The Stranger

  THE STRANGER

  Ronald Malfi

  First Edition

  December 2009

  Published by:

  Delirium Books

  P.O. Box 338

  North Webster, IN 46555

  www.deliriumbooks.com

  The Stranger © 2009 by Ronald Malfi

  All Rights Reserved.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  It happened outside a small motel in rural Florida.

  "Are you hungry?" David asked.

  "Not very," Rhoda said.

  "If you want to eat there’s a hamburger joint down the road. We just passed it. I can turn around."

  "I just want to get a shower and go to bed."

  "You slept all day in the car," he said.

  "Sleeping in a car is not the same as sleeping in a bed," Rhoda said. "You can’t truly sleep in a car. Not really. I kept opening my eyes and looking out the window. I’d wake up at every bump."

  "You know I won’t drive off the road," he told her. He knew she was thinking it.

  "You’re a good driver, David," she said, turning and smiling at him. She was so young and pretty…but something about her had aged and gone a bit sour over the past couple of weeks on the road. A woman is most beautiful when she is ignorant of her own beauty. Somewhere along the way, Rhoda had grown wise to herself and had thus changed in David’s eyes. Her laughter had lost its luster. She continued to recite her poetry, but he no longer found it adorable and charming. Looking at her now, and not for the first time, he wondered just what the hell he was doing.

  "Then we’ll stop," he said, peering through the windshield and into the night. This particular stretch of highway was black as ink and absent of lampposts. Enormous trees, their silhouettes blacker than the night itself, loomed on either side of the highway. The night was cool and the air was dirty and muddy and wet.

  "I love you," Rhoda whispered.

  "Well," he said, rolling his tongue around in his mouth. He caught his reflection in the rearview. I’m dead, he thought. I look like a ghost. "Well," he repeated.

  On the road, days tended to blur together. Radio stations fuzzed in and out in a suggestion of mockery. The strings of roadside diners, which they frequented often, all started to look the same. Still, there were small, subtle things that kept David going. Somewhere above the Gulf of Mexico, the old Maverick sputtering and coughing along the quaint, scenic highway, David had watched a meteor shower on the darkened horizon. He’d considered waking Rhoda, asleep in the passenger seat, but decided against it in the end, and enjoyed the spectacle in his own personal silence. It was the most relaxed he’d been the entire trip.

  "There," she said, "up there." And pointed to a glowing red sign up ahead. "That’s the place. It’s 13 tom."

  "The motel?"

  "Let’s stay there tonight, David," she said. "See how ‘motel’ looks like ‘13 tom’ backwards?"

  He steered the Maverick into the motel parking lot and paid for a single.

  "Was the room very expensive?" Rhoda asked when he returned to the car.

  "A little but not too much. There’s a lounge with a full bar, so it’s not so bad."

  "That’s lovely," she said.

  "Help me with the bags?"

  "It’s raining," she said. "Let them stay in the car. We’ll sleep all warm and naked and get them in the morning."

  "All right," he said, but popped the trunk and retrieved his bag just the same.

  The room was cramped and smelled of armpits and bad sweat. The bed was hard and not very forgiving, and the bedclothes were stiff with starch and embroidered with fleur-de-lis. There was a small bathroom connected to the room with a toilet and a shower stall that looked more like a gym locker. The bathroom smelled even worse than the bedroom, and David saw Rhoda wrinkle her nose in the mirror over the bathroom sink.

  "Is it so bad?" he said. It reminded him of the motels he and Miranda had stayed at during their honeymoon cross country.

  "No," Rhoda said. "Just a little old-smelling. And maybe feet, too. But not badly. I’m going to shower. Are you all right?"

  He set his suitcase on the bed and began unpacking first his socks then his underwear. Time on the road facilitates a candid sense of self-awareness, through which one is continuously confronted with their own idiosyncrasies. The compulsion to occupy every available dresser drawer in a given motel with his personal effects, no matter how brief his stay, was one of David Graham’s peculiarities. He sustained a number of others as well.

