Sextillions of Infidels, Barry Rachin [the best e book reader .txt] 📗

Hazel and Jorani broke down twenty miles shy of Bangor with the late November sun fading away to bone-chilling darkness. Half an hour passed before the black, rust bucket of a pickup truck pulled up behind them. A lumpy woman in her mid-forties climbed down from the truck. "Left rear tire's all shot to hell."

Between the bitter cold and sense of helplessness, Hazel felt her brain growing numb. "I tried to change it but the wrench kept slipping."

"Tire iron," the thickset woman corrected. "It's called a tire iron." One of her teeth in the front was chipped which, along with her raggedy clothes, contributed to a slightly derelict appearance. A tangle of scruffy, blond hair was three-quarters washed away by silvery gray. "Your friend sick?" She gestured at the dark-skinned girl curled up in a fetal position on the passenger side and whimpering softly.

"No, Jorani forgot to bring a warm jacket. She's just cold and upset. We drove up here from Boston. My folks have a summer cottage near Bangor."

"It's the middle of the freakin' winter." There was nothing maternal or even modestly sympathetic in the woman's demeanor.

"Yes, I know, but -"

Before Hazel could finish explaining how they traveled north on a lark, a senior year, escape weekend, the woman retreated to the rear of the car and began rummaging in the trunk.

"That old fleabag," the dark-skinned girl blubbered, "is probably an escaped lunatic from the hospital for the criminally insane. She'll change the tire, steal the car and leave us for dead."

"Shut up, Jorani!"

A minute later the woman returned. "This ain't the right tire iron. Don't hardly fit the lug nuts… probably metric."

"What do you suggest?"

The woman bit her lips and, scrunching up her face in an impatient frown, stared out into the blackened countryside. "Too late to call for a tow, and no service stations stay open this late at night." She pointed a second time at Jorani who was sobbing quite stridently now, her chest heaving with each intake of breath. "You sure she don't need medical help?"

They were stranded two hundred miles from home in the middle of nowhere on a blustery November night, and Jorani, an insufferable crybaby, was in hysterical meltdown mode. "What do you suggest?" Hazel forced the woman's attention back to the central issue.

"Name's Marla... I live just up the road a piece. If you don't mind roughing it, I could put you up for the night; we'll get your car situated first thing in the morning."

Somewhere in the thickly wooded, New England countryside an animal let loose with a mournful howl. Another beast a good half mile away picked up the plaintive note, relaying it further up the mountainside. "What was that?" Jorani whimpered.

"Hyenas," Marla replied. "Those feral buggers don't like the cold any better than humans."

"Hyenas live in Africa," Hazel corrected.

"Geography was never my strong suit." The woman grinned and pointed at Jorani curled up like a tight fist with her soggy face buried in her hands. "Probably just a pack of ravenous, meat-crazed timber wolves."

In the short time since the sun had set, the temperature plummeted another ten degrees, hovering a few degrees below freezing. Worse yet, a stiff wind curled through the hilly ravine, pushing the wind chill to single digits. Hazel removed the key from the ignition and reached for the door handle. "Yes, if it's not too much inconvenience…"


Piling in the truck, Marla fired up the engine and drove five miles down the highway, turning off on a dirt road. "That's my place up ahead." Hazel squinted out the dirty-streaked window. A smallish clapboard cabin was nestled between a stand of birch trees.

Unlocking the side door, Marla brought them into the kitchen where the room was a toasty seventy degrees. "I was just getting ready for supper and realized there was no coffee or eggs for the morning so I scooted out for groceries. Otherwise, you might have been stranded through the night."

Cocking her head to one side, Jorani, who had finally regained her composure, sniffed the air."What's that heavenly smell?"

"Curried chicken in white wine sauce. It's my specialty." Shuffling over to a Crockpot resting on the counter, Marla lifted the lid. "If you girls haven't already eaten, you're more than welcome to join me."

"We haven't had a bite to eat since leaving Boston," Jorani blurted.

Hazel flashed her friend a dirty look. "You've already done so much for us, and it's not like you were expecting company."

"Actually, I was expecting company," Marla corrected, "but that's none of your concern." Ten minutes later the doorbell rang. A stocky man with a curly beard and red plaid jacket was standing out on the front stoop. Rather than invite him in, Marla stepped outside, closing the door behind her. They could hear the bearded man mounting a furious protest, but after five minutes the woman returned and bolted the door behind her. "Let's eat!"


In the living room, a table had been set with a linen tablecloth, salad bowls, a fresh loaf of sourdough bread and bottle of apple cider. "Spread a bed of basmati on your plates," Marla suggested, indicating a pot of aromatic rice, "and ladle the curried chicken over it." She lit a pair of scented candles. "The fruit, "she gestured at a bowl of pineapple chucks, "goes on top of the curry sauce."

"What are the greens?" Jorani asked.

"Minced scallions. I throw everything in - bulbs and all."

"You invited your boyfriend for dinner," Hazel said guiltily, "and we traded places, so to speak… put him out in the cold."

