The Walkers of Ford Road

by K. Massari

himself. He clicked the flashlight on, but kept the light to a minimum with a dark hoodie wrapped around it.

  “Why don’t we just pull the blinds?”

  “They were open before. That would show.”

  “Are people watching this house? It’s all the way out in the boonies! We didn’t see another house or car for miles. Which is hardly possible, by the way.”

  “Sometimes you have that.”

  He should have said more. There was something he was concealing, of that she was sure. She searched his eyes, searched for answers, but he said no more. Instead, he led her to the bathroom and opened the door for her.

  It was clear he would be waiting right outside the door until she was ready and finished. She scrunched her eyes shut as she sat on the toilet seat, never wanting to open them again. What in the world had she gotten herself into? Why had she spent the day driving around with him? She had wanted to get out of the car earlier, but he had kept insisting she stay with him.

  “Are you okay in there?” he breathed from the other side of the door.

  Why was he even asking? He was probably going to strangle her later on anyway. She thought of cheerily calling ‘I’ll be out in a minute!’ but that would have been so fake in the early hours of a horrible morning and this was going to turn into an even more terrifying day. She decided to try being honest, for whatever it was worth.

  “Could you please … leave me alone for a while? Could you please stop hovering outside the door? Please?”

  “Well, yeah, I could do that for you,” he said, his voice full of sadness. “But then you’re only going to freak out and run away. And then … we won’t get any sleep. And tomorrow will be just piss-awful, because I will know I’ve made a mistake. You are not the right woman for me.”

  Tracey nursed herself by holding her head in her hands. ‘Oh what a fucking psychopath,’ she thought.

  “Okay, okay,” she moaned. “I’m sick. I need some more time.”

  “That is … not good. I’ll be in the bedroom. If you need me.”

  “I might.”

  “Call. And I will come.”

  “Yes.”

  She did not trust him. He was not telling the truth. He had moved maybe a foot or two away from the door to the side. But he was definitely there. As if his feet were stuck in concrete. He was there, and he intended to be there until she breathed her final breath on this planet.

  ‘Get a grip,’ her internal voice warned her. ‘Go back to bed. Get some sleep. He might turn out to be harmless. You are wasting your time worrying. You need to rest instead.”

  “No way is he fucking harmless,” she mumbled out loud.

  Splashing cold water on her face, she studied her reflection in the mirror in the bluish moonlight. Her eyes were large and dark and they reminded her of the eyes of a ghost. Her skin was a sickly kind of glowing pale.

  “I look like I’m dead already,” she said and moved ever so slowly and sadly towards the door.

  He was in bed, half-covered, his eyes wide open, his erection showing. He didn’t look the slightest bit sleepy. He looked ready for love, a rough kind of love. He seemed to be toying with her, ready to jump up at any time. From the outside of the house, she heard a shuffling sound, but couldn’t quite pinpoint where the noise was coming from, couldn’t identify who or what was making it.

  A homeless man, making his way down the road, same as she had intended? But it was the muted roar of many feet, more like an army. An army of homeless people? Well, they were outside. Tracey shrugged. Roger was the problem. And he was inside. She listened though.

  Was it the hum of all the driving in her ears after so many hours? But the sensation would have disappeared after so much time on a cool night. She had been able to rest - a little.

  “Do you think they’ll try to come in?” she whispered.

  Roger twitched. He had fallen asleep, his head at an angle. Slowly, ever so slowly, she lifted the blanket and got under it next to him. The shuffling sound grew louder. Tracey, however, was very tired now. It had been such a terribly long day. She knew she should get up and go over to the window to check what the hell was going on. It was a persistent nagging thought, but she pushed it aside. She leaned against Roger’s arm for comfort and then she was asleep.

  She slept a deep, refreshing kind of sleep, at first anyway. Then she had a dream. She was dancing with Roger, and the music was oh so good - the beat just right, and she was drinking and it was making her feel like a million dollars. They were going to have sex, she knew this in her dream, and it made her happy, made her smile in her sleep and in the dream. Then the beat turned into a knock and the knock turned into a knocking at the front door and the knocking just wouldn’t stop as she swam through the layers of consciousness and became more and more awake and aware.

