Praying for Sleep

several times at college and recalled being thrilled, as well as terrified, by the sensation. The cycle looked very nice, bright and springy. But the truck had captivated him first and it continued to possess his heart.
    Hrubek walked up to the house and, standing in the side yard, he peered through a window. He tasted bitter paint where his lips pressed against the sill. Through a thick screen and thicker glass he could see the kitchen. There she was! The woman with the beautiful hair. Yes, she was beautiful. Much prettier than she’d seemed at the gas station. Tight blue jeans, a white silky blouse . . . And hair cascading to her shoulders—no hats for her, just tangles of soft, blond hair. The daughter was heavier and wore a thick sweatshirt with the sleeves drooping over her hands. A third woman in the room was dark and her face was tight and sultry. Hrubek didn’t like her at all. The women vanished from sight for a moment. The kitchen door opened. The mother and daughter were carrying boxes out of the house. “Last load,” the woman said. “Be back soon.”
    In a high edgy voice the girl said, “Mom, I’m tired.”
    “It’s the church auction. And you volunteered to help.”
    “Mom,” she repeated hopelessly.
    Hrubek thought, Don’t whine, you little fucker.
    He heard a ringing. He squinted into the darkness of the driveway. Oh, no! The keys to the truck! His truck! They were taking it away. He stood and tensed to leap into the driveway. As he watched them load the boxes into the back of the truck, he rocked back and forth, willing himself to act.
    “See you later, Mattie.”
    “Bye,” the dark woman called and returned to the kitchen. Through the window Hrubek saw her pick up the phone. The pretty woman and her daughter the whiny little shit climbed into the truck. Hrubek couldn’t move; if he stepped out of hiding, the woman on the phone would call for help. The engine started. Overcome by a burst of anxiety, Hrubek nearly leapt forward but he restrained himself and closed his eyes, squinting furiously until his head screamed with pain and he regained control. He hunkered down beneath a holly bush, whose leaves were sharp as knives.
    The truck rolled past him, crunching gravel. When it was past he stepped away from the house and watched it disappear, and neither the mother nor daughter heard Hrubek’s anguished hiss of rage.
    With a resounding thud he kicked the motorcycle’s fender. He gazed at the cycle for a moment then continued to the back door of the house. Quietly he opened the screen and looked through the small window high in the back door. The dark-complected woman, still on the phone, was gesturing broadly and shaking her head as she talked. This made Hrubek think she’d be a screamer. On the stove was a teakettle just starting to steam over a high flame. As he silently twisted the knob back and forth, checking that the door was not locked, Hrubek thought, She’s having tea, that means she isn’t about to leave and won’t be expected anywhere soon.
    Hrubek congratulated himself on this smart thinking and he continued to act smart—he didn’t open the door and step into the kitchen until the woman had hung up and walked across the kitchen to the stove, far away from the phone.
     
    Owen Atcheson, his ear numb from striking the table leg as he fell, scrabbled away from the door, and unable to find his gun grabbed a soda bottle lying nearby. He cracked it hard against the floor and held the shard like a knife. He crouched and made himself ready for attack.
    The assailant didn’t move.
    Owen waited a moment longer. Finally he stood. Owen grabbed his pistol from the floor. When he heard no breathing and saw no other motion, he flicked on the light switch.
    Taste T
    Beats t
    Others C
    In fury Owen kicked shut the door of the old Pepsi machine. “Jesus,” he spat out. The lock had been broken—by Hrubek undoubtedly—and the door, dislodged by the semi as it rumbled past, had swung open into the doorway. His anger was so great he nearly put a bullet through the navel of the bikini-clad girl on the old, faded poster taped to the door. He jammed the gun into his pocket and trotted outside to his truck.
    Only a few hundred feet west he found the tread again, turning into a private road or driveway of a residence. He couldn’t see a house from the road and, observing the length of the drive and the size of the property, guessed that the family was wealthy. Horse ranchers maybe.