GETTING THE HELL OUT OF DODGE
Thursday morning, Rachel awoke with a smile on her face, and Hugh was already taking a shower down the hall from the bedroom. Their lovemaking had been intense, exhausting, and she felt exhilarated. She rose lazily, wondering what the weather at the beach would be like, and glanced out the window. Cloudy. She gathered up a towel and her make-up kit and padded barefoot downstairs, through the living room, down to the first-floor bathroom. She stood before the space separating the turret room from the bathroom, figuring the small vanity room to be about three feet across, about half the size of the bathroom. She wondered if one day Hugh would be able to tear down the wall so they could use the space.
After her shower, spotting a roach running down the pipe beneath the sink, she combed her dark hair -it squeaked as she stroked her fingers through it. In the mirror she felt she looked like Dracula's daughter, she was so pale, but perhaps a little sun would take care of that. Bring on the crowfeet!
Bring on the burn/Give me sand between my toes, between my lips, up the wazoo! The bathing suit dilemma once again confronted her as she sucked in her gut, examining the flab that had been accumulating around her waist. She'd gained ten pounds, in spite of jogging (and she knew it was from giving up cigarettes). Her old bikini would highlight the creeping ivy of cellulite on the backs of her thighs and would gross her out even though Hugh didn't seem to notice it. Then she had a one-piece suit, naturally a gift from her mother, with a frilly edge that made her feel like she was wearing a tutu. Hugh had once given her a sexy Norma Kamali black bathing suit, but she was almost afraid to wear it because she never felt very attractive in anything that was too sexy. She'd seen enough women on the beach wearing sexy outfits who looked like they should be the last people on earth to wear them. Perhaps she would wear the bikini, but cover herself with a towel most of the time. Or wear a T-shirt over the top. Thank God we're getting away for a while, just the two of us, no house, no job, no roaches, and no mice. It was already muggy at nine in the morning, but that was okay, too. It could be cloudy and humid and drippy and stagnant, just so long as they could get away.
"Yes, dear, I know, the exterminator comes by at one, which is good timing because my ladies are arriving at three, and surely this man will be done spraying or whatever he's going to do by then?" Mrs. Deerfield asked. She would not open her door more than a crack-Rachel had gotten her out of bed ("But that's all right, dear, I've overslept for the third day in a row, I must get to bed earlier…"). Rachel passed the set of house keys through the space in the open door. Mrs. Deerfield was evidently naked -there was a flash of her thigh for a second. "Have you found Ramona yet?"
"No dear, and I am becoming slightly worried, although she's ever so self-sufficient for such a lazy feline."
"Well, you have my permission to check around upstairs while we're gone. I wouldn't want anything bad to happen." Mrs. Deerfield pursed her lips. "If only something bad could happen to that wicked Ramona, as much as I adore her she's been the bane of my existence these past few days -she broke three of my best mason jars full of jelly trying to get up through that dumbwaiter. Now you have a good trip and don't lie out in the sun too long, and don't go swimming much past your knees, you know, drowning can occur so easily, so swiftly, in just a few feet of water." And with that, Mrs. Deerfield shut the door.
"I don't think we'll get caught in a rainstorm," Rachel said as she rolled open the sunroof of the car; the clouds above them seemed less threatening than they had in the early morning. Hugh rummaged in the back seat. “You packed my blue sweatshirt, right?" He was wearing a gray T-shirt with the letters W and L across the front; his dark blue shorts hung loose around his pale hairy legs. She glanced back at him in the rearview mirror. He'd made a mess of the cooler and picnic basket, pushing them aside as he dug through the suitcase -Am I forgetting anything? Did I pack the Solarcaine? Is there still aspirin in the glove compartment? Do we have the maps we need? She reached into her purse for her small bottle of Keri Lotion. Down at the bottom of her purse was the one cigarette she always kept with her. I am immune to you, she silently told the cigarette. She rubbed the lotion across her hands. She sneezed. "Oh, great, I'm probably getting a cold, too, and it'll rain and we'll get caught in awful beach traffic."
"Scout, we'll be fine, and there's no rush anyway. You remember your allergy stuff?" Hugh got out of the back of the car, adjusted the driver's seat, and sat down, fiddling with her cassette tapes. Rachel nodded, opening the side pocket of her purse just in case; if her allergies flared up at the beach she'd be prepared -when she and Hugh used to go up to Cape Cod or down to Virginia Beach, sometimes she would get a bad case of hives after going in the water, particularly if it was a cool day. "Me and my allergies." She waved to a neighbor who was getting into his Honda Prelude two parking places down. "I won't mind if it rains once we get there, but I hate it when it rains on the road and then all the accidents."
"There are no accidents." Hugh laughed. He drew a tape out of its plastic case. “You mind if we listen to the Beatles?" Rachel shrugged. "Only if it's Revolver, not The White Album, if I have to hear your rendition of 'Rocky Raccoon' again…"
He put the key in the ignition and pressed down on the accelerator. "I like 'Rocky Raccoon,' and you told me you liked it, too, and to think I trusted your scout's honor.
Humph."
"Don't flood the motor," she said, and then added quickly, "Just like a girl scout to give orders."
Hugh grinned. "Suddenly you're kind of tense. I like that in a girl."
“You probably think I'm crazy, but I feel strange leaving our home. I've never cared about any place we've lived, but I feel like it won't be the same when we get back."
“You mean it's like an old friend," Hugh said as if he were talking to a three year old.
"See, you do think I'm nuts." She was anxious to get on the road because she was going to miss their home, things had been peaceful and homey this week, and now well, if we go and fuck it all up at the beach?
Hugh was talking, but Rachel was only half listening -his foot pumped the gas pedal, his wrist turned, the key turned, the lights blinked on and off behind the steering wheel as Rachel thought she heard babies crying again, their voices small and apparently all around her, while Hugh twisted the key and pumped the gas. He slapped the steering wheel with the palm of his left hand; the crying sounds seemed to be coming from inside the car, inside her, and Rachel wondered if this wasn't a little like the ringing in her ears she occasionally experienced. The car made sputtering noises, backfired once, and Hugh said, "What the hell?" She glanced over at him, trying to pretend she wasn't hearing babies. It must be coming from somewhere in the alley, some woman is pushing her stroller near the back of one of the buildings, either that or I have lost my marbles. And I'm pretty sure I woke up today with everything in working order.
She briefly remembered a dream she'd had several nights before, puffing up and exploding with babies, but Hugh had said what the hell? And now he'd stopped turning the key in the ignition and was reaching for the car door handle to get out of the car.
She looked over the hood of the car, and coming out of the slatted vents on the top of the hood were what looked like grayish white feathers, and then she thought they might be tufts of fur, but why were tufts of fur coming out from between the openings of the hood of her car?
She got out from her side as Hugh went around and lifted the hood of the car.
"Oh, Jesus," Hugh said, and seeing her coming, "no, Scout, don't look, not now," but she looked and saw tiny masses of wet red and white fur. Then the body of a long-haired cat pushing its kittens away from the fan belt of the car, and then she saw the long-haired cat's head which had been neatly separated from its body. Its eyes gazed up at the instruments of its destruction, the fan belt, the motor. Ramona.
The kittens, four of them, rested on top of the battery. They mewled and cried and looked up at Rachel and Hugh with closed eyes.