Short Story 3 - Cold of Winter - Completed 1/19/11

The tires were only matted clumps of rubber strips.  Alex saw that the rims were imbedded in the soil and that rust had dripped down like icicles.  Mice or something bigger had burrowed into the blue vinyl and padding at some point and made a nest in there.  She hoped they weren't still in it.
At least it had windows.  Dirty and cracked but still enough to keep some of the wind out.  She pried the back door open.  The loud squawk frightened something out in the darkness.  She heard the brittle, empty branches of the trees move and shake.  She saw snow fall.  A bird, she thought.  The door didn't fall off.  That was a good thing.  The first good thing since this day had started.  She waited a moment and let the silence of the little clearing fall like the snow about her.
She tossed her bag inside and, brushing the gathering flakes from her jacket, she climbed in after it.  She kicked the wet gunk from her boots and pulled the door back into place.  The interior reeked of mildew and rot, a close furry smell.  Just until the heaviest of it passes, she thought.  I'll just wait here until the snow lessens and then I'll go.  Just for a little while.
She fished her cell phone free from her pocket and opened it.  The sudden light from the LED screen bathed her face in blue.  No bars.  She smiled.  Why did I expect any bars at all?
The wind redoubled and moved its cold nose along the side of the car, a beast that wished to find her.  It whistled through the cracks in the windshield and buffeted the rusted frame.   She spun the still lit screen around the interior noticing the worn dash and the words on the little metal badge that still hung near the passenger's side window: Pontiac Grand Marquis.   They had rented one of those...so long ago.  On their honeymoon, it had been.  The insurance had been to expensive for anything else.  She smiled again and wondered where he was at that moment.  What was he doing?  Was he coming for her?  Was he on the phone?  Calling everyone he knew?
There was a scuttling sound from where the engine - or what was left of it - rested.  She suppressed a shudder and clipped the phone closed.  Outside, the snow fell in big, thick flakes.  The wind spun and sent it heavily against the glass beside her.  She pulled her knees to her chest and sighed.  The breath curled from her mouth in a wide vapor.  She noticed the tang of gasoline.
The springs beneath her sounded loudly as she shifted her weight.  It was a bright sound; metal scraping against metal.   She wished the snow would cover the car, fill in the cracks with drift upon drift.  It would be like an igloo and lock the heat of her body inside and keep the treacherous fingers of the icy wind from sneaking in and stealing her warmth away.
A sudden anger struck her and she banged her fist against the headrest.  Dammit.  Why do these things always happen to me?  Stop it, her mind rallied, stop feeling sorry for yourself and work the problem.  Solve the dilemma.
Her thoughts centered with another sigh and she settled into a calm that surprised her.  Right.  Work the problem.
1)  You didn't stay with your car.  Mistake one.  Movies should have taught you that.  Always stay with the car.
The gas had given out and she had made another mistake (we'll call it number two) and not filled up when she had passed the last gas station.   It had just looked...scary.  Is this present circumstance any less so? her mind asked of her.  No.  No, this was fairly frightening.  It had been the plaid enshrouded man at the pumps that had frightened her away.  She had gone as far as pulling up to the pump when she noticed him.  He had had a distinct "Deliverance" quality to him; soiled shirt, equally soiled jeans, missing teeth and a yellowing beard and red face that spoke of alcohol and cheap cigarettes.
She had pulled away as soon as he had started to rise and she noticed the brown stain that rode down one pant leg.
Her mind struck out at her again - oil.  It had been oil.  Not shit or something.  Oil.
Regardless, I drove on, she thought.  And the gas gave out fifteen minutes later.  It had been the sign that had made her leave her car - she could still see it from the light of her brakes behind her:  Breeze-line Motel, 2 Miles.
On a map, 2 miles is nothing.  Not even longer than the first bit of my finger.
Very well.  Her error had lead her here.
Let us continue cataloging the mistakes.
3)  The Blue Highways on the map are more interesting than the boring black ones.
Ok.  Going cross country on the map is simple.  Broad black lines are interstates and freeways and toll roads.  Who wants to travel on those things?  Boring people.  She had made the decision from the outset to find a roundabout way to her parent's home.  Two hours by highway.  Maybe three by the prettier routes.
She had heard the weather reports but figured that she was well ahead of the storms.  The weatherman had been wearing a tie but had taken off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves.  That should have been a clue.  A big flashing warning that the weather was taking a turn for the worst.   It wasn't just a quick update.  It was a big winter storm update and they were worried.  She had watched with only one eye as she piled her clothes into her bag.    She didn't have much time and had to be out before his shift ended.
Sitting in her car in the parking lot underneath their apartment, the choice had been simple, so fun.  The Blue Highways are more interesting.  On the atlas, they were jovial and exciting - veering off of the everyday and striking out into the wild backcountry.  It really meant no services and scary guys at the pumps she passed.
All right.  Mistake 3 covered.
4)  They have ATM's everywhere.
For crap's sake.  They are only really everywhere within Baltimore proper.  Move beyond the city center and they become harder to locate.  When you leave the interstates - there still are places that don't have internet connections.  Places that don't have phone lines dialed into their cash registers.  You can't just swipe your card for everything.  She had forty dollars.  Well, she had had forty dollars.  One fill up and a snack had taken care of it quickly.

