The Rabbit
Holy f*ck, that was close. That was so close. That was way too f*cking close.
I lie under the bushes lining the exterior of the Marriott, my eyeball an inch away from a bunch of squashed cigarette butts,
breathing sour dirt. I’m exhaling through my mouth, trying to do it soundlessly, because William is still a few feet away,
looking for me. He almost caught me, he’s in so much better shape than I am, his legs about ten times longer. But first I
hooked down a side corridor—I think William expected me to head for the lobby, and it took him a second to figure out where
I’d gone, and then his bad knee gave out. I was just out the side door when I heard a pop! and a yowl and he slowed way down. Now he’s gimping around the parking lot looking for me, pulling hard to the right. His
feet limp back and forth not far from my nose. This is so bad.
Of course, this is his fault. He’s never caught me before at an event, either a reading or a Darlings meeting, and it would
not have happened today except I’m exhausted by his ridiculous schedule. I’m so tired, I’m clumsy. I fell over that stupid
chair while I was trying to inch closer to him and Sam Vetiver.
Gosh damn that woman. I so did not want Sam Vetiver to show up today.
I was so hoping the email scared her off.
I was so happy when I did not see her decrepit yellow Jeep in the parking lot.
Then there she was, smiling up at William like a little Bambi in a forest with her stupid braid and her jellybean eyes.
She went dark after I sent the email, I didn’t see her at William’s Connecticut or Rhode Island events, her car was not at his hotels.
Then here she is today. Bad surprise. Very bad surprise.
Now she has visual on me too. She knows what I look like, or she would if not for the pink wig. Gosh damn it. None of this
would have happened if I weren’t so tired I was graying out, tailing William all the way up I-95 and sleeping only a few hours
at a travel oasis. Why can’t William put the rest of his life on hold like every other author on tour? But noooo, he has to
keep holding Darlings meetings and book events too. Then again, he was always like this. Even back in our program at Harrington
he was like the f*cking Energizer bunny, while everyone else was drinking and smoking and staying out all night and banging
out pages hungover an hour before workshop, William was up at 4:00 a.m. writing for hours, then taking one of his epic naps,
then writing more, then playing Ultimate or hacky sack, then attending workshop, then going to hear music or to bonfires or
to the Castle. And of course f*cking f*cking f*cking any girl who moved. That man could never stay still to save his life.
You’d think he’d slow down at least a little now, though. He has a bad knee and a faulty ticker. He’s going to be sixty in
three years, for f*ck’s sake.
He’s been on the phone while looking for me, and now the 911 operator must have patched him through to the local police, because
I hear him say, “Yes, hello, officer, my name is William Corwyn, I’m at the Portsmouth Marriott, and I want to report an assault.”
An assault! I would scoff if my face weren’t smashed into the dirt. Please. As if. Ever the fiction writer. Nobody’s going
to corroborate that.
“Yes, I’ll meet them in the lobby,” he says.
He hobbles back to the side door, which requires a key he doesn’t have. I hear him swear as it remains locked, balking him.
He curses and lurches off toward the hotel entrance.
I remain where I am, making myself count to three hundred.
When he doesn’t return and nobody else comes, I crawl along the side of the building and emerge from the back of the hedge, in the rear lot near the dumpster, where I parked my car.
Once I’m in it, with the doors locked, I strip off the pink wig and baseball cap and tuck them under my seat.
I drink a whole liter of water without stopping, since I am hellishly thirsty as well as nauseated.
I open my glove box and take out the half a granola bar I found on a table at the travel oasis this morning, break off the exposed end in case there are germs, force myself to eat the rest. William’s tour and extracurriculars are expensive as well as exhausting.
I drive slowly through the lot, like any hotel guest leaving for home. I so wish that’s where I were going. It’s not that
I have any great love for my sh*thole studio. It’s just a container for me to live in while I do what I have to do. But right
now the idea of being there, in the air-conditioning, lights off, face-planting onto my own futon, seems like heaven.
It’s not going to happen. Sam Vetiver just had to push it by showing up today. Gosh damn her! I exit the lot, passing a Portsmouth,
NH, sheriff’s car coming in. Lights off, naturally. They’ll take William’s statement, but there’s no emergency here.
In the way of most corporate chain hotels, this one is near an office park. I take the first turn I see and pull into a spot
beneath a tree from which I can see the Marriott entrance and Sam Vetiver’s Jeep, yellow in the sun as a child’s rubber duckie.
And William’s SUV, with its bike and roof racks and stupid Mary Oliver bumper sticker. There’s no way Sam Vetiver or William
will be able to leave without my seeing them, and in the meantime, my only job is to stay awake, to watch and wait.