What You See in the Dark - Manuel Munoz [60]
In the mirror, for the briefest moment, she saw a tip of light, as if a firefly had flown into view. She wanted to rub her eyes to see if she’d imagined it, but it came again and this time she caught its orange color, the tip of light she remembered from her childhood, watching her brother. He was smoking. She shifted a bit and turned to take a sidelong glance out the back window. The tip of his cigarette bloomed a few more times. He was too far away for her to see his silhouette in the darkness, to know whether he was facing the road or staring up at the cold light of the house, deciding once and for all whether he would make the effort to knock up there.
Two glows later, the orange tip darted to the side and went out as the driver flicked the butt to the gravel. She heard him whistle softly again, but the dog seemed near its owner, the whistle calm and reassuring. The driver’s boots shifted across the gravel, heading back to the diesel truck, but then he paused yet again, this time urinating—a heavy, long stream hitting the ground before the boots resumed walking. Arlene could see the light in the truck’s cab turn on again as the driver opened the door, his voice saying something to encourage the dog to get inside, and then he lifted himself back into the cab.
Arlene sighed, relieved, and ducked back a little, anticipating that the headlights of the truck would sweep over her again. She crouched down, waiting, but as the moments slipped by, the truck didn’t move. She kept anticipating the engine turning over and the truck getting back on the highway to search for another motel. But nothing. “Sweet Jesus,” she muttered when she realized the driver was bedding down for the night, the silence growing deeper and deeper. She braved another sidelong glance through the rear window, still fearful that the driver might suddenly turn on the engine, the headlights catching her like a fox in the road. The truck remained still. Nothing passed on the highway.
The tension in her body hardened further in the December cold. Arlene could feel it in her fingers. She wouldn’t last much longer, dressed as she was in her nightgown. She draped the housecoat over herself and sat up a little straighter, craning for a better look at the truck. In the other direction, the front door of her house seemed impossibly far away. She racked her brain trying to recall if she’d locked the kitchen door on her way to bed earlier that evening—maybe sneaking around to the side of the house wouldn’t rouse the driver or the dog. But now everything she did, Arlene knew, would carry a sound, just like the driver’s boots, the dog’s prowl of her premises, the driver relieving himself on the ground. The dome light of her truck would turn on, but maybe the driver wouldn’t see it, now that he was bedded down for the night. She would have to slip out of the truck quietly and click its door shut, then scurry up the steps to the house.
He could be exhausted and already asleep. He could’ve drunk a beer or two on the road just before he made the turn-off, the alcohol making him drowsy. But how many nights had she herself been awakened by movement in the parking lot, one of the drivers who’d checked in going right back out to the Bakersfield bars?
Her feet numbed at the toes. She could not wait much longer.
Arlene took a deep breath. She grabbed the door handle, absolute ice to the touch, and held it for a long moment. Maybe it would be best to put the coat on first. She slipped it back on, arranging herself, and was surprised at how much noise she made by doing so. She shot a last look back at the diesel truck, but nothing, so she took the door handle once again and this time pulled.
The dome light blazed like an accusation, and she scrambled as quietly as she could out