Gargantuan_ A Ruby Murphy Mystery - Maggie Estep [46]
“You’re smoking,” I say.
“I am,” she agrees. She keeps claiming she’s down to two cigarettes a day—but I’ve already seen her put away half a pack today.
“You’re going to come with me tomorrow?” Though she’d said she was planning to come to the track, with this apparent mood of hers hanging like a curse over the evening, I’m not sure of anything now.
She narrows her eyes, takes a pull on her cigarette, and then nods.
“Something wrong?” I venture, sitting down at the edge of the bed.
“Why?”
“You don’t seem like yourself.”
This statement evidently amuses her. She smiles, then reaches for me, pulling my head to her chest and cradling me as if I were a child. This gesture gives me a pang as it makes me wonder how my own child is doing. I wish I could just call Ava and find out, but any information she might yield about our daughter’s well-being would be prefaced by an insane litany that I’m not willing to deal with.
“You don’t seem like yourself either, Attila,” Ruby says into my hair.
“I’m myself,” I assure her, and then one thing leads to another, and, proving to each other that we are indeed ourselves, we start rolling around on the bed, dislodging Stinky and making the ancient bedsprings creak.
Once Ruby and I have climaxed and all is apparently well in our little corner of the world, we lie back with our heads resting on one pillow. I feel my eyes closing and, next thing I know, I’m being shaken awake.
“What?” I say groggily.
“You were screaming,” Ruby says, bunching up her forehead.
“I was?”
“About a horse. You kept saying, ‘Get the horse up, get the horse up.’”
“Oh,” I say.
“What were you dreaming?” she queries. But I don’t want to tell her. I was dreaming about an accident. An ugly one involving a great many broken bones. My broken bones.
“Don’t worry,” I tell Ruby.
She looks like she’s ready to issue some sort of lecture but thankfully the cats start clamoring for food, blessedly distracting her from whatever was at the tip of her tongue.
Still naked, Ruby goes to forage through her duffle bag, producing two cans of Pet Guard which, she loves to tell me, is one of the few brands of commercial pet food one should ever feed one’s cats. Not that I have any cats. Ava is allergic and my parents weren’t animal people. How exactly they came to spawn someone like me—who feels sympatico with each and every living creature—I’ll never know.
Ruby opens the cans, dumping the contents onto two paper plates. As the animals crouch and attack their meal, Ruby stands watching them. She has one hand propped on her soft, white hip and her hair is falling over her breasts. She looks like she’s nursing a thought that I will never be privy to. I’d very much like to coax it from her but I don’t think I’m in a position to press issues of secrecy considering that my wife is leaving me dozens of messages a day.
“I want to go to the Hole,” Ruby suddenly announces.
“Oh?” I say. “Now?”
She nods.
“It’s cold,” I say simply, knowing she’s as weary of the cold as I am.
“I know,” she shrugs.
“That’s why you wanted to stay at this frightening motel? To go to the Hole?” I ask.
“No, not at all,” she frowns, “just it’s one of the only motels I know that’s sort of halfway between Coney and Belmont. I told you that. But since we’re here, I wouldn’t mind going to the Hole.”
She looks determined and it’s probably in my best interest to humor her. A few minutes later, we’ve both bundled up and are ready to head out. Ruby seems hesitant about leaving the cats though, like someone is going to break into this horrible little motel room to steal two aging felines.
“They’re great cats,” I tell her, “but I promise you, no one else considers them priceless.”
This actually makes her laugh and I feel a weight lift off me.
The wind whips our faces as we cross Linden Boulevard and walk downhill onto an ill-paved little road. The glow of a half moon throws light over our surroundings. Disused truck trailers are stacked two high all along the road. Tall metal fences surround small barren yards. It’s