Ren The Complete Boxed Set

by Sarah Noffke

  Dahlia smiles into the rearview mirror. “I think it’s overdue really,” she says and then begins humming in that voice I love so dearly.

  “Fine, fine, fine,” Adelaide says, waving her hands frantically in the air. “You’re about to run out of gas. That symbol is a gas pump.”

  I turn and look at the symbol, then at Dahlia. “Gas pump? This car takes gas?” I say to her. “I thought it was electric.”

  “I have no idea what it is,” she says, eyeing the symbol hard like she’s trying to decipher it.

  “Well, just pull over at the next turn-off. There’s bound to be a petrol station up ahead,” I say.

  “Not for thirty miles actually,” Adelaide says with a laugh, doubling over.

  “What?” I say to her.

  “There was a sign back there. We passed it when you buffoons noticed the problem.”

  “Adelaide,” I say, a warning in my voice.

  “Guess you two should have agreed to pull over when I asked. And maybe next time Dahlia will grab the snack bag,” Adelaide says, too proud of herself.

  “Thing is, there can’t be a next time when you’re dead,” I say, slamming back around and into my seat. My eyes hone in on the orange light which really should be red based on its significance. This is what happens when bloody engineers and scientists run the world. Fucking incompetence.

  “Oh, again with the threats. Haven’t you learned by now that I’m acting out for the attention?” Adelaide says with a repugnant chuckle.

  “Fine,” I say, not turning around. “If we don’t make it to the gas station then you’re dead to me. Hope you’re happy.”

  “I’ve never been so cheery, actually,” she says, too much glee in her voice.

  ***

  “Oh, thank the gods,” Dahlia says, turning on her blinker. “There’s a gas station.”

  “When did you a) become the religious type and b) adopt a poly-gods’ religion?” I say.

  She shrugs, veering the automobile off the highway and onto the off-ramp. “I figure why not adopt all the religions. It can’t hurt.”

  “Except that a divided heart won’t work for baby Jesus. He wants all of your faith,” I say.

  “Well, he can just deal with my polygamous ways the same way I’ve dealt with yours,” Dahlia says.

  And I eye her now. The woman before me has changed so much in the last three weeks. It was inevitable. And I’m not sure how to think about it. Mostly I don’t. Mostly I pretend that what’s happening to her isn’t real. It’s the only time in my life that I’ve stuck my head in the sand but it feels like the right call. Like if I maintain a deluded perspective then it’s better than facing reality and cursing it with my negative thoughts. That’s why Christians baptize, right? And why we have shit television and lame sporting events. It’s all a distraction from what’s really going on and going to happen. We are going to die and who knows where the fuck we are going to go. Well, I’m ninety-nine percent certain I know where we go. I’ve seen it. Heard testimony. But I’m not at liberty to share that one secret that God keeps tucked in his pocket.

  “There’s a station just down the block,” Dahlia says, relief in her voice. “After that little scare and family treachery everything is going to be all ri—”

  And just then the motor to the vehicle stalls, clicks, and then fizzles out like a battery losing its spark. The crunch of the gravel under the tires is suddenly loud as Dahlia yanks the monstrosity of a vehicle onto the shoulder, away from cars speeding off the highway with drivers hoping to grab a soda and a bag of crisps for the rest of the journey.

  “It’s dead,” Dahlia says, punching the button for the ignition.

  “And guess who else is dead to me?” I say, my head turning over my shoulder but not connecting with the girl in the back who is suddenly silent.

  Chapter Three

  “Well, on the bright side the gas station is just right there,” Dahlia says, angling her hand at the petrol station roughly one hundred yards down the road.

  I was cursed with fiery red hair that usually earns me double takes from strangers when I enter a room. For that reason I prefer not to look on the bright side of anything. Bright things are jarring, distracting, and rarely are they actually positive as in the context that Dahlia is using the term.

  “And we are way over here. So what’s your plan, dear Dahlia?” I ask, looking out the car window at the sunlight threatening to roast us in this godforsaken machine.

  “Well, one of us has to walk over there and get a gas thingy to fill up the car,” she says, her voice matter-of-fact.

  “Which one of us?” I say, my tone full of heat.

  “It’s not going to be me. I’ve got to stay with the baby,” Adelaide says from the back.

  “Dahlia, did you hear something? It sounded like wind and smelled like it was carrying a strong scent of bullshit,” I say.

  Dahlia shakes her head at my antics, dismissing me. “Well, you know I can’t risk being seen,” she says, pulling her hat down like the paparazzi is waiting in the bushes outside the vehicle.

  “So it sounds like I’ve been elected to walk over to that crummy station and fix the mistakes that never should have happened, is that right?” I say.

  “It is the manly thing to do,” Dahlia says.

  “The manly thing would be to dream travel to a GAD-C and be lounging in my armchair within the hour,” I say.

  “Actually, that sounds like a man who never wants to have sex again,” Dahlia says.

  “Oh, gross,” Adelaide says from the back.

