There was a young man walking along the highway in the dark; he kept his hands in the pockets of his faded, dusty windbreaker, and his breath fogged the lenses of his glasses with every step. Whenever a set of headlights threw shadows across his path, he shifted the canvas bag on his shoulder and stuck out his thumb. Cars were few and far between on this stretch of road, at this hour- and those that did drive by never stopped.
His face was that of a twenty-something college dropout but his hair was both in desperate need of a trimming and completely white. His clothes were nondescript and dusty.
A pair of eighteen-wheelers thundered by, ignoring him; he shivered in the wake of their passing and pulled the collar of his jacket a little tighter around his ears. The sun had set a few hours ago, and the night wasn't getting any warmer.
He walked on for another fifteen minutes before the rumble of another vehicle approached from behind him; he held out his thumb again, but it was clear from the cant of his shoulders that he didn't expect it to stop.
It slowed as it drove by, then pulled over further down the road. The engine cut out and the front passenger side door opened with a faint chime.
The young man stopped short as a bare foot encased in pantyhose kicked the door open all the way; the one foot was followed by another, followed by a set of panty hose encased legs. The corner of his mouth twitched upwards as the woman belonging to the set of legs stepped out of the car. She was tall and slender and wore a business-like suit jacket and skirt, and had legs up to her neck.
She leaned against the hood of the car, backlit by the headlights, and lit a cigarette. She watched him as he approached the car slowly; the end of her cigarette glowed cherry-red when she took a drag. At first glance, she appeared quite young, but a closer look revealed fine lines around her eyes and mouth, and a scattering of gray strands in her shoulder length dark hair.
He stopped a short distance away. "That's a nice car. Sixty-eight Cadillac Deville- you almost never see them in this condition on the road these days. Is that the original paint?" He had a quiet, low voice.
She shrugged. "Probably. Ask the driver; I know nothing about cars. Where are you headed?"
"Wherever you'll take me."
She blew a stream of smoke out her nostrils and dropped the cigarette. It landed on the asphalt and rolled under the car. "You have a name?"
"Most people call me Dove." He rubbed the back of his neck, as though embarrassed. "It's because of the hair."
"That's a silly name. I'm Sabatini." She held out her hand; her nails were painted black, and the polish was chipping. "My sister does the driving; her name is Cabiria."
Dove shook her hand. "Those aren't exactly normal names, either."
The smile she gave him was nearly a smirk. "We're not exactly normal people. Get in the car."
The door pinged when he opened it; the interior of the car was upholstered in shiny dark blue leather. Dove set his bag on the floor. The woman in the driver's seat turned to look him over as he buckled his seatbelt; she looked like a softer version of her sister, with shorter hair and a rounder curve to her cheekbones. The lines around her eyes were a little deeper, though.
She turned back to the wheel before he could introduce himself properly; Sabatini closed her door and her sister started the car.
Dove leaned back in his seat and counted stars through the window.
***
She was eating a lollipop and hanging upside down over the arm of the couch. It was blue raspberry flavored, and her lips and tongue were stained. "You know," she said around the candy, "I think we should get a dog."
"What kind?" He was sitting at the table by the window, doodling in a battered, spiral bound journal.
"Something big and shaggy. A komondor, maybe."
"A what?" He didn't look up from his notebook; he was drawing little spiral shapes in the margin.
"They're guard dogs, mostly, but they're smart and gentle. Very protective of their families and flocks. And they look like mops on legs."
He gave the squiggly shapes tiny feet and hands. "The landlord would get pissed at us."
She sighed and stretched her arms above her head, touching the floor. "I suppose." Her eyes drifted to the door and stayed there. "But we will get a dog someday, won't we?"
"Sure." He drew eyes on the squiggle people; they slanted upwards, sad and pleading.
***
Cabiria asked a question; Dove shook himself and looked away from the window. She repeated herself. "You're not local. Wrong accent."
"Yeah. I mean, no, I'm not from around here. I travel a lot."
"You've been hitching long?" Her voice was softer than her sister's.
"Not long. Only since my car was stolen." He smiled when he said that, self-deprecating.
Cabiria laughed. "It's good to travel, even under poor circumstances." Outside, a sign for the next exit sped by. Westfield, thirty-three miles.
"Sure, if you're traveling with style. I had a Toyota, not a Cadillac."
"Style is a thing so few people have." There was a distinct note of pride in Cabiria's voice; in the passenger's seat, Sabatini made a low, laughing noise. "And a thing even fewer people appreciate."
They talked about cars and traveling while Sabatini occasionally made derisive comments. It was the easy sort of conversation that comes to complete strangers who discover they share some kind of uncommon common ground. Cabiria dreamed of owning a vintage Corvette someday; Dove wanted to drive cross-country in a Vespa.
Eventually they pulled up to the curb in front of a decrepit line of row houses during one of the lulls in conversation. Some of the windows were boarded up and the paint was curling away from the siding in jagged chunks and strips. This was the stuff urban decay was made of: the houses sat in the stale glow of the streetlights and threw ragged shadows over the sidewalk and the scraps of lawn in front of them.
"You don't have a place to stay, do you?" Cabiria asked.
"No."
"Do you want one?"
There was a long pause, during which Sabatini smirked and her sister examined the display on the dashboard with unnecessary interest. Dove stared at his hands, clenching and unclenching them into fists. "Yeah," he said at last.
Cabiria smiled and cut the engine. "Good."
