The Alignment (4 page)

In the kitchen, I glance out the window to see the red truck gone and Trey standing over the engine of his own truck, twisting a rag in his hands like its motion is turning rusty gears in his head. No one told him he could use my driveway as a repair shop. Maybe I should bring him the phone book opened to the towing section.

My stomach starts to churn in a mild threat of what’s to come. Food might help. I shake out a bowl of cereal, grab an apple and a piece of cheese, and head toward the back porch.

I step outside, testing the boards as I go. I forgot to make that phone call to find a handyman. Pale sections of the flooring catch my attention, and my eyes move from one board to the next until it dawns on me. He fixed them. He replaced all the rotten boards. There’s a tightening in my head when I realize something else. This guy thinks he’s god’s gift to women. That’s what this has been about all along.

He causes an accident. Instead of calling the police and the insurance companies, he wants to handle it himself. He wants to pay, he wants to take my car to his mechanic, he wants full control. He gives me a vehicle to drive. He goes to all this trouble because I am just a helpless female, incapable of handling anything too complex. And this is why he’s made himself at home in my driveway. He probably thinks he’s entitled. Like I’m indebted to him in some way. Like he’s welcome here. Well he was right about one thing. I am a sucker, because I fell for the whole thing. Until now.

I plop down in a chair and set my apple on the armrest. Coyote Dog wanders around the corner of the house, so I toss him the cheese, and he hangs out closer to me than he ever has. I finish my cereal, take a bite of my apple, and gag as my stomach violently resists. The sound of the outside faucet squeaking sends a wave of relief. He’s probably cleaning up and will leave soon. The faucet squeaks again. A heavy tread vibrates through the porch. To my surprise, Coyote Dog moves in front of me.

He comes around the corner in a grimy T-shirt and jeans, soaking wet from head to waist. The nurse in me cringes as soon as I notice he got grease and dirt in the gash I treated at the clinic. One of the butterfly bandages is already missing. His eyes meet mine, and I stare him down.

He breaks the silence. “I guess I should probably—”

“I didn’t ask you to fix this.” I gesture toward the new boards.

“No…” he agrees, standing up straighter like he’s been caught off guard.

“Did it occur to you to ask first? That I may not be as incompetent as you think?”

“No, but it
did
occur to me that in your current state it would be impossible for you to fix it yourself.”

His wet hair falls onto his brow so he runs the back of his hand across his forehead to brush it to the side. I’m about to be sick. I’m not going to last this time. I take a deep breath as the pressure on my chest intensifies. Maybe it’s altitude sickness.

We glare at each other. I have nothing to say to him. I wish he’d just leave, but I know if I tell him to get off my property he’s just going to get more confrontational. He probably expects me to back down, look away, apologize. So I hold his eye until he mutters under his breath, “Not even worth it,” and turns away.

“What?” I demand.

He faces me. If it’s possible for him to look even nastier, he does. “I came back here to tell you the truck was already fucked. You didn’t do it. So I owe you an apology, but really…now? It’s not even worth it.” He waits for my reaction.

I boost myself up and limp into the house, sliding the glass door closed behind me. This is just too much. I don’t have to take this abuse over something that’s his fault to begin with. He opens the door, and I spin to face him. I should have locked it.

“Apology not accepted.” I really hate to be childish.

“Fine by me.” He tosses the truck key on the table and yanks the door closed. Any harder and he’d be cleaning up shattered glass. I should tell him these displays of aggression are lost on me. I hear his heavy boots stomp off the porch, his motorcycle’s engine start up and buzz away.

Good thing I’m off work tomorrow. I’d rather die than drive his goddamn truck.

Chapter 4

Trey

I
know I shouldn’t
let my temper loose like this. I gun the Ninja hard into the turn. Nobody closes a door in my face. And to think I was going to apologize. Her car is supposed to be ready tomorrow, and it can’t come soon enough. Once her car is returned I’ll never have to see her face again.

