Manuel Munoz - What You See in the Dark

The parking lot sat silent, greeting her revelation. The night sat silent. Nothing moved. Not even a cold breeze to disturb the trees. Nothing from the highway. Not the truck still settling with metallic pings. Not even her own breathing. The windows of the house beckoned to her, but not warmly, not the yellow picture windows of her childhood storybook. They stared back at her with a cold, white gleam, and inside, Arlene knew, were years of empty rooms.

From the road came the sound of a distant motor. A truck: she could tell by its downshifting gears, the way the engine sounded as it approached and slowed. Arlene looked in the rearview mirror, but then came the distinct sound of brakes that needed a tending to, and the soft arc of headlights sweeping left as if preparing to make a turn into the parking lot. Hadn’t she turned off the lights to the motel’s road sign? She quickly closed the door to the truck to shut off the dome light, one eye on the rearview mirror.

Sure enough, a diesel truck turned a slow roll into the parking lot. Its headlights swept over the cab and glistened on the chrome and glass, refracting, and Arlene edged herself against the door. She held her breath as if doing so would send the truck away, but it eased over to the edge of the parking lot, near one of the motel wings. The truck sat chugging for a moment, and Arlene listened, not able to hear anything over the noise of the truck’s idling engine, and unable to see much in the rearview mirror. Maybe the driver was studying the darkened motel office or looking at the still-lit windows of the house, judging whether it was worth it to disturb anyone at this time of night.

The engine idled interminably and then suddenly stopped. The parking lot was plunged back into silence — she could even make out the diesel truck’s engine ticking away as it cooled. It was too late, she realized, to step out of the truck, even if the driver might make nothing of it. But later, when the police came and maybe questioned him, it would seem suspicious, her getting out of a truck, housecoat over a nightgown. She craned her neck to get a better look in the rearview mirror but could see nothing in the darkness, and then the door to the diesel truck opened.

The sounds carried. The weight of his body as he jumped down to the ground. A gob of spit as he hacked to clear his throat. His boots stepping across the gravel. Another door opening and then the rough whisper of his voice saying something in the dark — were there two of them? She listened for an exchange, but it was only the driver’s voice. He was talking to himself as she heard him step onto the wooden porch in front of the motel office, then rap on the door. Arlene heard him knock again before he let out a whistle and an admonishment that she couldn’t make out: that was when she made out the soft footfalls alarmingly near the truck and realized the driver had let out a dog. She could spot its dark form in the side-view mirror, lifting its leg to whiz on the truck’s rear tire. She stayed absolutely still, even as the dog sniffed its way along the side of the truck, as if it sensed her inside. The dog paused for a moment, its attention held stone-tight at her window, and it let out a short, anticipatory growl.

“Buddy!” she heard the truck driver call out in a hoarse whisper, then a quick, sharp whistle of a command. The dog obeyed, but she could see the dark form of its head still fixed on her as it trotted back toward its owner. One more time, the driver let out a short whistle of admonishment, as if the dog had stopped to rethink its retreat, and then the parking lot went silent again.

In the mirror, for the briefest moment, she saw a tip of light, as if a firefly had flown into view. She wanted to rub her eyes to see if she’d imagined it, but it came again and this time she caught its orange color, the tip of light she remembered from her childhood, watching her brother. He was smoking. She shifted a bit and turned to take a sidelong glance out the back window. The tip of his cigarette bloomed a few more times. He was too far away for her to see his silhouette in the darkness, to know whether he was facing the road or staring up at the cold light of the house, deciding once and for all whether he would make the effort to knock up there.

Two glows later, the orange tip darted to the side and went out as the driver flicked the butt to the gravel. She heard him whistle softly again, but the dog seemed near its owner, the whistle calm and reassuring. The driver’s boots shifted across the gravel, heading back to the diesel truck, but then he paused yet again, this time urinating — a heavy, long stream hitting the ground before the boots resumed walking. Arlene could see the light in the truck’s cab turn on again as the driver opened the door, his voice saying something to encourage the dog to get inside, and then he lifted himself back into the cab.

Arlene sighed, relieved, and ducked back a little, anticipating that the headlights of the truck would sweep over her again. She crouched down, waiting, but as the moments slipped by, the truck didn’t move. She kept anticipating the engine turning over and the truck getting back on the highway to search for another motel. But nothing. “Sweet Jesus,” she muttered when she realized the driver was bedding down for the night, the silence growing deeper and deeper. She braved another sidelong glance through the rear window, still fearful that the driver might suddenly turn on the engine, the headlights catching her like a fox in the road. The truck remained still. Nothing passed on the highway.

The tension in her body hardened further in the December cold. Arlene could feel it in her fingers. She wouldn’t last much longer, dressed as she was in her nightgown. She draped the housecoat over herself and sat up a little straighter, craning for a better look at the truck. In the other direction, the front door of her house seemed impossibly far away. She racked her brain trying to recall if she’d locked the kitchen door on her way to bed earlier that evening — maybe sneaking around to the side of the house wouldn’t rouse the driver or the dog. But now everything she did, Arlene knew, would carry a sound, just like the driver’s boots, the dog’s prowl of her premises, the driver relieving himself on the ground. The dome light of her truck would turn on, but maybe the driver wouldn’t see it, now that he was bedded down for the night. She would have to slip out of the truck quietly and click its door shut, then scurry up the steps to the house.

He could be exhausted and already asleep. He could’ve drunk a beer or two on the road just before he made the turn-off, the alcohol making him drowsy. But how many nights had she herself been awakened by movement in the parking lot, one of the drivers who’d checked in going right back out to the Bakersfield bars?

Her feet numbed at the toes. She could not wait much longer.

Arlene took a deep breath. She grabbed the door handle, absolute ice to the touch, and held it for a long moment. Maybe it would be best to put the coat on first. She slipped it back on, arranging herself, and was surprised at how much noise she made by doing so. She shot a last look back at the diesel truck, but nothing, so she took the door handle once again and this time pulled.

The dome light blazed like an accusation, and she scrambled as quietly as she could out of the cab. The truck door groaned. Her feet thudded onto the gravel. Alarmed by the noise she was making, she shut the door as softly as she could, the dome light extinguishing, but she couldn’t hook the latch. She pushed the door a little, finally hearing it click shut, but she could see, even in the dark, how the door wasn’t flush with the frame. From the diesel truck came the faint but perceptible growl of the driver’s dog, alert to her movement. Arlene crouched down, listening for the growl again. She imagined the dog sitting up in the seat, paws resting on the door, studying her malevolently through the window of the cab. Her body ached from crouching, the slumped posture, the cold. Just that pathway to the house, just those steps, just the screen door, just the twist of the knob. The dog remained silent, as did the road, so Arlene bolted, trying her best to half run, half tiptoe to the house, the cold gleam of the windows taunting her with their proximity, but by the time she hit the steps, she was so overcome by the fear of being caught, by the anticipation of the driver calling out Hey! into the night, that she disregarded the creak of the screen door and how it always slapped against the frame, and rushed in, shutting the door behind her hard enough for the window to shudder.