Ren The Complete Boxed Set

by Sarah Noffke

  “Un-fucking-canny,” I say, thinking of the gypsy woman and her prophecy.

  Dahlia hands a piece to me but I decline since I’m not interested in poison dressed in pie.

  She shrugs and hands it off to Adelaide, who grabs it and takes a giant forkful and shovels it into her mouth. “This is perfect,” my daughter says, her voice blissful for the first time in…well, forever. Adelaide takes another bite, an intoxicated smile on her face as she stares out at the golden sunset and glistening water.

  And the look on Dahlia’s face is similar except her joy is from watching Adelaide and Lucien’s experience. Then she shoves a forkful of pie into her mouth and sighs inwardly.

  And then a screeching motor interrupts my observation. I wheel around to find a gaggle of four-wheelers speeding in our direction, the riders howling with joy. The wheels of their vehicles are no doubt destroying the ecosystem of the beach. “Hur-fucking-ray. People…” I say, realizing that once again, fuckers passing as Homo sapiens are ruining my life and the earth.

  Chapter Seven

  Sand will now live permanently in my rattlesnake loafers. Worse is the horrid bits are stuck between my junk and just about everywhere else. My forest green tie hangs loosely around my neck. It’s not a way I’ve ever worn it but I’m currently in a rare state after a day of sweating, annoying farmers, and a bunch of bloody goats who in five minutes destroyed thousands of dollars’ worth of clothes. Fuck vacations.

  “Are you having a good time?” Dahlia asks when we load back into the SUV.

  “Oh, it’s been quite lovely,” I say in a syrupy sweet voice.

  She regards me with an amused expression. “Lying only further reserves your place in hell.”

  I look around the car, confused. “Wait. This isn’t hell? I could have sworn I died pushing this monstrosity, and this vacation was my own personal hell.”

  “Well, I’m sorry to inform you that this isn’t hell, only the primer,” she says.

  I toss my chin to the ceiling. “You are a cruel and unjust God,” I say.

  Dahlia nearly hits three pedestrians on her way out of the parking lot.

  “Why didn’t you tell me that guy was walking around the front of the car?” she says. Dahlia had been looking the opposite direction for oncoming traffic and a dumb bloke went to cross the road.

  “He looked like a bloody git. I figured I was doing some dissatisfied wife a service,” I say, watching the guy scowl at us as he veers around the vehicle. “Imagine how disappointed she’ll be when that wanker returns home yet again unscathed by a fucked up world that won’t take him out.”

  “You really are such a romantic,” Adelaide chirps from the back. “Do you think that most married people want their other half dead?”

  “Probably,” I say, not really thinking about the question. “Who knows how daft people who get married think. I fail to understand the logic of contractually binding yourself to a person for eternity.”

  “Well, what does that say about you and Dahlia?” Adelaide says. “You two are practically married. Do you wish her dead?”

  I whip around so fast that I catch my seat belt in my face. “Dahlia and I aren’t married.”

  “But you two live together,” Adelaide says.

  “There’s a difference in living with someone and marrying them. And we aren’t married because we care way too much about each other to enter into an agreement where we would force the other person to stay. If she wants out then she can leave. Vice versa. And every single day that I wake up I choose to be with her. I’m not obligated and hiding behind the excuse that I agreed to be loyal or committed or not give up. I’m a fucking human who makes mistakes and changes my mind. And I don’t have to dupe her with false promises. I care about her way too much to make her be with me. To force her year after year. And therefore I would never wish to marry her or wish her dead.”

  Adelaide shrinks back. “O-kay,” she says slowly. “I was just joking really.”

  Adelaide didn’t deserve my wrath but her off-the-cuff question triggered something in me. Something I’m trying to suppress. An old demon. An ancient worry.

  “Ren just has strong opinions on the institution of marriage,” Dahlia says, patting me on the leg, giving me a sideways look that communicates her concern for my reaction. “And I happen to agree that it’s an archaic practice. Yes, some people say it’s about committing and never giving up. But how do we know we are truly with the right person if we don’t give them a choice? People want certainty in this life, but what they miss is the chance to allow each other to grow, to change, to evolve. And if that happens and I’m not on the same page as Ren, then he has my permission to move on.”

  “But more than anything,” I say, cutting Dahlia off, sensing the fragility in her voice, “I get the pride of knowing that she’s with me because she wants to be. It’s not a matter of convenience or customs. When we aren’t obligated to each other then we are more valuable. The couple who celebrates a marriage anniversary are only saying they have chosen appearances over choices. It’s about like celebrating your mortgage every year. Hur-fucking-ray, you’ve fulfilled your contract again. How bloody romantic.”

  “Well, I think we’ve covered that topic,” Dahlia says. “Who is hungry for dinner?”

  I turn and regard her like she’s suddenly speaking French. “You just ate an apple pie, woman.”

  “I shared it with those two,” she says, her mouth gaping open.

  “Barely,” I say but then nod, realizing I’m starving. “Yeah, I could go for some real food.”

