Carnivorous Nights_ On the Trail of the Tasmanian Tiger - Margaret Mittelbach [59]
Alexis nodded toward a lone pademelon standing in the parking lot. “If the tiger is still out there, there's a shitload for it to eat.”
The lights of the two buildings were dark and the curtains were drawn. Inside, there was no sign of life. We found ourselves whispering.
“Is this the place?”
“Why isn't anybody here?”
“There's Chris's car.”
“How come there aren't any lights on?”
We weren't even sure which building was the motel. We persuaded Alexis to canvass one of them while we waited in the car. He came back and hissed, “It's somebody's house.”
Now it was our turn. We made our way up the steep plank stairway of the other building. After deliberating for a few moments, we knocked on one of the doors. Dorothy, dressed in a white nightie, opened the door, revealing a square of light. She looked livid and thrust a key into our hands. We went back to the car and took out our gear, lingering on the gravel while Alexis went upstairs to face the music. We guessed we were in the room next to theirs. We went up, tried the key, and knocked several times. Where was Chris? We couldn't get the door open.
“Do you think it's the wrong room?”
“It must be the wrong key.”
We tiptoed back toward Alexis and Dorothy's room. Inside, we heard Dorothy yelling at Alexis for being so late.
“Maybe we should just sleep in the car.” As we stood outside, we noticed that the night air smelled of the sea.
Finally, we knocked again. Alexis opened the door, looking harried. Behind him, we could see Dorothy pacing and red-faced. Alexis held out a key without saying a word. In her state of exasperation, Dorothy had given us the wrong one.
As we slunk back to our room, we considered that perhaps love unleashes the fiercest beast of all. We had a sense we had just witnessed the emergence of a new species. In the morning, we vowed to announce our discovery to the world: Pradasuccuba amiphagi. Translation: The boyfriend-eating devil who wears Prada.
That night, we dreamed about wombats and feral cats and devils and pademelons and giant lobsters and tea-brown rivers and pitch-black highways. In one of the dreams, a group of rowdy marsupials and motley Tasmanian creatures were riding in the back seat of the Pajero.
“Don't go so fast,” a native hen criticized.
“You're driving on the wrong side of the road,” a bristly wombat screamed.
“Ahhhhhhghghhghghg!!!!!!!!” We nearly collided with a giant white moth.
Just as an echidna began to berate our poor driving, we were awakened by the sound of Alexis, Dorothy, and Chris entering our suite.
They had a kangaroo with them. It looked a little out of its element among the furniture and stood there politely.
Chris was beaming. “It's a Bennett's wallaby,” he said.
The owners of the motel had found this kangaroo on the roadside inside its dying mother's pouch, and they were raising it themselves. Chris had offered to watch her for half an hour.
“Her name's Ruby,” he said. “Although it might be Roo B. That's her rap name.”
She took a few tiny hops and sniffed one of our mud-encrusted hiking boots. Then she began to lick them.
Chris held out a big woolen stocking cap, with a small label stitched on the side that read “Billabong.” “It's her pouch.” As he held it open, Ruby hopped in and flipped herself over. With her little gray snout peeking out, she looked like a human baby in a sling.
“So where were you last night, Chris?”
“I slept in there,” he said, indicating Alexis and Dorothy's room.
He would have gotten the full brunt