Marla made a dismissive gesture. "There's an all-night diner just up the road… caters to truckers, prostitutes, local riffraff and insomniacs. Duane will grab a bite there."

He might fill his gut, but he certainly wasn't going to enjoy a fancy sit-down meal like this! If the scented candles were any indication, Hazel mused, the girls had put the kibosh on a romantic soiree. Not that Marla seemed to care. Twenty minutes later, after the curry was finished, she threw another log in the wood-burning stove and served a crumb cake with mocha-flavored coffee.

"You see how things turn out." On a full stomach, Jorani's self-possession had miraculously returned. "One minute we're stranded, half-frozen in the middle of nowhere, and now this!"

"Jorani," Marla broke off a section of the cake and waved it in the air. "What sort of name is that?"

"Cambodian… it means radiant jewel."

"You weren't looking so radiant," Hazel quipped, "when the car broke down." She turned her attention back to the older woman. "She's an instigator,"

"How's that?"

"Jorani was born here, but her parents immigrated from a farming hamlet where there was a very large, extended family. When they came to America, they bought a two-decker tenement in Attleboro and the whole clan - aunts, uncles, grandparents, nieces and nephews - moved in together."

"When my brother wanted to take a girlfriend to the movies last summer," Jorani interjected. "They send my aunt and two nephews as chaperones."

Marla freshened their coffee. "The trip north was Jorani's idea," Hazel explained. "I wasn't so keen about traveling north this late in the season, but she wanted to get away, even if just for a night, to see what it would be like to be out from under her parents' thumb."


Ten minutes later, a muted, rhythmic sound was emanating from the far corner of the room where Jorani had curled up on the couch sound asleep. "Looks like your friend's had a little too much excitement for one day."

"We loused up your evening," Hazel repeated.

"I like it better," Marla replied cryptically, "when things don't necessarily go according to plan. With the comforting warmth from the stove, her cheeks had taken on a ruddy glow; a sedentary easiness settled over the woman, who didn't look nearly as hardscrabble or washed-out. "The past month or so, I've sort of been in a holding pattern," she confided. "I was tending bar at a lounge in Old Orchard Beach, but I got to drinking as much as I was serving some nights so I quit work." She held a hand straight out in front of her and smiled self-consciously as the stubby fingers fluttered ever so gently before the tremors melted away. "Stopped drinking six weeks ago. Cold turkey."

"You're okay?"

"I've my moments, but managed to avoid the booze." Marla gestured at the figure curled up on the couch. "Your friend's got one hell of an appetite."

Jorani devoured three helpings of the chicken curry and polished off what little was left of the fluffy rice. "Her parents are over-protective," Hazel explained, "And she's suffers from anxieties." "Jorani says her relatives suck all the oxygen out of the air with their pettiness and old-fashioned beliefs."

"And your folks, what are they like?"

"My situation is quite the opposite." Hazel ran a poised finger around the rim of her coffee cup. A taut sourness nestled in the corners of her mouth as she collected her thoughts. "My parents are getting divorced"

"When did you learn this?"

"Middle of the week." A grandfather clock near the bay window struck eleven o'clock. "My father was having an affair with a coworker. Rather than repair the marriage, my mother returned the favor in kind."

An orange tabby sleeping near the stove awoke. The cat stretched, splaying its front paws. Marla fed the cat and they watched it eat in silence. When the cat was done, it hovered by the door, the plumed tail arched over its back. Marla cracked the door open and the cat scooted out into the cold.

"I still don't really understand how everything works," Hazel spoke tentatively. "You know, becoming grownup,… life in general."

"Truth be told," Marla spoke harshly, her voice tinged with sardonic humor, "nobody ever grows up. That's just malarkey - a common misconception. You bumble along and, if you don't step on too many toes, eventually, things just fall into place.”

Marla disappeared into the back of the cottage. After rummaging about, she returned with a sleeping bag, blanket and pillows. Lifting Jorani's head she slipped the pillow under her cheek and draped the blanket over her shoulders. The plump girl never stirred. "Maybe when Jorani gets home, she'll realize that having a truckload of incestuous kin running about is more blessing than inconvenience." "They had that horrible war over there what with Pol Pot and the Khmer Rouge."

"Where did you learn about that?"

"Being poor don't make you stupid." Marla spoke with just enough self-deprecating humor to blunt the sarcasm.

"She thinks she's ugly," Hazel murmured. "She tells me so every five minutes."
"And why is that."

"Because of her weight."

"She's not that fat… nothing she couldn't get a handle on with diet."

"And her nose. She wants a perky little button nose like Barbie. Her nostrils are too wide… fleshy."

"So are mine, if you hadn't noticed."

"Yeah, but you're Caucasian. She thinks all Orientals are ugly."

"Poor kid!" She handed Hazel the sleeping bag and other pillow. "You can sleep on the rug. It's not nearly as comfortable as the couch but plenty warm."

Yes,