Scratch the Surface. Amy Lee Burgess

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СКАЧАТЬ didn’t seem to suffer the way I did. As the interior temperature of the car crept higher, he unbuttoned his black pea coat and loosened the gray scarf around his throat. After we merged onto I-84, he peeled off his gloves and stuffed them into the compartment between the seats.

      He’d shaved, and brushed his hair, and his expression was introspective as he drove, his mouth almost as tight as his fingers clenched around the steering wheel.

      He drove well, but I was always jumpy in the car, even after two months on the road.

      Another reason for the road trip was to get me comfortable riding in a car again.

      After the accident I had avoided cars, taxis and buses—anything on four wheels with an engine. I’d made sure to find a job within walking distance of my condo and, if I really had to, I took the bus as it was the least like a car, but I sat there in rigid fear until my stop, where I couldn’t get off fast enough.

      I still wouldn’t drive, although Murphy asked me if I wanted to at least three times a week. I always refused. It was the one thing I wouldn’t do to please him. I did everything else I could think of that I knew or suspected would make him happy. I wasn’t ready to drive. I wasn’t sure I ever would be.

      It was a two-hour trip and I wished I could read in the car, but I couldn’t relax enough to do that. I constantly scanned the road ahead for obstacles and accidents.

      Murphy and I sometimes got lost in conversation and that’s the only time I really even slightly relaxed. Today we didn’t talk. Instead, we sat side by side as the miles melted behind us like dirty snow.

      I played with a strand of my hair, winding it around one finger and letting it spring free, before repeating the process.

      Things started to look familiar just past the state border.

      “Want to stop for a minute?” Murphy asked. He was always quick to find a rest stop for me to stretch my legs when he thought the road was getting to me.

      A large sign welcomed us to Connecticut, and off the exit, a small brick building had been erected that contained rest rooms, vending machines and brochures about attractions. This was typical across the country. We’d stopped at many of these just past the border rest stops from state to state.

      I nodded and Murphy merged onto the exit, guiding the Prelude off the interstate into the parking lot.

      Snow stacked up in a grubby pile at the end of the lot where the plows had pushed it. Some of the parking spaces were covered with patches of black water that would ice over at night but now, at just past one in the afternoon, were melted, cold puddles.

      Murphy parked the car over one of them, but left the space where we’d exit the car clear.

      The cold air invaded my nostrils and throat the second I opened the door. Murphy waited for me on the sidewalk. It was dotted with bits of sand and salt put down so people wouldn’t slip on ice on their way to the rest room.

      Our car was one of three in the lot. The other two were filthy and old. Ours was a prince among paupers. Murphy took good care of that car. He washed it every week, vacuumed it out and patiently picked up all the fast food bags and wrappers I carelessly let fall to the floor mats.

      I’d heard once that Irish men treated their cars the way their forebears had treated their horses and I could believe it. If Murphy could have fed the Prelude oats and mash, and curried it down in the stall at the end of each day, he would have. Instead, he took it to by-hand car washes and spent two hours buffing, waxing and scrubbing dirt and grime from the hubcaps and windshield.

      I helped him, but my help was half-assed, at least according to him, and so most of the time I sat on a bench or in the car and read a book or a magazine. Murphy was about the car the way I was about shoes. He didn’t see it that way but it was true. Nobody needed to wash their car every damn week. Or spend two hours doing it himself instead of going through an automatic car wash where it would have taken ten minutes. Only suggest to him that we do that and it was enough to send him into a fifteen minute tirade about how those automatic car washes were for shit and scratched the paint job and didn’t get the undercarriage and how the hell can you even suggest a thing like that, Constance. Don’t even think such sacrilege, please.

      I did suggest it about once a week because I secretly laughed my ass off at how frothed at the mouth the man would get. Like clockwork. Every single time.

      He was waiting for me by the vending machines outside the ladies’ room. The day after shifting was hell on the bladder. We drank tons of water before we shifted because if we didn’t, the muscle cramps the next day were severe.

      Instead of walking to the car, I went in the other direction, toward a small stand of maple trees and what, in spring and summer, would be a flower bed. Right now it was a sullen brown pile of half-frozen mud.

      Murphy fell into step with me and we walked together without speaking. I wanted to hold his hand because I wanted the contact and the comfort but I was too fragile. Murphy didn’t like to be touched first. When I forgot and did reach out to him, he invariably froze for a second before relaxing. He wouldn’t take his hand away from mine, but he would freeze at first and I knew I’d take it way too personally today so I didn’t risk it.

      Instead I kept as close as I could get to him without touching him. Our coat sleeves brushed, but our hands never met.

      We avoided the grubby snow bank by common consent. The bottom edges of it were liberally stained with dog piss. If I concentrated I could smell it. If I really focused I could tell which stains belonged to different dogs and which were made by repeat offenders. I had some dubious talents as Pack and that was one of them.

      The whole damn snow bank depressed me, just like the whole damn thing with Grandfather Tobias and our trip to Connecticut.

      “This sucks,” I announced, apropos of nothing.

      “At least you have the vindication, the satisfaction, of knowing for sure,” he remarked. He’d carefully and considerately avoided talking about the situation, allowing me to go first. The entire hour and a half we’d been in the car, he’d wanted to talk about this but he wouldn’t bring it up unless I did. He’d learned over our road trip that silence drew me out better than direct confrontation.

      “You know the grandfather in your pack rigged Sorcha’s accident too,” I said in a low voice.

      He shrugged and the wind blew his straight blondish-brown hair around. He’d cut his hair very short since Houston, but there was still enough for the winter wind to play with.

      “He hasn’t confessed yet.”

      “Has he been questioned?”

      Murphy looked at me from the corner of his dark eyes. He was hunched against the biting wind and had his hands shoved deep in his coat pockets. His expression was a baffled mix of despair and rage.

      “He’s disappeared. Nobody knows where he is and nobody can find him.”

      I chewed on that for a moment, wondering how long he’d known this fact and hadn’t told me.

      “Since when?”

      “Almost right after the incident in Houston.” His mouth turned up wryly. He was referring to his near-fatal overdose.

      “Someone СКАЧАТЬ