  “Fine, as I’m accustomed to doing I’ll save your bloody asses,” I say, throwing the door open and stepping out into the disgusting summer sun. I immediately feel a dozen freckles pop up on my face, shoving the other billion to the side so they have their own permanent resting spot. The dust from the vehicle is thick in the polluted air and although the trek to the rusty gas station isn’t far, it also isn’t pleasant. Three mosquitoes try to suck my blood during the short walk. They must sense that it’s rich in vitamin D and chock-full of more goodness than that of most of the population. Worst of all is that I’m sweating like a fucking goat when I arrive to the shade and bad smells of the station. The door buzzes when I push it open. Instead of wasting my time looking at the poorly organized shelves, I march up to the counter where a guy is busy watching MMA on a TV screen overhead.

  I snap at the buffoon and slowly, as if he lost his reflexes in his own lousy fight, he turns to look at me. He doesn’t say a word, instead just blinks at me, like he’s waiting for his visual cortex to catch up and deliver the present image along with an appropriate response.

  “Gas can. Where are they?” I say.

  He lifts his chin and looks over my shoulder. Then directs his gaze back to me. “All out, mister.”

  “What? This is a fucking petrol station, is it not?” I say.

  “Waiting on a shipment,” he says, like that’s a sufficient answer for his incompetence.

  “How do you expect to make money with this hell hole of a business?” I say, honestly looking for a real answer.

  “Is that your car?” he says, angling out the window at the black SUV in the distance.

  “It is and it’s apparently out of petrol, hence the need for a gas can,” I say.

  “Why don’t you push it here and fill her up. Won’t take you too long.”

  “Why don’t you?” I say and then pause to look at his dumb face. Then I realize he doesn’t get it. “Seriously, I’ll pay you to push that shit over here.”

  He looks at the vehicle and then at me. Then does it again like a fucking idiot doing calculus. “Can’t,” he says like that’s a real answer.

  “Can’t why?” I say.

  “I’ve got to man the shop,” he says, waving his hand at the grossness around us.

  “I would think that you’d have to be a man to do such a thing and you clearly don’t meet that description,” I say.

  His brow wrinkles as he trie
s to piece together the insult I’ve made at him. “This is the only convenient station for a long bit, mister.”

  That’s the low-life’s way to threatening me. Warn me. “Yeah, fine,” I say, not seeing a better option here. Yes, I could get in his head and make him push the car. But then, what sort of example would I be setting for Adelaide, who I sense is struggling with how and when to use her powers. And she’s sloppy, still leaving tracers. Making messes for me to clean up when she gets into people’s heads and manipulates the wrong way. I have to resist using mind control for Adelaide’s benefit. And if this is what being a parent is then I kind of want to slit my own throat. It makes me feel old and accountable and thoroughly self-righteous.

  The buzzing sound seems to mock me when I throw the door open and leave. And for some fucked up reason it’s hotter now outside than a few minutes before. Fuck my life.

  Now there’s a woman standing outside the shop. I use the term “woman” loosely. She’s more of a troll dripping in wrinkles, with a nose that would fit better on a bulldog who has seen better days. Judging by her clothes, she’s a gypsy. And judging by her smell when I march past her, she is allergic to soap and water. Bangle bracelets clang on her arm as she waves to me. “Hey, sonny,” she says.

  I consider ignoring her, but then realize I could pay her to push the vehicle. It might kill the hunched over old woman, but that’s a risk I’m willing to take. “What?” I growl.

  “You’re a Lewis, aren’t you?” the woman says, and I just then notice that her eyes are glassed over. She’s blind.

  “A Lewis?” I say.

  “Your surname,” the woman says.

  I scratch my forehead beading with disgusting sweat. “What do you want? How do you know me?”

  “I rarely know how I know anything, but I was sent to give you a message,” the woman says. Her hair is in long dreads and blends right into her dark tattered clothes.

  “Tell the voices in your head that I said to fuck off,” I say. “I don’t play games.”

  “This isn’t a game. It’s only a message,” she says.

  “Look, do you want to make some money?” I say, wondering if I can really go through with making the old bag push a gigantic vehicle.

  “You will meet three wise women on your travels,” the bum says.

  “What? What do you mean?”

  “They will bestow great wisdom on you. Wisdom that you may know, but have forgotten. And if you put it all together, then you’ll benefit greatly,” she says, her voice croaky.

  And I want to bark at her and run off but instead I say, “How? How will I benefit?”

  “That’s not for me to know. I’m the messenger who alerts you to this. It is your job to listen. To piece it together. Your future relies on your compliance at the very end,” she says.

  “What the fuck are you talking about?” I say, taking a step closer to the woman.

  She swivels her gaze at me, although I’m certain she can’t see me. Her eyes are bluish white. Mostly white. And it’s strange to look directly at her. “I’m talking about helping you to make sense of something. Three wise women. They will find you. And you must listen to them or pay the consequence of ignoring their wisdom. One will give you the key to your future.”

  “Whatever, you old drunk,” I say and then turn and stalk off. That was a horrible waste of time.

  Dahlia has her head down and is busy checking her messages on her daft phone when I pull up to the SUV, which now has all windows down to let in the nonexistent breeze.

