As much as I’d love to never see it again, I can’t leave it here. There could be Marco’s blood on it, or a stray hair belonging to one of us, or some other evidence that I don’t want to leave behind.
When Curse comes back into the room and asks what the hell I’m doing, it’s because I’m down on my knees on the carpet, scouring the place beneath the bed with panicky eyes.
“I can’t find it!” I say. I try to get up so fast that I end up smacking the back of my head on the bottom of the bed frame. “Jesus!”
Curse is on his knees beside me at once, cupping the back of my head and guiding it out from beneath the bed.
His hand is so big. Warm on my wet hair. My scalp tingles even as my poor skull aches from the impact.
But he doesn’t leave his hand there any longer than is necessary. Once I’m sitting upright, he’s let me go and is already standing.
“Can’t find what?” he asks from above me.
“The…The stuff I was wearing,” I mutter at his denim-clad knees. For some reason I can’t make myself say “underwear” “bra” or “lingerie” to him, even without meeting his eyes.
“I’ve already got it,” he says. “It’s sealed up with the stuff I was wearing that night.”
“Oh.” I get to my feet. I should have known he’d already taken care of that. Once it was off of my body, I completely shut it out of my awareness. But he didn’t. I don’t know whether I should be embarrassed about not even thinking about dealing with the lingerie until now, or mortified at the thought of him handling it when I wasn’t there. Of him carefully picking it up and packing it all away with his things. Even the dirty panties.
Of course, he doesn’t seem embarrassed about any of it. He’s got on his usual mask of cold unreadability, his eyes shuttered and shadowed.
I used to wonder, when we were children, how eyes as dark brown as his could be so full of light.
There is no light there now.
It’s only a few more minutes until Curse has his bag ready to go. He puts on a new mask before stepping out the door, and I pull up the hood of my parka once I’ve got it zipped. Outside, the air is deliciously crisp, the sun so bright after being inside that I have to squint just to partially keep them open. The snow glitters like crushed crystal on the ground and on the deep green, piny branches of the trees surrounding the motel.
It's almost painfully lovely. It doesn’t feel quite right. That the world can go on being so beautiful when such ugly things happen in it.
Curse goes to the vehicle and opens the door, which has apparently been left unlocked. The key fob is waiting for him on the dashboard. Doesn’t seem like the safest place for it, considering what he’s told me about car thefts.
But then again, I can’t imagine anyone in their right mind would attempt to steal something from Curse Titone. Plus, we’re kind of out of the way here on this country highway, away from the main metro area of Montreal. The only reason anyone came for the other car was because Curse told them to come and get it.
Curse tosses the bag into the backseat and locks the vehicle. Together, we walk back to the small office we checked into. It’s not the same man as before, but a woman about the same age as the other guy, with short hair dyed a bright reddish-purple colour. I wonder if it’s a family business, and this is the man’s wife. I kind of hope for his sake that she isn’t. Because she is absolutely drooling over Curse right about now, her eyes huge as they skate up and down his tall form. She titters and smiles while she speaks to him in French. Curse responds in French as well, though he doesn’t return her smiles.
Don’t bother, lady. I want to tell her to save her energy. I don’t think Curse Titone has smiled in more than twenty years. I can’t imagine he’s suddenly going to do it here, now, at the front desk of this random Quebec motel. He’s wearing the mask anyway.
Although you’d still be able to see a smile in his eyes.
Maybe she finally stops salivating over him long enough to actually take a look at those eyes of his. Her flirtatious chatter ceases. I glance sideways at him from beneath the fluffy fringe of my hood. He looks like he usually does. Not angry or anything. Just…empty. Like if you fell down dead on the street in front of him, he’d simply step over your body and keep on walking.
Because he probably would, in all honesty.
She takes the key from Curse, and only then seems to notice me standing there. I turn away and pretend to be very interested in the various brochures on the stand, even though I can’t read the French on most of them. There is some English, though, and I’m halfway through an advertisement for a local snowshoe and ski trail when Curse grunts at me that it’s time to go.
The interior of the SUV is quiet as he drives. He doesn’t listen to the radio. I don’t know how he can stand it. Not knowing if Marco’s body has been discovered yet. If it’s hit the news. If the police are involved and looking for us now.
Unable to take it any longer, I turn the radio on myself. Curse makes no complaints, continuing silently along the roads as I scan through channels, trying to find something that isn’t currently playing music, ads, or all in French.
I don’t land on any English news. Swearing quietly, I give up and turn it off, letting quietness descend once more.
“Don’t like any of the choices?” Curse asks, keeping his eyes straight ahead.
“I’m trying to find the news in English,” I admit. “I just…I need to know if…”
“If they’ve found his body yet?”
“Well…Yes! I don’t know how you can just not care about that!”
