In the Driveway
She felt stifled, hot, nauseous. She had to just catch her breath. Escape. There was a pounding at the back of her head, which she could have sworn was getting faster. So she briskly pushed some of her short, straight hair behind her ears, got off the couch and went back into the kitchen. Rifled through her purse nervously and lit a cigarette. Someone would have to clean up the blood, get rid of the body. She’d call Rick.
She stepped out onto the front porch, down the concrete steps. Then she stood in the yard against the big tree, looking out to the old road, listening to the wind. She knew it was only a matter of time, but all the same, she started to calm down, started to feel the edge wear off. Ashes blew away from the end of the cigarette as she put it back to her thin, chapped lips. She moved closer, her eyes narrowing as she looked the car over.
It was a 1960 Studebaker Lark—Maria was sure. In a dark, vibrant green, parked on the gravel. Well-kept, although scuffed up a bit around the bumpers. Large leaves stirred in the slight breeze, fell from the great tree behind it, and alighted softly on the hood. The windows were rolled down and the driver’s side door ajar: she found it creaked a bit when moved. So she was planning on coming in for just a minute, then.
Above the door, on the roof, Maria noticed her fingerprints. Pressing the tips of her own fingers into them, she sensed the warmth from the sun.
Inside, the steering wheel was old but polished. It had the color and feel of smooth, knotted bone, with layers that had been pulled away. Aside from this, the interior was in rather good condition—the darker cream-colored seats were clean, not even frayed, and were comfortable. The dash was perfectly restored, and a CD player that was made to look old-fashioned rested above the radio knobs. And how appropriate: Billie Holliday wailed over the speakers in the back, over the dinging due to the open door. (Maria couldn’t tell what song it was, but the voice was unmistakable.)
A silver chain with a bejeweled, elaborate cross hung from the rearview mirror, moving to and fro, catching the light. She looked up through the windshield, at the sun through the leaves. Who was this woman, and why was he so captivated by her?
It was obvious that the rugs on the floor were not new, but they were neat and orderly. Her overnight bag on the back seat—black leather with red interior—sat open, some of her beautiful clothes spilling out of it. Probably clothes she was planning to wear on their little getaway together. A few books sat beside the bag; they had once been stacked, but on the ride, they had tumbled. Maria wanted to examine these books inside and out, search for some kind of answer in them. Some reason for everything that had happened. She reached for three of them and held them in one hand. Then she didn’t want to have anything to do with them and put them in the passenger seat. She noticed the coffee, still warm, resting in the cupholder— something with honey and caramel in it. There was a single tube of expensive lipstick in the other cupholder; it was bright red, brand new, and smelled like vanilla. Maria caught a trifle of the scent of her perfume, and upon that, a sort of energy could be detected.
It frightened her, and she got out. She took a drag of her cigarette, let it go into the breeze. She glanced back at the open door to the house, and then looked down on her blouse. There, Maria saw one of her hairs was clinging to the fabric—deep red, wavy, soft. She lifted it off with her free hand, and held it out in the air. But then Maria held her breath as the hair blew away. It was silent, and even the wind made no noise. Quiet. She leaned against the tree, put one hand on her collarbone, looked out. Nothing. But then there was a police car coming up the hill on the road, and then another, loud, and coming very fast.
To read some more of Kendra’s writing, go to http://kendrarel.wordpress.com.
