Ruchika Tomar - A Novel

I drove to the Crossroads with the windows rolled down, the radio off, scanning the flat, packed earth in the glare of afternoon light, the land broken up by clumps of creosote and rabbitbrush. I was hoping to see Penny walking on the shoulder of the road heading in my direction. I drove so slowly it would be impossible to miss her. When I saw her figure, tall and milktea pale, her long black hair nearly to her hips, I would pull over and unlock the passenger door. I would make room for her on the bench seat while she chronicled the saga of the delayed bus, the careless excuse Flaca had given when she hadnt shown up to give Penny a ride. When she was finished, we would wait in silence for the reality of the previous day to dawn. She would reach across the seat and we would embrace each other gently, needing to feel the other whole. She would tuck her chin in the dip of my shoulder, careful to avoid the bruises covering the right side of my face. I would say her name.

Instead a car horn sounded and a battered Trans Am shot out from behind, flying past, taillights flashing red at the corner a half mile down the road. I watched the car turn off and disappear. For the rest of the drive I considered what I would say to Penny when she finally answered her door, the nature of rebuke to deliver. Answer your fucking phone! I was prepared to resume the role of surly outcast, if only to stir her incautious charm.

At the entrance to the Crossroads, two young girls stood a few feet apart, tossing a big red ball between them. It was the cheap plastic of the swap meet, certain to deflate within a day. Countless other balls lay flattened like the vibrant, molted skins of mythical creatures in weed-strewn backyards all over Pomoc. The taller girl wore her black hair in pigtails and looked up when I drove past. In another week they would both be back in school. The careless feeling of summer was almost gone.

I pulled down the narrow lane to Pennys neat white mobile home, the pot of bee balm still flowering on the ledge. I took the stairs two at a time and banged on the door, straining my ear for the familiar sound of Pennys television or the slight, high-pitched yip from the new puppy. But Penny always slept in a deep, comatose oblivion, impossible to rouse.

Penny! Pounding on the door with the side of my fist.

I had, on occasion, slept over; I woke early to the sound of the workers running down the stairs of their units in their steel-toe boots, calling to each other across the east side of the park; I had pulled back Pennys gauzy bedroom curtains to watch them walk down the drive. Now I left the front door to walk around the rear of the unit, crouching down to peer through the sliver of Pennys bedroom window where the curtains met the sill. If a neighbor chose this moment to look outside, they would have cause to be alarmedbut Pomoc was still at work, the men tossing bags of ice down the chute at the plant, sweating under yellow construction hats all over the county, the women assembling circuit boards at the electronic manufacturing plant in Noe. Through the window, I could just make out the edge of Pennys rumpled bed and a twist of white sheets, but not whether Penny was still inside, lying in them. I rapped on the glass, waiting for some response.

It was the bright afternoon hour of small shadows, my reflection liminal on the glass, vanishing and reappearing with a tilt of my chin. I returned to the front of the mobile home, the light sparkling on the antennas of parked cars, gleaming off a doublewides stripped metal siding. I hesitated at the front door. Go home. If it wasnt for the unanswered voicemails, the sandman, Lambmaybe I could have. But Penny was a reliable waitress, punctual to a fault, and with each passing second it felt increasingly necessary to see her, to test our shelter. To bear each others witness.

Under the pot of bee balm on the ledge, I felt for Pennys spare key. Let it just be her inside. Not Penny and a half-naked stranger, or worse, just the stranger. The sandman lurking in the hallway, primed for his revenge.

I slid the key in the door and the lock popped open, the knob turning easily in my hand. Inside the old television sat mute, the screen staring blankly, an eerie, vacant hush swallowing the room. I walked straight back to her bedroom. Her bed was empty, the sheets pushed back to reveal an impression in the mattress where she had slept curled toward the wall. I ran my hand in the hollow her body left. The sheets were cool.

I grabbed the tangled covers and shook them out, a hard object falling, making solid contact with the floor. I dropped to my hands and knees, inhaling dust bunnies to reach the familiar glint of her phone under the bed. I pocketed it, climbing to my feet again. I called softly for the dog, checking behind the door, inside the hamperanywhere a small, scared animal might think to hide. I retraced my steps to the hall to check the coat closet and the bathroom, flinging aside her shower curtain: empty, empty. Penny could have walked to the general store, caught a ride to the dinerbut where was the puppy? In the kitchen the counters were clear; no dog food or water bowl, no toys. Not even the milk crate she had used to carry him home.

Returning to the front room, I considered the dwindling options. The dog wasnt behind the couch or the television, not curled under the serape throw folded neatly over a chair. If the dog had gotten sick, she could have hitched a ride to the vet. But Penny wouldnt forget her phone. On the mirrored table, an assortment of silver gum wrappers had been folded into a flock of origami cranes. I squashed one with my thumb. Any moment the front door would fly open, and Pennys low voice would arch across the room in surprise. She would stamp her feet on the threshold. She would carry the newborn pup in her hands, drowsy and soft as velvet. She would ask why I was here.