Ravine Lereux

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Book excerpt

Olivia

A Quarter Moon

“A quarter moon … we’re safe.” Olivia Lereux leans into the night and squints her green French Creole eyes at the two-sided moon—half dark, half opalescent. She sighs and tugs the plaid shawl about her thin shoulders, espying thick fog crowning Frenchman Bay, and Porcupine Island ahead. A view she and her brother Edward watched countless evenings on the porch in silence. Olivia lolls in her usual wicker chair, creaking beneath her delicate frame. She tilts her head, relishing the cool mist on her face and a trickle of herbal tea down her throat. The infusion soothes biting pain moving like microscopic volcanic ruptures along her arms and legs. A monthly ailment she’s suffered since eighteen intensifies with old age.

“It’s a quarter moon, Axel,” she says, rubbing the top of her beloved chocolate Border collie’s head.

Axel barks twice rises to his hind, and howls a double “A-rooo,” that sounds almost human.

“Love you too,” she says with a chuckle at his mimicry which he often does when directly spoken to. He lifts his wolfish yellow-eyed gaze and prods his nose into her side, a motion for a rub she gives reflexively with a double treat he loves, a scratch behind his ears. My constant companion … Without him, she’d be alone when work sequesters Edward for days in the laboratory.

Hmm, he’s been gone a while … two maybe three days. She scours her memory, recalling she’d made apple pie on Saturday, three days ago. Edward and that young man … What’s his name? They ate several slices on the porch. Or was it a week ago? Nonetheless, she knows he’ll return. Olivia doesn’t mind being alone on the cliffs, miles from town or anyone, except the Gibson family living apiece down the road. Occasionally, their son pops in after weekend hikes along the cliffs. A visit she welcomes with her prized Cortland apple pie and cider. She rakes her brain to evoke his name. Brad … Ben … Oh, yes, Brent … Lovely man.

An ebon cloud steals the moon, staining night onyx black. Olivia leans forward, sighting an unusual mass rolling west. Her thoughts wander. Darkness beclouds her mind once more.

Ravine

Sole Beneficiary

“What happened to the full moon?” Ravine ducks and looks past the windshield at a dark mass quartering the bright orb. That’s strange. Doesn’t an eclipse happen during the day? Maybe it’s just a cloud. She reclines in the driver’s seat staring at what’s become a constant in her life—freeways. Traveling again … She sighs … a wanderer just like my parents. She’s never stayed one place too long. An itch hits and she’s gone—just her, the car, camera, laptop, and basic necessities. Now, she travels a familiar road, toward a place she swore never to return six years ago. But intuitively, she knew one day she would. For the same reasons that brought her to Covington Cove at seven-years-old, a similar fate calls her back. A family curse she once doubted, she’s now starting to believe.

One, two, three … she counts white ‘through lines’ to one-hundred then start again—a game to stay alert and keep worries at bay. Futile … Aunt Olivia and Uncle Edward creep between twenty-five and twenty-seven. Soon, lines mesmerize, converging white waves on a tar sea. The car swerves. A horn beeps. Ravine drifts into the right lane, slows the car, grabs the Pepsi from the cup holder, and takes a tepid sip. Her fourth can.

A trailing car, races to the left lane beside her. The red-faced driver mouths angry words behind steamy glass. Okay, buddy, calm down, she wants to scream but doesn’t, unequipped to handle road rage and a man twice her size. The car careens left and speeds away.

‘Live free or die.’

New Hampshire’s motto displays on his license plate. Well, he’s free to speed right off a high cliff. She smirks. A truck zooms past hauling its bloody carnage in the rear—two large bucks. “Bastards,” she mumbles and looks away. The low fuel light catches her attention. “Shit,” she swears, clapping the wheel. The tank’s almost empty. Next gas stop, a mile and a half. Will the car make it?

She exits the freeway and follows the ramp toward Portsmouth, a quaint seaport town in New Hampshire. At the filling station, she rolls down the window and breathes in October’s crisp, clean air. A young man races to the car.

“Full tank … regular, please.” The stinging odor fills the interior. Ravine breathes deep and exhales a vapor she’s always loved.

“That’ll be forty-seven dollars.”

“Cash, okay?” she asks, handing him crinkled bills.

“Thank you,” he says taking the money.

A local diner beside the station appears a good rest stop. Ravine rolls the car into the parking lot and glimpses a reflection in the rearview mirror so like Aunt Olivia’s, though the six-hour drive has dulled her skin and senses. A dab of gloss and powder does the trick. She tucks the snug cotton-blend Gap sweater, above her empty belly, into her skinny jeans, and exits the car. Lifting her head and tossing the black pea coat over her shoulders, she catches the full moon disguised as a crescent.