Seatbelt
The rumble of the engine is like a blanket spread over a patch of sand spurs. The quiet beneath its sound is intrusive, prickling. Calin’s ear rings annoyingly through it. Beneath it all, for a reason he can’t explain, the awareness that things will not be the same after tonight sinks through his skin to his bones. He rubs the goosebumps on his right arm and lets out the breath he’s been holding.
Her freckled face reflects against the dark glass of the passenger window. She doesn’t seem to be looking at anything so much as she’s just not looking at him. But then she turns and looks at him, a question raising her eyebrow. Oh shit, he’s been staring.
“Put your-” his voice cracks for some ungodly reason. He clears his throat, “put your seatbelt on.” It’s the voice of a man trying to appear in command of himself.
Her lips curl into an amused smile, and the breath of laughter dances out her nose. “What was that?”
“Seatbelt-”
The click of the buckle interrupts him. She’s looking out the window again.
“The last thing I need is to get pulled over with my face looking like this.”
“Yeah, you wouldn’t want the cops thinking I beat you up.”
He puts his foot on the ignition and slowly accelerates passed the stop sign. “So where am I taking you?”
She’s silent.
“I don’t know this side of town very well.”
“Just keep driving until we end up somewhere.”
“Okay.” He continues to meander through the poorly illuminated roads between the restored construction of the historic district.
“I really like this side of town.”
Silence.
“I was reading about it the other day. Most of these buildings are from before the twenties, and before all of the construction this was plantation land.”
“Yeah?”
“Apparently, I mean I guess most of the land in the south probably was.” He hits the brake for another stop sign. “My name’s Calin by the way.”
“Yeah?”
“I think so. What’s your name?”
“Kitty.”
Its a name that he likes. He let’s her know as he presses the accelerator and pulls onto King Street. “Who was that guy?”
“What do you think this land was before the plantations?”
She’s obviously avoiding the question. “Well Florida was mostly swampland. The Spanish had it, along with the indians. And before the spanish it would’ve just been the indians. I think it was a trading post.”
“Before the indians?”
“Uh. Probably just gators.”
“Hm.”
“Why? What do you think was here?”
“Gators.” She agrees, “and the devil.”
The ride is quiet again. Calin’s mind is not. He cranks his window open halfway, and when Kitty follows suit he’s opens it the rest of the way. Wind whips through the cab, and he can feel his hair whipping right along with it. He sucks in a breath of the fresh air and lets it out slowly. Its warm out still, but the air howls over their skin.
She looks at him, and he wonders if he’s thinking too loudly.
His finger jabs the knob on the radio and Trampled by Turtle’s song “Wait so long” cuts in halfway. This earns a smile and he relaxes into his seat, adjusting his grip on the steering wheel in the process.
The cd winds through several mellow bluegrass and americana songs. At some point one of them turn “Wayfaring Stranger” down and its agreed that Kitty will crash on his couch.
He’s headed toward Middleburg. Kitty looks at him questioningly, perhaps nervously when he pulls the truck into the grass suddenly and exits the vehicle to walk into the middle of the road. Her worry is quickly abated when he rises from his crouch with a gopher tortoise as wide as a dinner plate in his hands. He sprints across the street with it and sets it on the opposite curb
He runs back to the truck, dodging a passing car in the process. There’s the hint of a smile on his lips, he’s trying to hide that he’s pleased with himself.
Eventually they’re on Russell road, then some nondescript dirt road, and another, and the trees press in to scratch shrilly against the sides of the Bronco. Stopped at gate. He opens it and drives through. Beyond it, through a small a, more spaced out patch of trees, is a trailer. The section of panelling illuminated by the porch light is splotchy and green with lichen.
The engine dies. “This is home.” He climbs out of the cab without closing the window.
Kitty rolls her’s up and follows him. The damp grass is soaking through her canvas flats. Grasshoppers flee before the trod of her small shoes. “You live all the way out here?” She’s distinctly aware of the fact that nobody knows she’s here, and that it probably wouldn’t matter if they did know. She doesn’t feel threatened though, which she supposes is probably a good thing.
There are no lights nearby save the one over the door, and the stars are shining thick and bright overhead.
Calin disappears through the door, only to poke his head out a few minutes later to find Kitty staring up at the sky. There’s another smile on his face. He looks up too. “Good stars. Probably the only perk of the boonies.”
She shakes her head, returning to the present and approaches the door. “Sorry. Its amazing what the lights took from us.”
“A lot.”
They’re inside now. There’s not much to the trailer. Two bedroom doors at opposite ends, a bathroom near the one on the right. The kitchen is right next to the two couches, one blue, one marigold, forming a right angle against the walls.
Every step he takes reverberates unashamedly throughout the trailer. Kitty is lighter footed, and the trailer seems unaware of her presence.
There’s a frosty bottle of George Dickle in his hand. She begins to say no to his offer of a drink, but blunting the night’s memories sounds too attractive.
He pours her a shot in a glass. “I forgot fill up my ice trays last night. I can add water if you don’t like it like this.”
“I like it neat anyways.”
He slides the glass across the countertop to her waiting fingers and fills his own glass to the top with the golden brown liquid. He raises it and speaks. “To the tortoises, may our hands ever guide them across the street.”
“To the tortoises.” They touch their glasses together, touch them to the countertop and sip. Rings of condensation remain on the bare surface.
“You’re probably ready to sleep.”
“ . . Yeah.”
He pulls some blankets from under a cheap, dated coffee table and sets them on the couch for her. “There’s a shower if you like. We can run your clothes through the wash too.”
Her eyes, vivid green things, are watching him. “Something wrong?” He asks nervously.
“You’ve go a lot of ghosts.” It borders on a question.
He has no idea what to think of that, so for moment he doesn’t think of it. “Yeah,” he responds hoping it will suffice before getting the rest of the stuff for her stay rounded up and placed on the coffee table.
She ends up in a pair of faded gym shorts and a t-shirt. Calin apparently wears his clothes tight, and the shirt almost fits her small form. Calin sits on the couch and sinks down into it. The couch is old too. Its covered in a gross brown stringy cordori.
They sip their whisky quietly.
“So do you want to go to the cops tomorrow?”
“What for?”
“That guy’s still out there!”
She stares into her liquor. “Yeah, but they won’t be able to do anything with him. We’ll worry about it tomorrow. Let me see your face.”
“Its fine.” He reaches up and touches his split cheek. The dull ache gives way to the sharp pain of pressure on a laceration. He presses a little harder and lets go when his endorphins start flowing.
She stands up and pushes his cheek to the side to get a better look.
It always hurts worse when its somebody else touching a wound. He jerks away and presses his hand over his cheek and eye. He’d seen it in the mirror on the ride home. His eyed was full of red blood, he’d burst several vessels. It wasn’t swollen to where he couldn’t see but it was definitely puffy. Everything was darkening into pruple already.
“How the hell were you able to stand up after that?”
He hides another self satisfied smile, and chuckles, “It wasn’t that bad.”
“Do you have any ointment?”
“Its fine! I’ll clean it up in the sink. It’ll be better by the morning.”
She frowns like a librarian at noise.
“I don’t have any.” He sighs. Points, “the medicine cabinet is in the bathroom.”
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