  "I’m fine," he said…and suddenly found himself very close to ending it all, very close to dropping the whole goddamn thing right then and there. And was that even what he wanted? He didn’t know what he wanted, which incensed him all the more. And as usual, he said nothing.

  "You don’t seem fine," she continued, standing in the bathroom doorway with her hands on her hips, her lower lip out in a parody of pout. "You seem…" And she chose her words. "You seem funny, like back in Mississippi. Angry or something. Are you angry with me, David? Did I do something wrong?" Out of nowhere she grew genuinely concerned.

  "Of course not, sweet." Damn it, now he was overcompensating. "Go shower and then I’ll shower."

  "Let’s do it together."

  "Not in that stall," he said. "It’s too small. You shower first."

  "And then we can get in bed?" she asked.

  "I’ll turn down the bed," he replied, placing his suitcase on the dresser. "I’m thinking about grabbing a drink at the lounge."

  "Isn’t there any scotch left in the car?"

  "It’s all gone," he said. He didn’t know if this was true or not.

  "Well," she said, "just don’t be forever. Okay?"

  "Whatever you want," he said.

  "Just say okay."

  "Okay."

  "This is such a lucky, backwards motel, David. I’m gonna take a long, hot shower," Rhoda said. "As hot as it will go."

  Outside, the rain had let up a bit. David could hear the storm slowly creeping up the coast, rattling the trees in the distance. Shivering, he headed across the parking lot in the direction of the motel lounge. Orange sodium lights flickered beneath the alcove. He reached out and opened the door—and was startled by a pale-faced figure standing on the other side.

  "Jesus, pal," David uttered.

  The man was slight of frame, haggard, and sporting several days’ growth on his face. His eyes looked like two burnt bulbs, alert but sightless, and there was a collection of small red pustules running from one corner of his mouth down to his unshaven chin. Dressed in a tweed suit and a corduroy necktie—partially undone—he looked like a salesman just off a bender.

  They stood on opposite sides of the door, staring at each other for several seconds.

  "You okay, buddy?" David said finally.

  The stranger’s lower lip began to quiver. In a soft, hoarse voice, the stranger muttered, "God has laid a miserable fate upon us."

  "Hey, buddy—" David began, but the stranger merely stumbled around him and shuffled out into the parking lot. In the soft rain of midnight, David watched the man for a few moments more before turning and entering the motel lounge.

  The lounge was dimly lit. Immediately David could smell the ghostly aroma of cigars and the more pungent stink of boiled peanuts. There was a piano player tinkling the keys in one corner and a few men in neckties hunched over a table playing five-card stud.

  David went directly to the bar and ordered a gin and tonic, which he charged to his room. "And a shot of whiskey," he added after a pause.

  He watched the bartender pour the drinks and thought of Rhoda Larkin. It was true—she was no longer the same person she had been in La Salle. She’d been simpler back then, before the trip: a budding calendula, flower of the sun. On the road, however, her petals had withered. In a way, it was as if she’d lied to him, had pretended to be someone she was not. In La Salle, Rhoda Larkin was young and beautiful and perfect…but on the road, she’d grown tired. In La Salle, she’d been different. But then again, so had he.

  He wondered about Miranda.

  The bartender set the drinks down in front of David. He was tall and broad-shouldered and had thick black eyelashes. "Rain taper down any?"

  "Somewhat," David said.

  "Just settled in?"

  "Yes," he said. "Such a lucky, backwards motel." They were Rhoda’s childish words coming out of his mouth. He was a fool.

  "You believe much in luck?" the bartender said.

  "Only the bad kind," David said. He lifted the shot-glass to his mouth and tipped it back. Grimaced.

  "That’s too bad," the bartender said.

  What the hell am I doing? David wondered. What did I think I’d find, tramping around the country with a young girl? But what was done was done.