  Then the music died. Tracey was now completely awake and the only thing besides the annoying knock was Roger’s light snoring. Judging by the sunlight it was still early, six in the morning. There was someone at the door downstairs, wanting to come in. Should she answer it? Or wake Roger? Would he be angry? Or paranoid? After all, he was paranoid most of the time. She had had perhaps two hours of sleep. Tops. The sleep deprivation was painful.

  Suddenly, it was over. The knocking stopped. Whoever had wanted to enter the house, had left.

  Then she heard the tread of footsteps padding around the yard. “Roger?” a female voice cried out. The voice was shrill and harsh. “Roger!”

  Tracey held her breath. She prayed the woman would just go away. She did not pray often. There was no use to it. God never listened to people like her.

  “Roger? Something’s up. Better get outta bed. I seen your car, you can’t fool me.”

  Tracey looked at him. His soft, even skin, the amazing cheekbones, the dark hair. Darn, he was good-looking.

  “Get lost, bitch,” she muttered, biting her lip.

  “Hello?” the woman yelled, louder this time, more urgent, but Roger slept through it. Tracey exhaled a sigh of relief.

  After one last bitter “Roger!” and the woman was quiet.

  Tracey made a mental not of telling him how aggressively this woman had knocked, no, how she had pounded on the door and how she had made a big deal out of calling his name, how she had even claimed she knew where he had hidden the car. Tracey fell asleep in the warm, balmy summer air and forgot all about what she had made a mental note of to remember. Tracey and Roger slept until noon and lay in bed until two, caressing, groping, making a drunken, lazy kind of love.

  Roger rubbed his eyes. It was so depressingly hot in the room and there was so much light it hurt. The skies were a nerve-wracking blue. They were so clear and sunshiny he felt sick to his stomach. The only real beauty in the room came from Tracey, her gaunt gray body, her sunken cheeks. With a finger, he drew an imaginary line along her temple, her cheekbone and her cheek down to her jawbone and her neck. She did not stir.

  He stared out the window, focusing on the mosquito screen, blocking out as much as he could while he was still lying in bed. It was strangely quiet, and although there were hardly any cars by day in this place, there usually were some. Now, there were none. It had started.

  ‘I’m safe here,’ he thought. ‘They promised. Ford Road would always be safe.’

  ‘Yeah, but you left them,’ an internal voice warned. ‘You never wanted to come back.’

  ‘They will forgive me,’ he retorted. ‘They always do.’

  “They’re gone,” the voice conceded.

  Tracey had her eyes open. “Hey there, sleepy-head,” he cooed, suddenly in good spirits. It took a while for recognition to flood her senses, and she looked at him in a stupor until it dawned on her who exactly he was. Then her face broke out in a smile.

  “Well, didn’t expect you’d be happy to see me,” he said softly, snuggling against her. And she put her arms around him.

  “You are so so good in bed, Mister.” Then, after a delicious pause, she added:

  “Why
is it so hot in here?”

  “It’s past noon.”

  “The sunlight is killing me,” she said.

  “You have no idea,” he answered.

  “Is there coffee?”

  “You bet.”

  “I wanted to tell you something …”

  Perplexed, she stared at the wall. There had been something she needed to tell him, but her thoughts were a mess and there was no caffeine in her system. She couldn’t for the life of her recall what message it was she had to get across. A headache was coming on, too. She stretched. She yawned.

  They each got out of bed on their side, neither of them happy about facing the day. Only one of them aware that it had been their last happy moment in life together.

  “Those people,” Tracey said, lifting her chin to indicate a crowd of about fifteen standing in a pasture on the other side of Ford Road, “what are they doing over there?”

  Roger, who was moving around again with the practiced dexterity of a husband on a Saturday morning, shot a glance in their direction through the window, and shrugged. “Beats me.”

  “Waiting for a farmer to give them work?”

  “No.”

  Tracey raised the mug of coffee to her lips. It smelled heavenly. “They are all doped up. Look at them.”

  Roger was drinking his coffee and staring at his shoes. “I love coffee,” he said bluntly.

  “So do I,” said Tracey. “Are they some kind of hippie commune?”

  “It’s worse, and that is why I saved you.”

  “What?”

  “Have your coffee, dear. We still have time.”

  She glared at him.