Till now he had not let on to himself how her discipline — what he had so long lacked and craved — was coming to irk him.
I’ve told you I’m claustrophobic. Why didn’t you tell him?
He probably wouldn’t have known the word. Christ, my head.
Of course he would know it.
And I didn’t know. I mean, I thought you were just saying that before. Everyone says they’re claustrophobic.
I don’t even like when you pull the quilt over us!
To make love, he thought, in an exclusive cocoon, cut off from the world.
I’m sorry, Jan, he said. The throb in his head was worsening and something was gouging into his hip. Maybe a tool? Something useful here? Of course there were no tools in his trunk. He felt the thing, an old ballpoint pen. His mouth was parched.
And I really have to pee, she said.
That’s just nerves, he said. His own guts were wheeling. But it calmed him somewhat, being the one in control like this, consoler and protector.
What’s that?
A car revved past, humping out a heavy rap number, the octave dropping as it receded, as if in sadness or fatigue. Justin realized that he’d shouted — both of them had shouted for help, though at the last moment somehow he had tightened the syllable to Hey.
You forgot your cell, didn’t you? she whispered.
There’ll be more cars.
They can’t hear us, Justin. You always forget your cell! I knew it.
People’ll be going by.
Not till the morning. I feel like there isn’t, there won’t be enough air.
Don’t worry, there will.
And I really have to go.
She’d never sounded so much like a small girl. Or girly woman. And sometimes he’d longed for that, for a small, unshielded part of her to give itself over to his chivalry and guardianship. But this went too far. Her stomach (invisible now, though as he jabbed the LED on his watch, 1:22 A.M., he got a subaquatic glimpse of her nestled form) — her stomach had a washboard look, tanned, much harder and stronger than his own. She was crying, whimpers mixed with convulsive little intakes of breath, like a child post-tantrum. Finding her hands, he held them close between their chests. The trunk seemed to be rocking slightly as if from the adrenaline thump of his pulse, their hearts together. Spending the night together after all. He’d studied murky ultrasound images of curled fetuses, and one time twins — soon to be FAS siblings — the victims of ignorant, careless, or despairing parents. Entombed in their toxic primordial sea, the two had seemed to be holding each other in a consoling embrace.
Help, help, she was calling weakly.
Another car passed, slower. Again he yelled involuntarily, aware of a swelling node of panic he was compressing under his heart.
Might have let us go if you said I was claustrophobic.
Okay, Janna. He tried to speak normally. A laryngeal whisper came out. Let me think.
I mean, he won’t want us to die in here! He doesn’t want to go to jail for that!
You’re going to be fine, Jan.
How the fuck do you know if I’m going to be fine! You didn’t even remember I’m claustrophobic!
Janna.
You’re supposed to be a doctor!
I’m not a doctor, you know that. Jesus.
You’re crushing my hands, Justin!
Her whine seemed to split his head. This felt like the most savage hangover — worse than the worst he had undergone in university and grad school, before he met Janna and set his life on a stabler footing. A student of booze, he had been. My years of research, he would quip.
Jesus, Janna, calm down.
Why is no one walking past? Most nights I lie there and it’s, it’s, it’s like an endless parade of people walking past. Yahoos shouting.
Someone will. Don’t worry. We’ll call. I—
I just knew you wouldn’t have your cell. How can we call if—
Shut up! I mean call.
This just fueled her. She wrung her hands free, panting in the tight space. No, no, you’re not a doctor and it’s lucky. You’ve got no — no — you can never just be together, can you, Justin? Why can’t you just arrange yourself for once? It makes me crazy! You’re always—
I’m telling you, enough.
Oh, your bedside manner.
Her breaths were shallow, the sour smell filling the trunk.
You’re going to hyperventilate, Janna. That’s the only way you won’t get enough air, if you hyperventilate.
I can’t help it! Get me out of here, Justin!
What are you doing?
Okay. Okay — I’m on my back, I’m pushing up with my feet. You do it too.
Janna—
Like a leg press. I’m strong. It’s an old car.
Ten years isn’t old for a Volvo. This came to him from somewhere — a line from some ad? His father, years ago? She was grunting, doing her press. At the fitness center she used a personal trainer and was toying with the idea of becoming one herself. After a few seconds he rolled onto his back and tried it. It was tight, the angle too acute.
Come on, she breathed out, please please please please. Come on, come on.
The only motion, a slight flexing of the metal. Then more of that suspensioned rocking, below. A passerby might think lovers were in the back seat of the car.
I hear something, he said. He wanted to cover her panting mouth with his hand. Listen.
Oh god, it’s someone. Help! she said, but with no breath in it.
Hello! he yelled, amazed at how the enclosure, and somehow the darkness too, seemed to stifle the shout. He squirmed out of his leg-press crouch as steps approached. This move involved shoving contortions, Janna crying out weakly, cursing him as his knee met her shoulder, he guessed. He didn’t care now. This was the point in the old film where the hero slaps the hysterical woman and she gets a hold of herself, grateful, admiring, won over.
He got his mouth up against the crack of the trunk, near where it latched. Hello! Help!
The footsteps stopped.
In here, please! We’re in the car!
The trunk, Janna whispered.
We’re in the trunk!
Footsteps approached. They sounded heavy, solid. A good thing.
Someone in there?
Yes.
Yes! Janna called with a sob. Her breathing was slower, though still shallow.
What, there’s two of you?
Yes.
What are you doing in there? A faint slur yoked the words together. The voice was low and throaty — older. Actually, the voice sounded a bit tickled.
We got locked in. A guy robbed us.
No way! What a fucking drag! I never seen anything like this.
Please, Janna said.
Can you just open the trunk? Justin said. The key might be in the lock there. Or maybe on the ground somewhere.
Hmm. Not in the lock.
Or just call the police. My fiancée is claustrophobic.
Yeah? The wife, she’s got that too, as a matter of—
Have you got a phone?
What’s that? Oh yeah, at home. Let me see if I can see a key around here.
The key chain is of, uh... it’s Elvis, his head.
Not having much luck here. The man started to whistle softly, in tune. It’s now or never.
I think I’m going to pee, Janna whispered.
Hold on, Justin said. Would you please hurry up, mister?
Hey, I’m doing my best for you, chief!
Maybe you should just go call the cops.
No! Janna said. The key has to be around here!