***
The interior of the house was as dated as the car; everything was upholstered in shades of avocado green and burnt sienna. The living room and kitchen were comfortably cluttered with bookshelves and oddly shaped but curiously comfortable chairs. Everything smelled faintly of coffee and cigarettes.
Cabiria made him a bed on the couch and gave him a spare set of clothes to sleep in; the pants hung off his hips, and the shirt smelled strongly of cedar and faintly of mothballs.
"Thank you for all of this," he said to her over too-strong coffee in the kitchen. He put enough milk and sugar in his to turn it a pleasant off-white color. The remains of a sandwich sat on a plate at his elbow. "I can't repay you and you have no reason to trust me, but you're being incredibly generous."
"Should we have reason to distrust you?" she asked. "Are you, perhaps, a serial killer? A thief?"
"No!" He nearly choked on his coffee.
She smiled. "I doubt you kick puppies for a living; that doesn't pay well enough for the effort involved. It is a simple truth that most people are harmless. And if they are not- well. We can take care of ourselves."
The way she said that made it seem like it was as much a reassurance as it was a warning.
When she finished her coffee, Cabiria said goodnight and disappeared into another part of the house. Dove left his half-empty cup in the sink and went back to the living room.
There were pictures on top of the TV: Cabiria and Sabatini, Cabiria and her car, Sabatini and Cabiria's car, a sullen teenager and Cabiria's car. There were other pictures of the girl in various stages of growth, from what looked to be a third grade ballet recital to a high school graduation. She looked like the sisters, though it was difficult to tell which one she resembled more.
Dove left the pictures alone and took a spiral bound notebook out of his bag. He made himself comfortable on the couch and began to write. He started page after page with "I miss you" and "It's been five months" and "I'm sorry," but he eventually stopped trying, and drew multitudes of little spirals in the margins instead.
***
He told her he was just going to walk down the street to get coffee and a paper. He wasn't gone more than half an hour, but the apartment was empty when he returned. The apartment was empty. She'd taken all of her possessions and most of his; they hadn't had much to begin with.
He didn't go to the police; he picked up the phone to call half a dozen times, but never went through with it. He tried calling her, but he could only get a mechanical, "I'm sorry, your call did not go through" message. He tried writing letters, dozens of them, scribbled hastily in his notebook and then thrown away. He didn't know where to send them, anyway.
After five days and no sign of her, he decided to do something about it. He gave his two weeks notice at the office, pawned off the rest of his possessions, and hit the road as soon as possible.
He still hadn't found her; it was possible he just wasn't looking in the right places.
***
Dove woke up in the middle of the night to shouting from outside.
Sabatini stalked by, wearing a bathrobe and bare feet, carrying something long and dark in one hand. She slammed the door behind her hard enough to rattle the windows. There was no sign of Cabiria, just shouting from outside, joined by Sabatini's voice. The words were indistinct, but the anger was clear in the pitch and volume.
Then, abruptly, the noise stopped. Dove pulled on his jacket and ventured outside. Sabatini was standing on the strip of lawn with a crowbar in one hand. She set the crowbar in the grass and pulled a pack of cigarettes out of her pocket.
"This happens all the time," she said as she lit a cigarette. "Idiots get drunk and try to fuck with us. Some people just enjoy concussions, I suppose." She threw him a sidelong glance and picked up the crowbar. "You should go inside. It's cold out here."
He stared at her from the open doorway; she was standing in the wet grass in bare feet. "I'm fine," he said. A moment later, he spoke again. "You know, I asked your sister why you were being so generous. She never actually answered me."
"Does it matter?"
"If you're going to kill me in my sleep with a crowbar? Yes." He frowned and crossed his arms.
She shrugged. "I'm not." She walked up the steps and leaned against the porch railing, still smoking nonchalantly.
His frown deepened. "I'm glad we've got that cleared up," he muttered, more to himself than anything else. "That girl in those pictures. Who is she?"
Sabatini raised her eyebrows and ground the butt of her cigarette against the railing. "Cabiria's daughter. We haven't seen or heard from her in four years. She just left- she's your age, or a little younger." She lit another cigarette.
He leaned against the doorway and stared at his feet. "I've got someone like that," he said quietly.
"I figured. Are you going to stand out here all night? We gave you a place to sleep so you wouldn't be stuck in the cold."
"I can't stop looking for her."
She rolled her eyes. "You will. Eventually. What won't stop is the urge to do stupid things to apologize to a person who isn't there anymore. Now go back to sleep. I have a crowbar, don't argue with me."
She had a persuasive argument; Dove smiled and rubbed the back of his neck, then closed the door. A few minutes later, Sabatini came back in and locked the door behind her, but he was already asleep.
***
In the morning, he found more bitter coffee in the kitchen, a note, and a short stack of twenty-dollar bills. The note gave directions to the nearest bus station and told him to lock the door when he left. He left a note of his own- a hastily scribbled "Thanks," signed with his real name- and packed up his things.
The Cadillac wasn't in front of the house when he left; he made sure the door was locked, shouldered his bag, and left.
---------
Final project for creative writing, written mostly in one night. >_< The real story of Dove and the Valentines, and Maeve. Not much to say about it, really. Sabatini is badass in the extreme, but Cabiria is actually even more badass in her own way.
Thankfully, Dove gets over his angst eventually.
This is the last piece I have for December, 2005. I'm eight pieces short, but twenty three is still respectable.
Aaaaand...that's all she wrote.
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