“Assholes.” She stepped back and felt the warm metal of the Datsun beneath the hem of her shorts. He had a timid, almost doubtful smile set in his lips, as if he were hearing a piece of good news he wasn’t sure he could trust. She saw one oxford-sleeved arm lift, and felt the door opening beside her legs. He pushed the bucket seat forward and pressed his other arm against the side of her jacket. She heard herself say “Um” as he guided her into the back. She landed half on, half off the seat, and slid deeper into the car to make room for him. It was comical, this compression of matter and space; there was barely room for the two of them to move. She felt his glasses graze her jaw and his mouth on her throat. His hands were enormous, closing around her ribs. She had no idea where the cigarette had gone. She let one of her arms drift down over his shoulders. “I hear you,” she said, because he’d grunted something against her neck. “You’re a quick study. But listen—”

One of his hands left her side and closed over her mouth. His weight was pouring, molten, through his hips, and she tried to bring a knee against his crotch, but she could neither feel nor move either one of her legs. He worked his shoulders against hers and wedged the hand that wasn’t on her mouth between their bodies to claw at their clothing. She screamed something foul that was absorbed by the flesh of his fingers.

Talbot would be furious when he found out. Colby might still care enough, in the coming days, to put his knife to use. If only it was five minutes ago. The hand that wasn’t on her mouth was touching both of them now between their legs, figuring things out. Her right arm was pinned against the seat, and her left hand beat uselessly against his back. He was almost inside her. Everything was about to get much worse. But really, how many minutes could it last? I could be out of here already, she thought. Five minutes, tops. Her eyes ran across the ratty lining of the ceiling to the back window and the sky hanging low and dark on the other side. I’m nearly gone.

Welcome to Utica

1997

My father has taken over the dining room. He’s taken over the kitchen. He’s turned the den into his personal archive and still his stuff is spilling into the living room. He’s got three pairs of broken reading glasses on the phone table, recipe cards on the floor, Elmore Leonard and Dick Francis novels stacked on top of the television and stuck between the posts on the stairs. When I sit on the couch, my leg tips an ashtray into the cushions.

“Dad,” I say, “can we clean some of this stuff up? You’ve got crap everywhere.”