James seems like he may have given up. “Is that what you want to do? Sleep on the side of the road? In the car?”
“What I want to do is to be alone in a hole, covered in dirt. But sleeping in the car is the next best thing right now.”
“Yes, that often is the second choice after live burial.”
It starts to sound nice to me, really appealing. Like going to the drive-in, but without the movie. Like going parking, which we must have done once, in another life, before our bodies took on water and started to sink, before the spoil grew like a mold in the back of our mouths. “I don’t think there’s anything wrong with sleeping in the car,” I say. “It’s going to be more comfortable than a motel, that’s for sure, not that there even is an available motel, and plus we won’t have to worry about the cascade of ejaculate that’s been literally sprayed from human appendages around every single motel room in the country. Purportedly.”
James seems to think about it. “When I stay in a hotel,” he says, “I do my best to ejaculate on the walls. It’s a civic obligation. You have to pull your weight.”
“That’s a lot of pressure for a man.”
“Sometimes I’m not in the mood. I’m cranky and I’m tired.”
“That’s when you bring out the jar from home?” I ask.
He laughs. “It’s good to have it with me. Who’s going to know, you know, if the product is older.”
“More mature, in some ways.”
“Must. Broadcast. Seed,” he says, like a robot, and then he mimes the flinging of the jar, splashing its imaginary contents out into space.
It’s not really a rest area that we find. It’s a scenic turnout, and the view—of the black, bottomless abyss—is pristine. You can see all of it, every dark acre, and if we don’t see our own ghostly faces by the end of the night it’s because we’re not looking hard enough. We park a bit out of the way, under the branches of a mammoth tree, and when we quickly realize that we’ve just increased our risk of death—because trees seem to seek people out in these kinds of situations—we move over to an open parking space, with nothing threatening above us.
“Fuck that tree,” I say. “Way to try to hide your intentions.”
We put our seats all the way back and James pulls out a bar of chocolate from the go bag. I want to rub it all over my neck.
“Oh my god, oh my god. You are a genius,” I say. “Certifiable.”
“I like to think that I have an elusive, almost unknowable sort of intelligence.”
“What else is in there?” Now I’m excited.
James peers into the bag, rummaging around with his hand. “That’s the end of it,” he says. “The rest is just sadness. Sadness and real life.”
This is my sweet man. So weird sometimes. So uncommon. And he steered us here, to safety, where we can eat our sweets and surrender to the night and everything will be so goddamn swell in the morning. Even as the rain literally seems to be crushing the car, one hard bead at a time. Not the rain. Boris. Boris is doing this to us, the motherfucker.
The seats are a little bit divine when you tilt them all the way back. A little bit like first class on an airplane, which we only did once, and by accident, because of a mistake by the sweethearts at the gate. It remains a sort of benchmark for comfort outside the home.
“I’m sorry you don’t feel well,” I say. “Is it related to…”
“What?”
“I mean, is it related to anything? I know you went to the doctor.”
“I did go to the doctor.”
“And?”
“It was really interesting. Really surprising. I found out that he thinks that I am still alive.”
“He sounds like a smart man. I would like to meet him. Maybe shake his hand.”
James is quiet and I’m not sure I really like it. I listen to his breath and it sounds fine. But then he coughs, and it’s such a feeble cough, as if he barely has the energy for it. I don’t like it.
“But now?” I ask. “Are you still not feeling so…”
James laughs quietly. “Oh, now. I’d like to say that I’m fine now.”
“Well, don’t hold back, mister. Say that. Make it so.” I take his hand.
“I’m fine,” he whispers. “I feel wonderful. Better than I have felt in a long time.”
His voice is too quiet for me. The fight has gone out of him. Maybe he’s just tired.
“Well, don’t go and die on me tonight,” I say, and I kind of want to punch him.
“Okay.”
“You know that’s what everyone’s thinking, right. Everyone who’s watching this at home? That the couple who has been bickering all day will start to get along, but it will be too late, and then the man will die. That’s such a classic plot.”
“Oh is that what they’re thinking?”
“That’s what all the betting sites say. That’s where the odds are.”
“Does the woman ever die?”
“In situations like this?”
“Are there any other kinds of situations?”
We settle in, and I guess we are maybe trying to fall asleep, but I feel too vigilant. James’s hand is warm in mine. It doesn’t feel like the hand of a man about to die. It is big and soft and I pull it over to me, get it in close against my chest.
“I can’t see you, James. What is the look on your face? What are you thinking?”
“No one is watching this but you, Alice. You’re the only one here. No one knows about us. People can’t really know.”
“Sweetheart, are you okay? Should I be calling someone?”
“I guess I’m a little more tired than I thought I was.”
“You must be. You’ve done all the driving. You got us out of there. You saved us.”
He must think I’m joking with him. I wish I knew how to say it better. How come so many things can sound mean and nice at the same time?
“Could we lie together?” he asks.
I crawl over the seat, wrapping up against him. “Yes of course. I mean, in the end it will be more of a his-’n’-hers sleeping arrangement, just because of these weird beds, but let me settle in here with you for a bit. Why not?”
It feels good to snuggle him. Warm and just right. James is thinner than I remember. I can feel his bones.
“Why don’t we do this more often?” I say, nuzzling against him.
“Because we haven’t wanted to?” James says. He’s drifting off. I can hear his voice grow thin. I’m not ready to sleep. Not ready to be alone.
“Hey,” I say to him.
“Yeah?”
“Stay awake with me for a little bit.”
“Okay.”
“Breast cancer.”
“What?”
“Breast cancer is picking up speed. Landfall is expected at twenty-one hundred hours.”
“Oh. Ha. Yeah. I almost forgot about that. Boris. So weird. Boris.”
When James is silent for a while I nudge him. “Your turn,” I say.
“Okay. It’s so hard to think.” His voice trails off and I nudge him again. Then he says, “Maybe we’ve thought of the best ones already.”