black. Something I’d said had touched a nerve.
“What is it?” I asked, worried now.
“Nothing, just some history I have with that place. I don’t want to go there.”
“What do you mean,
history?
What, you stayed there with some other guy?” I was joking but she winced and I saw it was true.
“Oh,” I said, feeling like a balloon someone had stabbed a fork into.
“We’ll go somewhere else,” I said quickly. “Don’t worry.”
She still seemed frozen though and I hated it. Hated that she hadmemories of another man. Memories that still meant too much to be spoken of. She’d mentioned an FBI guy she’d met when she’d saved that racehorse nine months earlier. She’d told me she’d had something going with the guy but she never mentioned how it ended or why. I’d tried to turn a blind eye to the whole thing. After all, I was technically still married and my unbalanced wife was calling me fifteen times a day. But the way Ruby had winced indicated that there was still a live wire there someplace. Hopefully I could diffuse it soon.
I scooped her back into my arms and held her until I felt the stiffness leave her body.
RUBY MURPHY
11.
Counting Horses
S omeday I may actually have to break down and learn how to drive. It’s getting frustrating to have to take car services every time I need to get somewhere beyond biking distance. It’s just that cars seem like bad magic to me. I don’t entirely understand how they work and it strikes me as nothing short of miraculous that people aren’t constantly careening into one another. I have trouble even being a passenger. I keep imagining trucks colliding with whatever car I’m in, sending me flailing, severing limbs, cracking my skull open. If I were actually driving the damned contraption, I would probably go into cardiac arrest. I realize it’s profoundly un-American of me not to drive. But I never felt profoundly American to begin with. I’m from Brooklyn.
“The car service is coming in twenty minutes,” Attila calls out from the living room.
“Okay,” I say, but nothing is okay right now. At first, the idea of going to a motel seemed adventurous in spite of the fact that we’re doing it to safeguard Attila from harm. Then, when Attila mentioned the motel in Sheepshead Bay that happens to be the place where Ed and I first slept together, it rattled me. I tried to get over it. I’m not, after all, doing anything wrong. I just don’t need or want reasons to think about Ed.
I start throwing clothes in a weekend bag, then trap the cats in the bedroom as I go into the hallway closet to get the carriers out. Cats are not travel enthusiasts and the sight of their carriers usually sends them darting under the furniture.
“You okay?” Attila asks. He’s sitting on the couch, looking at me.
“Yeah. Cats hate travel.” I try attributing what must be my obvious low mood to worry over the cats.
Attila’s not really buying it. “You don’t have to do this, Ruby. You can leave town and forget you ever met me,” he tells me, opening his vivid eyes wide.
“I doubt that very much,” I say, putting the carriers down and walking over to him. He reaches up, takes my left hand, and softly kisses it. “Good,” he says.
We look at each other for a long moment and I feel him reaching a place in me, a savage place filled with crippling lust and tenderness.
“I’ve got to finish organizing stuff,” I say after a few moments of thick silence.
Attila nods.
I move into the kitchen where I pack up cans of Pet Guard and two catnip mice. I also bring my tiny portable coffeemaker. It’s dangerous for me to leave home without it.
A few minutes later, I’ve loaded the reluctant cats into their carriers and Attila hoists Stinky while I take Lulu and my overnight bag.
THE WOODLAND MOTEL falls about twenty stars short of five. In fact, it’s barely a half step up from a hooker hotel. It’s a long tanvinyl-sided building gazing out over an ill-paved
“What is it?” I asked, worried now.
“Nothing, just some history I have with that place. I don’t want to go there.”
“What do you mean,
history?
What, you stayed there with some other guy?” I was joking but she winced and I saw it was true.
“Oh,” I said, feeling like a balloon someone had stabbed a fork into.
“We’ll go somewhere else,” I said quickly. “Don’t worry.”
She still seemed frozen though and I hated it. Hated that she hadmemories of another man. Memories that still meant too much to be spoken of. She’d mentioned an FBI guy she’d met when she’d saved that racehorse nine months earlier. She’d told me she’d had something going with the guy but she never mentioned how it ended or why. I’d tried to turn a blind eye to the whole thing. After all, I was technically still married and my unbalanced wife was calling me fifteen times a day. But the way Ruby had winced indicated that there was still a live wire there someplace. Hopefully I could diffuse it soon.
I scooped her back into my arms and held her until I felt the stiffness leave her body.
RUBY MURPHY
11.
Counting Horses
S omeday I may actually have to break down and learn how to drive. It’s getting frustrating to have to take car services every time I need to get somewhere beyond biking distance. It’s just that cars seem like bad magic to me. I don’t entirely understand how they work and it strikes me as nothing short of miraculous that people aren’t constantly careening into one another. I have trouble even being a passenger. I keep imagining trucks colliding with whatever car I’m in, sending me flailing, severing limbs, cracking my skull open. If I were actually driving the damned contraption, I would probably go into cardiac arrest. I realize it’s profoundly un-American of me not to drive. But I never felt profoundly American to begin with. I’m from Brooklyn.
“The car service is coming in twenty minutes,” Attila calls out from the living room.
“Okay,” I say, but nothing is okay right now. At first, the idea of going to a motel seemed adventurous in spite of the fact that we’re doing it to safeguard Attila from harm. Then, when Attila mentioned the motel in Sheepshead Bay that happens to be the place where Ed and I first slept together, it rattled me. I tried to get over it. I’m not, after all, doing anything wrong. I just don’t need or want reasons to think about Ed.
I start throwing clothes in a weekend bag, then trap the cats in the bedroom as I go into the hallway closet to get the carriers out. Cats are not travel enthusiasts and the sight of their carriers usually sends them darting under the furniture.
“You okay?” Attila asks. He’s sitting on the couch, looking at me.
“Yeah. Cats hate travel.” I try attributing what must be my obvious low mood to worry over the cats.
Attila’s not really buying it. “You don’t have to do this, Ruby. You can leave town and forget you ever met me,” he tells me, opening his vivid eyes wide.
“I doubt that very much,” I say, putting the carriers down and walking over to him. He reaches up, takes my left hand, and softly kisses it. “Good,” he says.
We look at each other for a long moment and I feel him reaching a place in me, a savage place filled with crippling lust and tenderness.
“I’ve got to finish organizing stuff,” I say after a few moments of thick silence.
Attila nods.
I move into the kitchen where I pack up cans of Pet Guard and two catnip mice. I also bring my tiny portable coffeemaker. It’s dangerous for me to leave home without it.
A few minutes later, I’ve loaded the reluctant cats into their carriers and Attila hoists Stinky while I take Lulu and my overnight bag.
THE WOODLAND MOTEL falls about twenty stars short of five. In fact, it’s barely a half step up from a hooker hotel. It’s a long tanvinyl-sided building gazing out over an ill-paved
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