memory, too, might be compromised. She allowed these blacker possibilities to slide in and out of her consciousness without paying them any more attention than the blander ones; she did not want to seem nervous or immature to the man, because she knew his willingness to be seduced by her depended upon this.
The road got darker, the houses fewer and farther between. The girl shivered. Her sweatpants and her ski jacket were still damp, and the damp had transferred to her skin, then to the muscle layer beneath. The man, noticing, turned on the heat. The air from the vents smelled of many-times-burned things.
They passed a gas station, a marina sign, a reclining-chair store advertising a fire sale. Commerce began picking up, and the girl relaxed; at least she would be dismembered and raped in a neighborhood. Dying, even in the proximity of clueless strangers, seemed less terrifying than dying alone in the woods. They passed a dry cleaners, a plumbing supply store, the infamous day-care center run by two old women, now jailed and awaiting trial. These old women had been accused of doing unspeakable things involving toddlers and their own wrinkled bodies. They had been accused of riding broomsticks around the room. It was so unbelievable that it was totally and completely believable, at least to some people. But the girl needed only to glimpse the newspaper pictures of the two women—with their iron-colored hair, their drugstore reading glasses, their lumpy bodies in lumpy cardigans, their tiny gold crucifixes—to know there was nothing perverse or witchlike about these old ladies; the only potential crime they’d committed was to live their entire lives in an unimaginative way.
Eventually the man turned into the lot of a diner.
Tick-tock-tick-tock went the wipers.
Do they serve shrimp here? the girl asked.
The man squinted at the diner windows, trying to read the giant menu slanting from the ceiling.
I have no idea, he said. But I hear the food is good.
From whom? the girl said.
From whom , he said. From my ex-wife. According to her, this is where we came on our first date.
The girl tucked her chin into her ski coat collar. Rain splattered noisily on the car hood, the drops widely spaced and as heavy as nickels. The man exited the car, walked to her side, opened her door. He’d forgotten to put on a hat. His hair recoiled boyishly in the wet, encircling the lobes of his ears.
Perhaps we should be introduced, he said, holding out a hand.
OK, said the girl, palm pressed against his strangler’s glove. I’m Ida. Who would you like to be?
West Salem
NOVEMBER 9, 1999
M ary awoke at 9 a.m. to the zippery sounds of packing tape and the hollow thumping of cardboard boxes. Downstairs she found Regina picking up cork coasters and ashtrays and other seemingly non-auctionable items that had nonetheless been tagged with green ribbon, huffing to herself of all the tacky nerve . Gaby, presumably in the process of sorting through the books on the shelves that flanked the fireplace, had become sidetracked by a paperback entitled Famous Canadian Shipwrecks ; she’d since given up all pretenses of assisting Regina and was reclining on the sofa, reading. Their father appeared to have respected the well-meaning eviction notice issued to him by his daughters, who wished to spare him the packing ordeal. According to Gaby he gone to the diner for breakfast, after which he had plans to meet a friend at the golf course to spend the day chipping balls around the half-frozen scruff.
Regina emerged from the downstairs bathroom holding a beribboned, warped box of Kotex.
“They want an antique box of tampons?” she said.
The kitchen pantry items, Mary discovered as she searched for the jar of instant coffee, were similarly tagged.
Mary wandered back into the living room. Outside, it appeared to be sleeting.
“It’s for the time capsule,” Gaby called from the couch. Clearly she’d been sorting through her closet
The road got darker, the houses fewer and farther between. The girl shivered. Her sweatpants and her ski jacket were still damp, and the damp had transferred to her skin, then to the muscle layer beneath. The man, noticing, turned on the heat. The air from the vents smelled of many-times-burned things.
They passed a gas station, a marina sign, a reclining-chair store advertising a fire sale. Commerce began picking up, and the girl relaxed; at least she would be dismembered and raped in a neighborhood. Dying, even in the proximity of clueless strangers, seemed less terrifying than dying alone in the woods. They passed a dry cleaners, a plumbing supply store, the infamous day-care center run by two old women, now jailed and awaiting trial. These old women had been accused of doing unspeakable things involving toddlers and their own wrinkled bodies. They had been accused of riding broomsticks around the room. It was so unbelievable that it was totally and completely believable, at least to some people. But the girl needed only to glimpse the newspaper pictures of the two women—with their iron-colored hair, their drugstore reading glasses, their lumpy bodies in lumpy cardigans, their tiny gold crucifixes—to know there was nothing perverse or witchlike about these old ladies; the only potential crime they’d committed was to live their entire lives in an unimaginative way.
Eventually the man turned into the lot of a diner.
Tick-tock-tick-tock went the wipers.
Do they serve shrimp here? the girl asked.
The man squinted at the diner windows, trying to read the giant menu slanting from the ceiling.
I have no idea, he said. But I hear the food is good.
From whom? the girl said.
From whom , he said. From my ex-wife. According to her, this is where we came on our first date.
The girl tucked her chin into her ski coat collar. Rain splattered noisily on the car hood, the drops widely spaced and as heavy as nickels. The man exited the car, walked to her side, opened her door. He’d forgotten to put on a hat. His hair recoiled boyishly in the wet, encircling the lobes of his ears.
Perhaps we should be introduced, he said, holding out a hand.
OK, said the girl, palm pressed against his strangler’s glove. I’m Ida. Who would you like to be?
West Salem
NOVEMBER 9, 1999
M ary awoke at 9 a.m. to the zippery sounds of packing tape and the hollow thumping of cardboard boxes. Downstairs she found Regina picking up cork coasters and ashtrays and other seemingly non-auctionable items that had nonetheless been tagged with green ribbon, huffing to herself of all the tacky nerve . Gaby, presumably in the process of sorting through the books on the shelves that flanked the fireplace, had become sidetracked by a paperback entitled Famous Canadian Shipwrecks ; she’d since given up all pretenses of assisting Regina and was reclining on the sofa, reading. Their father appeared to have respected the well-meaning eviction notice issued to him by his daughters, who wished to spare him the packing ordeal. According to Gaby he gone to the diner for breakfast, after which he had plans to meet a friend at the golf course to spend the day chipping balls around the half-frozen scruff.
Regina emerged from the downstairs bathroom holding a beribboned, warped box of Kotex.
“They want an antique box of tampons?” she said.
The kitchen pantry items, Mary discovered as she searched for the jar of instant coffee, were similarly tagged.
Mary wandered back into the living room. Outside, it appeared to be sleeting.
“It’s for the time capsule,” Gaby called from the couch. Clearly she’d been sorting through her closet
Similar Books