  David finished his drink, ordered another, and said to the bartender, "I don’t know where the hell I am."

  "About fifty miles west of Tallahassee," the bartender told him.

  David waved a hand at him. "Forget it."

  "You don’t look so good, man. Everything all right?"

  "Just terrific." He finished his drinks. "Forget charging the room," he said after a moment. "Let me settle up now."

  "On the house," the bartender said.

  "Oh, yeah? What for?"

  "For luck," the bartend
er said. "Lucky for you I enjoy pouring free drinks."

  "Oh." David didn’t get it.

  The bartender said, "So maybe now you’ll think twice about luck."

  "Maybe," David said and stood up from his stool without leaving a tip.

  Across the lounge, the piano player concluded a melodic Dave Brubeck piece, sipped from a tall soda glass, then commenced with a more up-tempo number. The card players’ eyes remained on their table. No doubt Rhoda was already in bed, smooth and naked and smiling beneath unfamiliar bed sheets. He found he’d become accustomed to her nakedness rather quickly; for him, their lovemaking was now perfunctory and automatic. He shuttled her from city to city with the furtive hope of finding her refreshed and rejuvenated by the newness of location, but that did not happen. Still, he chased this hope as if it were air and he a drowning man.

  The night outside was cold and biting, and as he crossed the parking lot back to his room, he inhaled deeply. He recalled the meteor shower and how beautiful it had looked, and how Rhoda had slept through it all. It was at that moment he had considered pulling the car onto the shoulder and saying those fated words: This isn’t working. But he hadn’t. He’d kept driving and she remained asleep and, just like with Miranda, he no longer wanted to be with her.

  He glanced at his car as he walked across the parking lot and paused. Hands stuffed into the pockets of his jacket, icy wind whipped his face. There was movement, a shifting of shapes and shadows.

  Someone was in his car.

  It was so absurd a scenario—at first, anyway—that it took him several moments to react. The neon motel sign reflecting in reverse across the Maverick’s windshield—13 TOM—he thought maybe he had misinterpreted the shadows, confused by the reflection, so he squinted and took two steps closer to the vehicle.

  There was a man seated in the driver’s seat.

  "Hey! What the hell?" David hurried to the side of the car, reached out for the driver’s side door handle, depressed the button. Locked. "Hey!" He thumped his hand against the window but the man inside his car did not turn and look at him. The stranger remained facing forward, his chin pressed against his breastbone. In a moment of utter disbelief, David recognized the intruder as the stranger he’d met in the doorway of the motel lounge just moments ago.

  "Son of a bitch," he muttered, and took a step away from the Maverick. "I think you’ve made a mistake, buddy. This is my car. You’re in the wrong car."

  The stranger did not acknowledge him.

  Frantic, aloof, David thrust a hand into his pants pocket to fish out his car keys, but remembered that he’d left them in the motel room. Teeth gritted, he slammed his palm against the driver’s side window again.

  "Goddamn it, man, get the hell out of my car!"

  The stranger remained motionless.

  David turned and hurried back to his room, hardly noticing that some of the other patrons were now peeking out their windows. Someone’s head poked out from one motel room, the tin can sound of an old Zenith permeating the night.

  He shoved open the door to his own room and headed straight for the dresser. Rhoda was there, naked while turning down the bed, and uttered a small cry at the force of David’s entry. She quickly gathered the bedspread about her pale body in two fisted hands and stared at him half in shock, half in fear.

  "David—"

  "My keys," he stammered, searching the dresser top, searching his partially-gutted suitcase. "Where the hell are my keys?"

  She looked away from him and at the door, wide open. She shivered and tugged the bedspread tighter about her body.

  "David, what’s wrong? You’re scaring me."

  "There’s someone in the car," he muttered, frantic for his keys. He slapped his palms down on the top of the dresser and exhaled forcefully. "There’s someone—"

  The car keys were on the bed.

