at Justin, her eyes round with rage.
The man’s skinny arm pushed her toward the trunk and she gasped. Justin, flat-palmed, shoved at the caved chest under the denim jacket—did it without thinking. The man swung the gun and the butt cracked Justin in the side of the head. He saw a screen of blue light, heard a fizzing sound like static or a can of beer being opened, as he sat back into the trunk. A sick, cold feeling, nausea in the bones, plummeted down his spinal column to his toes. Beaten, he tucked up his dead legs and curled obediently into the trunk. Shewas making a faint blubbering sound as she climbed in after him. No, I won’t, she said as she climbed in. I can’t. Please.
Get in, Justin and the man said at the same time. Now just move your foot, the man told her, his voice still quiet but in a different way, maybe appeased, maybe appealing for a sort of understanding. The trunk was deep. It snapped closed and after a second there was a sound of steps running off. The sound-space between the strides was long and Justin had an image, projected on the sealed darkness around him, of the man loping away up Union, long arms dangling, almost simian, mouth slack and panting under the droopy moustache. In their politically civilized circle, people didn’t use words like “trash” or “skag” about the distressed elements—addicts, parolees, the generationally poor—who made the city’s north side seem more like a slum in Jackson, Mississippi, than part of the old limestone capital of Canada. But now in his anger the words occurred to him. And what he should have done. What he would be doing mentally for weeks to come, rewinding the scene, re-cutting it.
Fucking yokel. Cops will have him by tomorrow. Are you all right?
No. She expelled the word on a faint puff of breath. He was groping in the dark for her shoulder. He found her breast instead and she seemed to recoil, though there was no room for that. In the deeps of the trunk, furled on their sides in mirror image, they lay withknees pressed together, faces close. Her breaths, coming fast, were hot, coppery, sour.
Janna? He found her shoulder and she didn’t move.
She said, Could air be running out already? I feel like it is.
No, no way. And the car’s ten years old. We’ll get some air in here.
I don’t feel it.
Breathe slower, he said. Do you have your cell?
In my bag. It’s gone. I didn’t want to get in. Why did you just get in?
I didn’t. You saw, he smacked me. I was out for a second. He would have shot us. My head is—
I can’t be in here, Justin. I can’t! You knew that, too. That I’m claustrophobic.
He’d never seen her this way. Even in private she was always capable, composed, professional, as though feeling herself under constant scrutiny by some ethical mentor. Too much so, he sometimes felt. How she would never miss a day’s workout in the spring and summer while training for her annual triathlon, whatever the weather or her, their, schedule. How she would talk of getting “more serious” about the sport next year, maybe doing more events. Even her recreation—nights out, parties, vacations—she undertook in this same carefully gauged manner, pacing herself. Only so much fun. Only this much frivolity and no more. As if she was afraid of some tipping point.
Till now he had not let on to himself how herdiscipline—what he had so long lacked and craved—was coming to irk him.
I’ve told you I’m claustrophobic. Why didn’t you tell him?
He probably wouldn’t have known the word. Christ, my head.
Of course he would know it.
And I didn’t know . I mean, I thought you were just saying that before. Everyone says they’re claustrophobic.
I don’t even like when you pull the quilt over us!
To make love, he thought, in an exclusive cocoon, cut off from the world.
I’m sorry, Jan, he said. The throb in his head was worsening and something was gouging into his hip. Maybe a tool? Something useful here? Of course
The man’s skinny arm pushed her toward the trunk and she gasped. Justin, flat-palmed, shoved at the caved chest under the denim jacket—did it without thinking. The man swung the gun and the butt cracked Justin in the side of the head. He saw a screen of blue light, heard a fizzing sound like static or a can of beer being opened, as he sat back into the trunk. A sick, cold feeling, nausea in the bones, plummeted down his spinal column to his toes. Beaten, he tucked up his dead legs and curled obediently into the trunk. Shewas making a faint blubbering sound as she climbed in after him. No, I won’t, she said as she climbed in. I can’t. Please.
Get in, Justin and the man said at the same time. Now just move your foot, the man told her, his voice still quiet but in a different way, maybe appeased, maybe appealing for a sort of understanding. The trunk was deep. It snapped closed and after a second there was a sound of steps running off. The sound-space between the strides was long and Justin had an image, projected on the sealed darkness around him, of the man loping away up Union, long arms dangling, almost simian, mouth slack and panting under the droopy moustache. In their politically civilized circle, people didn’t use words like “trash” or “skag” about the distressed elements—addicts, parolees, the generationally poor—who made the city’s north side seem more like a slum in Jackson, Mississippi, than part of the old limestone capital of Canada. But now in his anger the words occurred to him. And what he should have done. What he would be doing mentally for weeks to come, rewinding the scene, re-cutting it.
Fucking yokel. Cops will have him by tomorrow. Are you all right?
No. She expelled the word on a faint puff of breath. He was groping in the dark for her shoulder. He found her breast instead and she seemed to recoil, though there was no room for that. In the deeps of the trunk, furled on their sides in mirror image, they lay withknees pressed together, faces close. Her breaths, coming fast, were hot, coppery, sour.
Janna? He found her shoulder and she didn’t move.
She said, Could air be running out already? I feel like it is.
No, no way. And the car’s ten years old. We’ll get some air in here.
I don’t feel it.
Breathe slower, he said. Do you have your cell?
In my bag. It’s gone. I didn’t want to get in. Why did you just get in?
I didn’t. You saw, he smacked me. I was out for a second. He would have shot us. My head is—
I can’t be in here, Justin. I can’t! You knew that, too. That I’m claustrophobic.
He’d never seen her this way. Even in private she was always capable, composed, professional, as though feeling herself under constant scrutiny by some ethical mentor. Too much so, he sometimes felt. How she would never miss a day’s workout in the spring and summer while training for her annual triathlon, whatever the weather or her, their, schedule. How she would talk of getting “more serious” about the sport next year, maybe doing more events. Even her recreation—nights out, parties, vacations—she undertook in this same carefully gauged manner, pacing herself. Only so much fun. Only this much frivolity and no more. As if she was afraid of some tipping point.
Till now he had not let on to himself how herdiscipline—what he had so long lacked and craved—was coming to irk him.
I’ve told you I’m claustrophobic. Why didn’t you tell him?
He probably wouldn’t have known the word. Christ, my head.
Of course he would know it.
And I didn’t know . I mean, I thought you were just saying that before. Everyone says they’re claustrophobic.
I don’t even like when you pull the quilt over us!
To make love, he thought, in an exclusive cocoon, cut off from the world.
I’m sorry, Jan, he said. The throb in his head was worsening and something was gouging into his hip. Maybe a tool? Something useful here? Of course
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