  “Thought you were unplugging for the vacation,” I say with a snarl to her.

  “I am. I’m just checking my horoscope,” she lies, powering off her phone. “Can’t have Mercury going into retrograde and me being in zero position to deal with it decision-wise.”

  “Oh, thank fucking god you’re a pop star and not in a real position of power,” I say.

  “Where’s the gas?” the jerk in the middle row says.

  I look straight at Dahlia. “Did you hear something? Like the sound of a cat puking or a bull letting out its last breath?”

  Dahlia lowers her glasses a bit and regards me over them, a not so amused expression on her face.

  “Anyway, that petrol station which is supposed to sell gas and things related to cars is plumb out. Isn’t that cute? And in a beautifully poetic turn of events I’m going to push this massive piece of shit over to the pump, so get ready to steer, dear,” I say, loosening my tie and throwing it in the passenger side seat.

  Then I start for the back of the dusty vehicle and as I do I hear my daughter say, “Throw it in neutral so he can push.”

  Oh good, now she’s being fucking helpful. A bit late in my opinion.

  ***

  Never in my fucking life have I experienced something so ridiculously horrid. Pushing that vehicle was like giving birth to a giraffe. It felt weird and wrong and it hurt and I sweat in places that I didn’t even know I had. And yet I did it. Fucking pushed all five tons of the bloody machinery to the pump, where I quickly realized one crucial piece of information.

  “Ren, what are you doing?” Dahlia says, peering out of the window.

  “I’m thinking,” I say, staring at the pump and then the side of the car.

  “You’ve been thinking for a while.”

  “Well, it’s what pays the bills, isn’t it?” I say.

  “Do you know what you’re doing?” she says.

  “Of course I do,” I say, staring at the front of the car. Where the fuck does the gas go? Into the top? Side? Bottom? Honestly, I’ve been to petrol stations but I was always so busy scamming and drained from mind control that I never once witnessed the act of a car receiving gas.

  “Adelaide!” I yell loud enough for Satan, aka her real father, to hear.

  “What?” she says from the back.

  I stomp over to the passenger window. “How do you pump gas?”

  She bursts out laughing. “I don’t know. I’ve never done it.”

  “But you knew when this piece of shit was empty,” I say.

  “That’s because I watch the telly. But I wouldn’t know the first thing about how to fill it up. I think you put that thing in the side of the car. However, I’ve got no clue where,” she says, pointing at the pump.

  “Infinitely helpful,” I say.

  “But don’t blow yourself up, because I’ve seen people do that on the telly too,” she says.

  “Thanks, life-ruiner, now go back to being dead to me.”

  “My pleasure and absolutely,” she says, pushing back into her seat.

  I then look at Dahlia, who shrugs. “I don’t really know, Ren. I think you take that nozzle thing and put it somewhere in the car.”

  “Thanks, diva. Write a sugary sweet ballad while papa gets this shit done.”

  I then do the only thing left. I march though the empty grounds of the petrol station and back for the dumb door with a daft buzzer. The gypsy woman is gone. The life reject behind the counter doesn’t turn away from his daft fight on the soul-sucking TV. He just says, “Will that be cash or credit?”

  “I need your…” and then I cough on the last word.

  “What’s that again?” the guy says, not taking his eyes off the repulsive screen.

  “I need hel—” The word freezes in my throat. “I need you to pump the gas,” I finally manage out.

  The fuck face blinks at me blankly. “This isn’t a full-service station. It’s self-serve.”

  “You know, Jon,” I say, throwing my chin in the air, “if you’re not willing to bloody adapt then you’re not going to make it in this fucking business or any other.”

  He jabs a finger at the name tag pinned to his shirt. “I’m Jeff, actually.”

  A simple sentence with an intention behind it would have Jeffrey here detailing my automobile, but I resist. I pin my palms on the counter. “Would you pump my gas?”

  “Oh, are you from Oregon where they don’t let you do it and no one knows how?” he
says.

  “God no, I’m not from that shitty state with bloody awful trees.” I pull out my wallet and throw a tenner on the counter. “Here, now let’s get this over with because talking to you and smelling those week-old hotdogs is murdering my usually happy nature.”

  Chapter Four

  When the dumbass servant boy slaps the side of the SUV, Dahlia starts it up with a yelp of excitement. It’s like she feels victorious by way of sitting in the vehicle and doing nothing. I had watched the MMA fighter–obsessed boy while he pumped the gas, learning the steps to fueling it up so I could do it the next time. I was a bit surprised to learn the nozzle fit into a compartment on the back side of the vehicle. Other than that it was a simple process and there’s absolutely no reason people in Oregon shouldn’t do the task themselves.

  “Well, that was easy,” Dahlia chirps as she pulls the beast back onto the road.

  I slide around and stare at her like she’s lost her mind and is speaking in tongues.

  “That’s because we didn’t have to do anything and Ren took care of it all,” Adelaide says from the back.

  “Shut up, vacation-ruiner,” I say, cutting her off.