River greets me in the driveway with an “all clear” so I park the Ninja in the garage and unwind the garden hose. The herbs are doing great this year. Potatoes always do great. The cabbage and kale seem to be having a hard time but I’m having a hard time caring. After watering, I go around the house to make sure nothing has been tampered with and all my traps are still in place. River knows exactly which spots to avoid. The wildlife does too. I’ve made sure of that. No need for her meals to get caught in a trap. That takes the sport out of it for River.

The first thing I do inside is pour a drink. I make a few calls to my current jobs to explain my truck has been out of service and work will resume shortly. People aren’t uptight around here. They don’t mind a few delays now and then. Leaving this laid-back lifestyle will be a shock to the system when I do find a new place to live. I’ll at least wait until after harvest so none of my vegetables will go to waste.

I finish my drink and stare at the blood-splattered wall. It takes several minutes to will my legs to move me from the counter. The kitchen is still a mess. How long has it been like this? Two days? Three? I sweep up the broken dishes and spilled food. What an unruly dinner guest he was. It was stupid to wait for him to come into the house for me, but I’d do it again just for the amusement. Two in a row seems out of the regular pattern. They’re probably trying to throw me off. A challenge would be a welcome reprieve from the monotony of my life, but I know it’s not going to happen. I’ll always be too good for them. They obviously haven’t figured that out yet.

I return all the knives to the drawer and pick up the fallen chairs and push them against the table. I boil some water for the herbs and let them steep. Every time I do this it reminds me of my mother. Dabbing the brew onto the gash on my brow cools the nerve endings, the annoying tickle of split skin. My mind drifts back to when I would sit on the kitchen counter and watch my mother work. It was the only safe place in that house.

I dump some of the brew into a shallow tray to soak my hands, scratched and cut from working on the truck. The skin on a few of my knuckles is busted open and full of grease, but it won’t be like that for long. Once my hands feel better, I pour the remaining brew into ice trays and stash them in the freezer for later.

Nothing sounds appetizing for dinner, but I need to eat. I make a sandwich and sit at the table staring at it, unimpressed. These spikes in my temper are gaining ground on feelings I’ve worked hard to repress. My mind wanders to that day—the day I came home to an empty house, belongings strewn everywhere, unmistakable signs of struggle. My rage, demanding answers no one would give me.

I push away from the table, shove my feet back in my boots, and go outside calling for River. We walk to the riverbank and follow it to the old footbridge. I consider crossing it but remember who’s on the other side. We continue on my side of the river and reach the clearing with just a sliver of sun left above the horizon. We sit until the moon and stars are bright enough to lead me home, and my wrath has been stuffed back down where it belongs.

I take a different route home, one that takes us higher into the bluffs. A clear night like this offers the best view, an opposite palette from the colors of the day, a negative image counteracting the day’s positive one. Shadows in varied shades of black ground the highlights of the moon and stars and their reflections on the water. My boots settle on flat rock. I walk to the edge, losing the cover of the trees. Illuminated rectangles of yellow light glow below me, unfamiliar, my brain not making the connection until I see her rise from her seat and move toward the railing, her bandaged leg bright white in the moonlight. I never realized this bluff overlooks the side of the Joseph place. It hasn’t been lit up at night for a long time.

I’m too far away to read her expression, but I know she can see me. My sound night, my privacy, invaded. But I feel like the voyeur, caught at his own game. Although this meeting was completely unintentional, it probably validates her belief that I’m a creep. Or whatever she thinks of me. She’ll have to work much harder to validate what I really am.

I could jump. A late night swim. That would give me a reason to be up here. I can’t remember how deep the river is at this point. River growls and I turn, sensing it too, as a coyote charges from the trees and River meets him head on. He just wants to provoke her. If a coyote had been tracking us we’d have a perfect reason to be up here. His pack must be nearby, and they must be bored tonight. We need to alter our route. I retreat into the aspen on the other side of the bluff and descend until I reach the river. I follow it toward home, stalling a little so River can catch up to me. Soon she does, panting hard, in high spirits.

