. I’ll be long gone if anything goes wrong.”
“When you going to tell me about this hot load?”
“Picks up near San Diego, a place called NuPower, they have some containers of nuclear waste they need us to move.”
“Nuclear waste!”
Margret burnt the first pancake. “What’s that smell? Margret, you tryin’ to burn the place down?”
“Sorry, the grill was a little too hot.” She nervously tried again, and managed to flop a half raw pancake onto the stove.
“Yeah, it’s radioactive. They have a problem with these containers that hold the spent fuel rods. They welded ‘em shut so they’d be safe, but now they can’t inspect ‘em. They think they might corrode and leak.”
“Hell, they can’t move those things around. Ain’t that stuff regulated?”
“Yup, that’s where we come in. We bring them an empty container that looks the same, and then take the full one and hide it. Nobody knows the difference.”
“But it’s radioactive, you expect me to move that shit?”
“I told you it was a hot load.”
“But it’s dangerous, that stuff can kill ya.”
“It can kill you. What are ya, a pansy? It’s in a lead-lined container.”
Arnold reached behind himself and grabbed Margret’s butt, causing her to drop one of the few good pancakes she managed to produce on the floor. “I’m sorry, I…”
“Relax Honey, you can make it up to me.” Arnold pulled Margret close, “Blaize did a fine job with you. I gotta get my mark on you today.”
Margret wanted to throw the plate of pancakes at him and run screaming. She forced herself to smile and gently pulled away to serve Bruce his ‘cakes. “Would you like maple syrup or blueberry?”
“Don’t tattoo her, its better if she don’t have any identifiable marks,” said Bruce, pouring blueberry syrup on his pancakes.
“You tellin’ me what to do?”
“You ain’t got time to mess with that now anyway.”
The men ate as Margret made some more misshapen pancakes for the girls, and cleaned up.
“Your bill of lading will show you’re hauling hay. We shove a couple big bales in behind the container. The extra bonus to these empty containers is nobody’s ever going to open them. Who’d ever open a welded container with a nuke symbol on it? You could hide anything—or anybody in there.” Arnold looked straight at Margret and grinned, then pulled her onto his lap.
Bruce shoved his plate away, “When do we leave?”
☙
Margret was a nervous wreck when she got back to the girls. She was hungry, but she could hardly eat.
“Come-on Marg, these ain’t all that bad,” said Blaize, drenching her third pancake with syrup.
“Did something happen? You look all shook up,” said Rosa.
“I can see the advantage of looking frumpy now. Arnold had his hands all over me,” Margret shuddered, “But that’s not the worst part. They’re moving nuclear waste and I think they’re going to have me drive.”
“That shit ain’t good.”
“But it’ll give you a chance to get away.”
“Maybe not. They said if I don’t get it back here they would—kill…”
The other two looked horrified. “Do you think they actually would?”
“They had a plan to get rid of the body.”
Rosa was softly crying, “Carlos, where are you? What are we going to do?”
Margret sat down and tried to comfort Rosa, “Just try to hang on, something will happen and we’ll get a chance.”
Blaize made herself busy and acted like she was unaffected but she was careful to hide her face from the others.
☙
Margret guessed they’d leave the next day after breakfast. She hardly slept that night, worrying about what would happen. Rosa came to her when Blaize had gone to bed. She handed Margret her pressed powder compact with the rose on the lid. “I scratched Carlos’s number on the powder. Please—if you can, call him,” she whispered.
In the morning before breakfast, Margret hugged the girls and promised she’d come back.
“Why you want to come back? You can’t help us no-way. You just gots to take care of you own-self.”
“If there’s any way I can get you guys out of here, I will.” All three of them were crying when Arnold came to get Rosa to make them breakfast. It was only a few minutes later when he brought her back and roughly shoved her inside.
“Blaize get out here,” Arnold yelled, and then muttered, “damn women, ain’t worth the trouble. I oughta sell the whole bunch of ‘em.”
When they left, Margret went to Rosa. “What happened? Are you all right?”
“Si, it’s just—the smell of food, I threw up.”
“Morning sickness. What did they say? Do they know you're pregnant?”