  He grabbed the keys and Rhoda flinched instinctively backward, now fully frightened. Her hair was wet from the shower and hung about her small face in ratty coils. She looked suddenly much younger than she had when they’d pulled into the motel parking lot.

  "Stay here," he barked, and rushed back out into the night.

  A soft rain was falling. David advanced toward the Maverick, his keys gripped tight enough in his hand to leave an impression on his palm. Behind the rain-splattered windshield, the stranger remained motionless. The neon lights of the motel glittered in the raindrops and made the stranger’s face ghostlike. Breathing heavy, chest heaving, David came to a stop outside the driver’s side door, selected the appropriate key, and slid it into the lock. Turned it. On the other side of the window, the lock popped up. And just as David was about to press his thumb on the release, the stranger did move: he brought up his left hand—fisted—and simply punched the lock back down. His eyes remained on the steering wheel.

  Confounded, David took a step back. Blinking rainwater from his eyes, he stared at the stranger’s fist resting on the door lock. Was this really happening? The keys were still dangling from the door. He took a step closer, reached out, turned the key. Beneath the stranger’s hand, the knob popped up again—but was again fisted down with little effort.

  Gnashing his teeth, starting to tremble, David shouted, "Son of a bitch!"

  The stranger did not turn to look at him.

  David thrust his hand out a third time and tried to force the lock, but evidently the stranger was through playing games and this time refused to allow the knob to pop up. David turned the key harder, eyes cut to slits, teeth bared like a wild dog. He could feel the lock wanting to give, but leverage was on the side of the stranger and he held the knob down without difficulty. With one final twist, David felt the key bend slightly and scrape against the tumblers inside the door. At the sound, he withdrew his hand as if he’d been shocked by a current of electricity. In his frustration, he delivered a swift kick to the car’s front tire, then staggered backward a number of steps. The sheer fact that this stranger—this goddamn intruder—refused to even look at him was sending him over the edge…

  Like a snake, his right arm shot out again and jiggled the keys. But this time there was no movement; the goddamn key was jammed.

  A peal of thunder broke out in the distance. Breathing in great, furious gasps, his breath blossoming on the driver’s side window, David turned away from the car and ran his fingers through his wet hair. A number of people were standing in their doorways, staring at him; their silhouettes were little cardboard cutouts against the bright lights of their rooms. The door to his own room was also open and Rhoda, still clad only in the fleur-de-lis bedspread, stood in the doorway like a child who’d just witnessed a horrible automobile accident.

  "You wanna keep it down, buddy?" one of the cutouts suggested. "People tryin’ to sleep."

  "There’s someone in my car."

  "Call Triple-fucking-A and go to sleep."

  For a brief moment he locked eyes with Rhoda. She looked away before he did. Then he turned back to the Maverick. It was an old two-door 1972 puke green piece of shit, but it had reminded him so much of his youth when he’d first saw it that he had to have it. It had been his first major purchase following his divorce. It had felt good at the time. Yet the passage of both time and events has a way of warping one’s genuine appreciation of material things.

  Again he kicked the tire. With a fist he pounded on the driver’s side window, then leaned over the rain-streaked hood of the car and slammed an open palm against the windshield. Inside, the stranger did not flinch.

  "I’m going to kill you, you son of a bitch," David growled, teeth clenched, rainwater cascading in a network of rivers down his face.

  "David!" Rhoda called from behind him. He didn’t turn around until he felt a hand fall on his shoulder—and then he spun around jerkily, a fist cocked back.

  "Jesus," he managed, gripping Rhoda by the shoulder. She had dressed and was shivering beside him in the rain. He could tell she was very close to tears. He told her to get inside.

  "What’s going on?" she pressed.

  David Graham laughed once—sharply—into the night. He threw his hands up then motioned for her to look into the Maverick. There was nothing else he could do, nothing he could say. The entire scenario was utterly bizarre.

  "David," Rhoda said, "there’s a man in your car."