In the rusted out car, she began to rub her legs with her hands.  The springs sounded their resistance.  She flipped open her cell phone and used the light to search through her bag.  Oddly, she had packed her gloves and a scarf.
A silk scarf the color of oatmeal.  Had he given me that?

5)  This one she regretted the most.  Ask your husband, point blank, about an affair rather than assuming.  You know what assuming does, right?  She could almost hear her little brother's voice ask the question.  She could definitely hear his chuckling response:  It makes an ASS out of U and ME.  God, who first thought that was funny?
The idea had struck her over a month ago.  Late nights, distant conversations and a phone call.  That had been all that it had taken to plant the seed.  The seed of distrust and suspicion.
"Is Michael there?"  The voice had been a woman's, slightly husky like that annoying Cyrus girl.
"No.  Who is this?" she had asked.
The pause on the other end had sowed the first distrust, "Um.  Cecilia.  From the store."  Another pause, "Will he be home soon.  It's pretty important."
"He's out with some friends."  Why had she added, "He's got his cell phone if you want to try him on that."  She had even given the girl - Cecilia, really? - the number.  She'd met everyone from the store and that name didn't sound familiar.
"What's so important?" Alex had asked.
"I can't...talk about it...it's personal..."
The call had ended.
That night, when he had come home smelling of smoke and beer, she had asked him about it.
His eyes had been a little too bright.  "Oh, honey.  She's just sad and having a hard time."
"And she's got no family or friends to call?"  Alex's eyes had been narrowed at him as he cuddled in next to her.  She'd gone to bed early with a book and he had crawled in, fully clothed.
His voice was tired, "Honey.  She's in a bad way.  She's showed up at work with a couple bruises.  I asked her if everything was o.k. and she told me about her boyfriend."
She felt harsh when she asked, "And this is somehow your responsibility?"
"Sweetheart, she's really nice and she should have to deal with this sort of thing."  He breathed into the sheets, not really wanting to go into it.  "I've asked her over for dinner sometime.  I think you'd really like her.  You too would really get along."
"I don't want to get to know her.  Is she cute or something?"
She hadn't really listened to his responses.  He had clumsily attempted to start something sassy, but the smell of him had put her off.  That and the needling feeling that he was cheating on her.
She had other facts to pin her suspicion on.  Small things like taking a shower as soon as he got home.  He had always done that, but usually after a little time had passed.  He'd come through the door and drop his things at the side table.  Sit and talk.  But lately, it had been a bee-line for the bathroom.  Trying to wash the stink of another woman off?  she thought.  He had been coming home later and later each night claiming excuses like: late customers, inventory, things like that.  They all sounded flimsy and made up.
The final straw had been the e-mail.  She had found it that morning.

The snow through the glass seemed even heavier.  She wrapped her coat tightly about her neck and blew air into her hands.  She could feel the heat of her breath through the woolen gloves.  The darkness had fully settled over the car.  Alex could barely make out the shimmering shape of the naked trees about her.  The wild snow blotted most of the clearing.  She couldn't even see the road.
I overreacted.  She knew it.  He was being kind.

She had shut the door to her Corolla and trudged north.  The snow isn't bad yet, she had thought.  It had changed in a matter of minutes.  The sky had turned from gray to slate and pulled ice down.  She had spotted the ruin from the roadside.  If the wind hadn't been so cold and if she had put leggings on...she would have walked on.

The e-mail had been short.  Just a couple of lines:  "Michael, thank you.  Thank you so much.  If you hadn't been there I don't know what I would have done.  I think you saved my life."
She had ended it, "Yours, Cecilia."
Yours.
Why not something un-sexual like "thanks again" or "your friend".  Yours has such an intimate feeling.

The cold was working up her legs, biting and gnawing.  She knew that she should move on.  Tramp the mile or so to the warm lights and covers.  But she felt so tired.  Worn out and tired.  She saw a pair of headlights through the snow, moving slowly.  She thought of tearing the door open and pursuing them, but didn't.  They disappeared in red pinpricks.  So cold, she thought, so cold to him.  He was being kind.  He was being kind.  She could see his face, close to hers, the murmured words.  He was being kind.

Michael gripped the phone tightly in his hand, his voice was sad, "I'll be right there."

He grasped the plastic bag in his hand as he signed the form.  It was one of those large ziplock things.  He could see the coat and the silk scarf beside it.  He had bought it for her in a fit of romanticism.  She didn't wear scarves.  What was I thinking?
He asked if they needed anything else.  The answer was no for the time being.  Would he be available if they had any other questions?  Yes, he had said.

He left her there.  Behind the steel doors.  On the slab.  Cold, as she had died.