What You See in the Dark - Manuel Munoz [59]
That was one unlucky woman, Frederick had said. Whoever she was.
Dan, she thought, her own son, was ripped through with that same ugliness, the same disregard, as her own brother, whatever was contained in the pulse rooted in her palm, holding her hand against Frederick’s chest as if she could keep his ugliness at bay.
The parking lot sat silent, greeting her revelation. The night sat silent. Nothing moved. Not even a cold breeze to disturb the trees. Nothing from the highway. Not the truck still settling with metallic pings. Not even her own breathing. The windows of the house beckoned to her, but not warmly, not the yellow picture windows of her childhood storybook. They stared back at her with a cold, white gleam, and inside, Arlene knew, were years of empty rooms.
From the road came the sound of a distant motor. A truck: she could tell by its downshifting gears, the way the engine sounded as it approached and slowed. Arlene looked in the rearview mirror, but then came the distinct sound of brakes that needed a tending to, and the soft arc of headlights sweeping left as if preparing to make a turn into the parking lot. Hadn’t she turned off the lights to the motel’s road sign? She quickly closed the door to the truck to shut off the dome light, one eye on the rearview mirror.
Sure enough, a diesel truck turned a slow roll into the parking lot. Its headlights swept over the cab and glistened on the chrome and glass, refracting, and Arlene edged herself against the door. She held her breath as if doing so would send the truck away, but it eased over to the edge of the parking lot, near one of the motel wings. The truck sat chugging for a moment, and Arlene listened, not able to hear anything over the noise of the truck’s idling engine, and unable to see much in the rearview mirror. Maybe the driver was studying the darkened motel office or looking at the still-lit windows of the house, judging whether it was worth it to disturb anyone at this time of night.
The engine idled interminably and then suddenly stopped. The parking lot was plunged back into silence—she could even make out the diesel truck’s engine ticking away as it cooled. It was too late, she realized, to step out of the truck, even if the driver might make nothing of it. But later, when the police came and maybe questioned him, it would seem suspicious, her getting out of a truck, housecoat over a nightgown. She craned her neck to get a better look in the rearview mirror but could see nothing in the darkness, and then the door to the diesel truck opened.
The sounds carried. The weight of his body as he jumped down to the ground. A gob of spit as he hacked to clear his throat. His boots stepping across the gravel. Another door opening and then the rough whisper of his voice saying something in the dark—were there two of them? She listened for an exchange, but it was only the driver’s voice. He was talking to himself as she heard him step onto the wooden porch in front of the motel office, then rap on the door. Arlene heard him knock again before he let out a whistle and an admonishment that she couldn’t make out: that was when she made out the soft footfalls alarmingly near the truck and realized the driver had let out a dog. She could spot its dark form in the side-view mirror, lifting its leg to whiz on the truck’s rear tire. She stayed absolutely still, even as the dog sniffed its way along the side of the truck, as if it sensed her inside. The dog paused for a moment, its attention held stone-tight at her window, and it let out a short, anticipatory growl.
“Buddy!” she heard the truck driver call out in a hoarse whisper, then a quick, sharp