  ***

  We don’t end up in the bistro that had the ambience that Dahlia was after. That was fine by me because the waitress probably would be sporting tribal tattoos that she got when she was drunk and has no idea what they represent. And this waitress would undoubtedly serve us chips fried in oil they change out every day. The menu would have no real hearty options, just leeks sautéed in truffle oil and cheese that smells like feet and is drizzled in a reduction of bullshit. Foodies should all be dropped off in Ethiopia where their pretentious drivel will have them being roasted over a pit by the locals in no time.

  We end up in the only place where Dahlia could manage to park the beast. It isn’t even a restaurant. I stand staring at the food truck where a surfer is lurking out the window waiting to take our order.

  “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” I say to Dahlia, who is scanning the three options on the menu like choosing what to eat is a real conundrum.

  “Oh, Ren, where’s your sense of adventure?” she says.

  “This is a bloody food truck,” I say. “This guy can’t even afford a secure location. And you’re going to eat seafood that he makes in a kitchen that probably doubles as his bedroom.”

  The guy who isn’t smart enough to realize I’ve insulted him smiles widely. “I sleep in the front, dude,” the dumb surfer who has obviously drunk too much salt water says.

  “Thanks for proving my point, dude,” I say.

  “I’ll have the fish tacos,” Dahlia says to the guy, and then turns around, offering us a chance to put in our order.

  “I’ll take an order of no-fucking-way with a side of you-have-to-be-out-of-your-bloody mind-Dahlia,” I say.

  The guy scratches his sun-bleached hair with a pencil. “We don’t serve any of that,” he says as his honest to god reaction.

  “Oh, shucks,” I say and turn to Adelaide.

  “I’ll take an order of chips and a couple of waters,” she says.

  “Don’t have any chips either,” he says.

  “Fries,” I cut in. “She wants fries.”

  The guy smiles broadly, his crossed eyes beaming. “Right, you two are from that place where they call fries chips and cookies biscuits. Where is that again, Canada?”

  “Yes, you’re quite the cultural expert,” I say, not even in the mood to insult this git.

  “Well, thanks, bro,” he says and then ducks back to the restroom slash grill to make
Dahlia’s tacos.

  ***

  “Well, I love any opportunity I get to dine al fresco,” Dahlia says, sliding into the picnic table parked next to the greasy food truck.

  “Oh yes, you get to pair the smell of the traffic on the street with your mystery fish tacos,” I say.

  “Oh, Ren, you know I love your cynical side. It always makes me smile,” the woman I love says, not at all deterred by my quips. Her new sunny disposition needs to go and soon. I’ll wear it out of her.

  Because the lame surfer would have to put on pants to serve the food he just whistles through the window when the poison is ready. Dahlia brings it back to the table, her hat blowing in the wind, threatening to fly away. Then the mobs on the street will recognize her and tear her limb from limb, out of love, of course.

  She wastes no time inhaling the first of three tacos, all the time trying to convince me they actually don’t taste horrid. “Just try a bite,” Dahlia says.

  “Not on Adelaide’s life,” I say.

  “Hey, why do you have to bring me into this?” Adelaide says, handing a chip to the little monster. Lucien thoughtfully studies the thing and because he and I are the only ones with brains at the table he chucks it to the ground.

  “Good boy,” I say but my words are immediately drowned out by a loud siren. It’s not like an ambulance or fire truck. It’s lower pitched and so loud it covers all other noises. It’s like a tornado warning but on the west coast that’s not possible. My first thought is of a tsunami. Adelaide and I could possibly get away in time, but Dahlia and Lucien would be stuck. Suddenly I’m assaulted by the strangest sensation. It feels like my insides are tacked to the outside of my body. I, for the first time ever, feel vulnerable.

  I immediately look to the ocean on the other side of the street. People, locals mostly, are bustling along not at all concerned. I turn back to the truck where the surfer is outside wiping down the counter where people order. And as I suspected he’s not wearing pants but rather a towel wrapped around his waist like he just got out of the ocean.

  “Hey,” I yell loud enough to be barely heard over the siren which is still going off.

  He turns and trots over. A dumb smile on his tanned face.

  “What is that?” I yell, pointing in the air.

  “Oh, that’s the emergency alert test siren,” he says. “The nuclear plant nearby runs the drills every month so we’re prepared in case of a meltdown. It will go off for three minutes and then again in a bit,” he says like that’s the coolest thing ever and not morbid at all.

  “Right,” I say and turn back to Dahlia and Adelaide, who has Lucien’s ears covered from the racket. “You wanted ambience and now you get to eat your food apocalypse style.”

  Chapter Eight

  “What the fuck is this?” I say, holding a tiny shirt in the air. The package from Dahlia’s personal shopper arrived at the hotel this morning.

  “That isn’t your size at all,” Dahlia says with a laugh, holding up a suit jacket that would fit a penguin.

  Adelaide grabs the jacket and checks the tag. Her and Lucien’s room is just adjacent to ours and apparently being in a closed-in space for hours on end isn’t enough for the girl.

  “That’s Lucien’s size,” she says.

  “What did you tell your shopper?” I say to Dahlia.