We arrive home and I let River do the rounds. I’m wiped out, physically and mentally. She returns to signal everything is okay before running off into the woods. I devour the sandwich I left on the table, washing it down with a glass of milk. Untie my boots. Fall onto the couch.

My first waking thought the next morning is who am I going to call to help me pick up her car? It’s a two-hour drive one way. I can’t ask Wayne again, and everyone else I know is working. I am not putting this off until the weekend.

My only option is to take the Ninja out there and drive her car back myself, then drive the truck out there again this weekend to pick up the Ninja. But, if I’m going all the way out there today, I really should bring the truck and make a supply run. That means I’ll have to drive her to work. And pick her up in her car after work. Suck it up. It’s better than letting this go on until the weekend. I need this behind me.

I take a quick shower and dress. It’s a short drive on the Ninja to her place, and as I ride up the driveway I see the truck still parked in the same spot so I know I made it before she left. I park the Ninja and toss my helmet in the bed of the truck. I’ll give her fifteen minutes. If she hasn’t come out by then I’ll knock.

She probably heard me pull up. Damn, this is becoming far more complicated than it needs to be. I go up to the door and knock. Patience is not my strongest trait, and it takes her forever to come to the door. She moves the curtain aside and stares at me long and hard before opening the door.

Her voice is all business. “Can I help you?”

“I need to use my truck today. I’ll have to take you to work.”

“I’m off today.”

“Okay. Then I’ll take the truck. Unless you need it?” I try very hard to be polite. I can’t allow my temper to escape from its confinement again.

“No. All yours. Let me get the key.” She goes inside.

If she’s off work, she could come with me, drive her own car back, and put an end to this nightmare. She returns and hands me the key. I start to ask her then think better of it, but she catches on. Apparently nothing gets by her.

“Are you picking up my car?”

“Yes. I’ll be back in a few hours.”

“A few hours? You towed my car that far away?”

I’m not telling her he’s the best mechanic in the state. And he’ll rush a job for me if I need him to, without taking any shortcuts.

“Who’s going to drive the truck back?”

“Me.”

“How?”

“I’ll go back for it this weekend.” Ramp and tie-downs are already in the bed. It’s all ready to go. I turn to head toward the truck but her voice stops me.

“I’m coming with you. You’re not doing me any more favors. Let’s just get this over with, okay?”

Finally something we can agree on.

She accepts my silence as a bargain. “Give me ten minutes to get dressed.”

I can’t control a snort of disgust. No woman could get dressed in ten minutes. She closes the door in my face, again. If it happens one more time, I’m ripping it off its hinges and beating her with it.

Back in the truck, I wait and watch the clock for my own entertainment. Fourteen minutes later, she hobbles out with her wet hair in a ponytail. I check the clock again. I must have timed it wrong. She even took a shower. As she gets closer I notice a giant bottle of Pepto-Bismol sticking out of the top of her bag. If she gets sick in my truck, I swear I’ll kill her.

Shit. My supply run. I can’t go while she’s with me, and I won’t have time on the way back.

“What?” She pauses with her seatbelt halfway to the buckle.

“Nothing.”

We coast down the road in silence. As I accelerate onto the highway, the sun blasts from behind a cloud and we both flip down our visors. I put on my sunglasses, and she puts on hers. She opens her window all the way and pulls a book out of her bag. Thank god. No talking necessary.

Fifteen minutes into the ride, her shifting around in the seat makes me want to strap her down. It’s distracting and annoying and she doesn’t seem to care. When she finally settles down, it only lasts a few seconds. She squirms again, reaches down for her big pink bottle and takes a king-size gulp. That can’t be good for you. But she’s a nurse, she should know. I hear a sharp intake of breath and whip my
head around to look at her, worried she’s about to blow.

She looks back at me, her eyes huge through the tinted lenses of her sunglasses. “You make me sick!”

I can’t contain an outburst of hollow laughter. It took her this long to figure that one out? “I hate to say it, but the feeling’s mutual.”

“No, you literally make me sick!” In her excitement, her voice rises to a frequency that makes my teeth grind together. “I just figured it out. Every time I’m around you, I get sick to my stomach. I think you were even there the first time it happened.” She turns to stare out the window, animated by her theory. “The gas station…” she whispers.

