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"I don't know what to say, Russ. I mean, it's all too fantastic. How did you ever get away from something like that?" |
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She would have to ask that, he thought. |
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"Mostly luck. Listen," he added quickly to change the subject, "maybe we should think about cutting the trip short." |
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"No way." Kyna laughed bitterly. "My boss would kill me." |
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"Oh, come on. No job is worth all this." |
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"No, Russ. You don't understand." |
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Kyna made a sharp turn onto one of the piers that jutted out between the rows of stores. At the far rail, she rested her chin on her folded arms and fell into the depths of some private memory that was so painful she had to approach it cautiouslythe way one would approach a loaded gun. Cyrus stood nearby in the shadow of a totem pole that looked to have been carved by the dreaded generic Indian tribe. As he waited for Kyna to find her way back, he glanced at the soda cans, milk cartons, seaweed and dead fish floating on top of the water and wondered if Indians had ever been as free with their garbage. |
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When Kyna began to speak, her words came out in a rush, like water too long held in check by a dam. She opened the floodgates. |
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"What you don't understand is that my father is in a nursing home and my younger sister is in college in Virginia. If I go home, I'll lose my job and I don't know what we'd do." |
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She was sobbing and trying to blot her nose with her sleeve. Cyrus put his arm around her shoulders. |
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Okay, he thought. So what else can possibly go wrong? |
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On the way to their new motel Kyna suddenly whipped into the parking lot of a 7-Eleven and slammed on the brakes. |
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"I'm damned tired of being scared and depressed," she declared. "And I'm double damned tired of looking at you in nothing but jeans." |
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Cyrus glanced down at his clothing. "I . . . I . . ." |
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