“Not unless Blaize tells them. What will they do if they find out?”
“I don’t know. We have to find a way to keep them from taking you to the truck-stops. If only there was some way to disable this truck—or cause a delay.”
“What if the toilet overflowed? It would take a while to fix that.”
“That might work, there’s some tampons we could flush. Or you could stay sick for a while. Nobody wants a sick woman.”
“I’ll start with being sick, then I’ll flush a tampon. They won’t suspect I’m pregnant if I’m using tampons.”
Arnold let Blaize in with their food. “Margret get out here, you’re going to eat in the motor home, then you’re going to drive. I got some stuff to take care of with you first.”
Margret was shaken by his words. What was he planning? She glanced around the room looking for some excuse to delay, but Arnold grabbed her arm to escort her out. She wanted to say goodby to the girls but couldn’t speak. Bruce was loading the cab of the newly altered truck. Margret shuddered, it meant she’d be alone with Arnold.
Margret sat at the table, unable to eat. There was a small box near her plate. She poked at the biscuits and gravy on her plate, the pasty white gravy congealing into a cold mass. She kept her head down, afraid to look at Arnold.
“Not hungry babe?” He stood behind her and traced his finger along her cheek, and then down the back of her neck. Margret couldn’t help cringing.
“You got some choices to make. I’m sending you to help Bruce drive but if there’s any funny business, and he calls me—I’ll kill Rosa. But first, I’ll arrange a party with a gang of my customers,” said Arnold. “She’ll be well used up—I’ve got to recoup my investment.” He went around to face her. “Is that understood?”
Margret tried to speak, but her throat constricted. She only managed a croak and nodded her head.
“The next thing is, either I put a tattoo on you or I make you a non-virgin right now.”
Arnold yanked her out of her chair and held her close, his face inches from hers. She could smell biscuits and gravy, sour on his breath. She turned her head away, but he just held her tighter, pressing his body against her. He kissed her neck and gave her a hickey. She tried to squirm away but he pushed her against the wall, then he wa
s sliding his hands under her T-shirt. “What’s it going to be? Tattoo or me?”
“Tattoo,” she squeaked out.
He roughly sat her back on the chair and tightly held her arm against the table, with the other hand he lifted the lid of the box. Inside was a bottle of ink, some cotton, and a razor blade. “You yell, and I’ll finish what I started.”
Tears flowed down Margret’s cheeks, she turned her head away and closed her eyes. She involuntarily jerked at the first touch of the blade.
“Hold still, this’ll be a lot worse if you move.” Arnold held her arm so tightly, bruises were already starting to show. Margret gritted her teeth, holding her breath when the blade cut into her skin. He quickly carved the outline of a truck, then added his initials. With one hand he popped the top off the ink, and soaked the cotton. Then he dabbed it on the wound. “No mistake, you’re mine now.”
He let go of her arm and she jerked back, upsetting the bottle of ink. “Damn you, I oughta do you right now,” he yelled. Black ink spread across the table and dribbled on the floor. He slapped her and she fell against the table, tipping it over with a thud. Ink spattered, soaking the front of Arnold’s pants, and speckling her own.
“What the hell?” Bruce burst in the door. “I told you not to mark her, you prick.”
“Shut-up. Margret, clean up this mess.” She was afraid to move. “Clean it up,” he yelled.
Bruce grabbed Margret’s hand and glanced at her arm, “That looks like hell. We’re going—now. Get the doors open.” He dragged her toward the door. Margret was sobbing, and breathing hard.
“Don’t order me around,” bellowed Arnold, cursing.
Bruce pulled her, stumbling, to the black truck. It was all ready running. She climbed up into the cab and Bruce got in behind her. “Open the door, dammit, or I’ll back through it,” he yelled at Arnold, putting the truck in reverse. Watching the mirrors, he started to back slowly toward the door. Soon they could hear dry metal rollers creak as they rolled on the track.
When the truck was clear of the quonset building, Bruce angled the trailer so he could get turned around. He struggled with the gears a little, as he jockeyed the truck around in the tight spot. Margret could see Arnold in the mirror, still cussing and yelling.