“That’s great news. Once this is over you’ll have a good reason to avoid me.” What an encouraging thought. And I’ll have to modify my hiking routes.

But she can’t really be serious.

“Can we pull over? I want to test this.”

I guess she is serious. “No. This is ridiculous.” I can’t keep the disgust out of my voice.

“Okay then. I have to pee.”

I exhale hard to voice my disapproval.

She glances at me. “I know if you try really hard, you might not be such an asshole.”

“Don’t you get sick of hearing your smart mouth?”

“Don’t you get sick of your inflated ego?”

My hands clench the steering wheel hard enough to keep me from killing her, and I turn off the highway at the next exit. I pull up to a quick shop and she gets out. She disappears into the store and emerges with some snacks about ten minutes later. When she climbs back into her seat, I go for the ignition.

“Wait,” she demands.

I lean my head on the back of the seat and stare upwards. Several minutes pass. She opens her door and gets out again. I watch her gimp back toward the highway until I can barely see her. A few minutes later she heads back, triumphant.

She opens the door and gets in. “It is totally you. You make me sick.”

“You are so full of shit.” I turn the key, jam the truck into gear, and floor it toward the highway. DOOR AJAR illuminates in the instrument panel.

“I wish I was. That would be easier to explain. This is going to be a very long ride.” She laughs under her breath.

“I could have told you that before.” I stare at the DOOR AJAR warning when I should be watching the road. The warning becomes a biting offense directed straight at me. I don’t know how anyone could get in a vehicle and not realize they hadn’t closed the door all the way.

“What cologne do you wear?” she asks.

“I don’t wear cologne.”

“What deodorant?”

“Whatever’s on sale at the store.”

“Which would be?”

“I have no idea!” I feel an urge to rip the steering wheel out of the truck. I should’ve never agreed to let her come. Not only have I become lazy and careless, but I’m growing stupider by the day. And if that DOOR AJAR doesn’t disappear, I’m going to explode. I lean over her and yank her door closed. She freezes and remains that way until both my hands return to the wheel.

“You could have asked me,” she hisses.

“You failed to do it the first time.”

If she continues this attitude, she’s going to be a lot more than just sick to her stomach. She offers me some peanuts, and I ignore her. She seems jubilant in her discovery, satisfied at hatching this idiotic explanation of the pattern she’s built in her mind. Her body language suggests a better mood due to this. I think I prefer it when she’s in a bad mood, so I start thinking about things I could say to make her mad. When she pulls out her book, I put it to rest and try to concentrate on the road stretching out in front of us.

The drive drones on. The flipping of pages in her book mark the time. We make a few short stops to give her a break from her “sickness” and I humor her, unconvinced it’s me causing it. Every noise she makes, every movement, combines to create my own customized torture. The more time that passes, the worse it gets. Her breaks become mine as well, allowing respite from the treatment so perfected I pray it remains secret. If my enemies could reproduce this, I wouldn’t last a day at their hands.

By the time we stop to eat lunch at a fast food place, I want to strangle her. I lost count of how many exits we passed before agreeing on where to eat. I finally give up and give in—I’m so hungry I could eat my own arm. Even a simple routine like eating lunch has to be a difficult, complicated ordeal with this woman.

In the restaurant, we pretend not to know each other and choose tables at opposite ends of the room. It’s a seamless arrangement, like we had the same idea. She finishes before me and goes back to the truck without a glance in my direction. She must be ready to get this trip over with too. Thank god it’s only one way.

When we return to the road, every familiar creak and rattle of my overworked ten-year-old truck adds to the mounting tower of pressure ready to blow. Although the noises never bothered me before, I doubt I’ll be able to drive this truck again without them reminding me of the soaring aggravation I feel now with her a foot away from me. The sound of the tires on the pavement could be the sound of sandpaper on my skin and I wouldn’t be any more bothered by it. The atoms making up every object around me merge into a microscopic army specializing in my personal persecution.