  She’s giggling now. “I might have said the monster got all his clothes eaten by goats, but to my defense that’s how you’ve often referred to yourself. She must have thought I meant Lucien.”

  “Oh, and why be bloody specific when it’s me benefitting,” I say.

  “I’m sorry, Ren. I didn’t think she’d mix it up when I ordered a batch of suits, not onesies,” she says.

  “And I didn’t get my clothes eaten. If I remember correctly, which I always do, the mistake-maker left the door to the automobile open,” I say, pointing to Adelaide.

  She’s giggling now too because she obviously wants to die.

  “Well, I’m now on day two and no clean clothes,” I say, my rage like a bull about to charge.

  “Well, this is an adventure,” Dahlia sings.

  “Yes, and how do those clean clothes feel?” I say, pointing at her crisp linen pants and silk shirt. “If you want to join the adventure then you should go roll around in the dirt.”

  I’m still wearing the wrinkled button-down sans tie and my trousers refuse to relinquish all the sand from the beach.

  “We will just stop at a store and buy you clothes,” Dahlia says.

  “I don’t want a tie-dyed suit or whatever other rubbish they sell in this granola town. I want Armani,” I say, and catch the eye roll Adelaide releases at my demand.

  “Well, I’m afraid they probably don’t have Armani in San Luis Obispo. This place is nicknamed SLO for a reason,” Dahlia says, trying to sound sympathetic but it’s just making me more livid.

  “Fine. Call your personal shopper again and this time be fucking specific. I want those clothes sent to our next hotel room first thing,” I say and Dahlia, who is more and more not acting like herself, salutes at me.

  “Here,” I say, shoving the box of clothes in Adelaide’s direction. “Go ahead and take these for Lucien. He’s the only other intelligent person in this lot and now he can look it.”

  She’s suppressing a laugh but I don’t care at this point.

  I stare around. “Where is Lucien, by the way?”

  “I thought you had him,” Adelaide says, staring around the floor of the hotel.

  “What?” I almost yell.

  Then she burst into the laugh she’d been repressing. “I put him in the closet with some toys so I could get ready,” she says, combing her fingers through her long red hair.

  “You did what?” I say and I do yell now.

  She waves me off. “He’s fine. I left the light on and he likes small spaces.”

  I march through to the room adjoining ours and whip open the closet door. There I find Lucien sitting on the hotel floor and chewing on the holy bible, probably the one the hotel leaves in the bedside table to try and convert all us heathens.

  I tug the bible out of Lucien’s reluctant grasp. “Toys,” I say, holding the bible up in front of Adelaide’s face.

  She laughs. “Yeah, it’s like one long joke. And it’s the only the thing I could find for him to play with.”

  “Have you tried a ball or an action figure?” I say.

  “The toys were in the snack bag that someone forgot.” She says the last part loudly and in Dahlia’s direction.

  ***

  We are on the road for two bloody minutes when I turn to find Dahlia eggshell white. Her hands are clutching the steering wheel like her life depends on a sharp grip.

  “Dahlia,” I say, leaning forward and taking her in. “What is it?”

  “Nothing,” she lies and then tucks her chin like she’s trying to hold something in.

  “Dahlia,” I say, my tone cautious.

  Then she wraps one arm around her stomach and says, “I might be feeling a bit ill.”

  “Oh, for fuck sake! I can’t say I’m surprised after you ate fish tacos served by a half-naked surfer,” I say.

  “That’s why I didn’t want to say anything. I don’t want you gloating about being right,” she says.

  “But I am, aren’t I?” I say.

  “I feel fine,” Adelaide chirps from the back.

  “Shut up, you poor decision maker,” I yell back to her. “Now go ahead and pull over,” I say, angling to the side of the road.

  “Why?” Dahlia says, but as dutiful as ever slows the car and guides it onto the shoulder.

  “Because you’re in no position to drive,” I say.

  “So what are we going to do?” she says, throwing the car into park.

  “I’m going to drive,” I say, opening the door. “Trade me spots.”

  “But Ren, you don’t know how to drive,” she says.

  “I’m a fucking genius who has been watching you do it for a
whole day. I dare say I have the science of driving down better than most by this point,” I say.

  She nods, looking greener now.

  ***

  As I suspected, I figured out how to drive just fine by watching Dahlia yesterday. I’m a master of observation and my photographic memory catalogues everything. I have the car easily speeding down the highway in no time. It’s not a fun experience but there is a charm to the whole thing. Probably makes a lowly Middling feel powerful to operate a giant machine. For me, it’s rather dull. I’ve actually driven one other car in my life. When I was fifteen I stole a Bentley. However, because of Jimmy’s incessant cackling I wrecked the thing into a pile of hay on the side of something that hardly classified as a road in Peavey. A small smile surfaces at the long ago memory. That chap and I had a lot of fun together in our almost seventeen years as friends. But then, as I always joked, he went and got himself killed.

  “Ren,” Dahlia says, grabbing my arm. “You’ve got a cop on your tail.”

  “What?” I say, looking in the rearview mirror. There just behind me is another SUV, but this is one white and black with red flashing lights going off on its top. “What the fuck?”