The Hare - Melanie Finn Page 0,1

in her mind of a bit of lace waving in the wind, so pretty and delicate that soldiers stopped killing women and children. “Why would anyone want a doily on a chair?”

“In ye olde days, middle-class people —” he said middle-class with a fancy English accent clahs — “middle-clahs people wanted to keep things nice in the parlor.” Pah-luh. “They had all kinds of shit in their hair including grease and lice and didn’t want the whole couch ruined.”

Bennett was a trove of such information. He was an appraiser of fine art for a select few and spent his days steeped in paintings, jewelry, porcelain figurines. He knew what a soup spoon was — and that “one” must scoop the soup away from “one.” Never slurp. He knew about shoe-horns, French cuffs, fish forks, Windsor knots, and the best bistro in Cap d’Antibes, France. Rosie assumed he came from money, but she didn’t know where or how much; money, to her, was Gran at the table with a stack of bills, her lips set as she wrote out checks and put them in envelopes. Gran did not talk about money.

Rosie swallowed another bout of nausea. She was disappointed about the party and felt foolish for having had all the conversations with Mick and Keith in her head. The very notion that they’d even notice her to offer her a drink or ask her to pass the olives was absurd — a girl who had nothing to offer, not even beauty. At this very moment, they were at another party with famous actors. Had there even been a party here? Possibly, Bennett had been joking when he said, “Mick and Keith might be there.” Probably, now that she thought about it; Bennett’s humor came around blind corners.

“What is that?” She tilted her head to indicate the packet in the back seat.

“Jewels. Including a small, delicate piece from Tsarist Russia. The owner is a dear lady requiring a divorce. She has no money, only the family jewels, and she needs to procure the finest lawyer. So she’s cashing in.” He handed her the bottle, started the car.

They were on the road again, Rosie was drinking, too. It was good wine. Bennett knew his wine, a robust Bordeaux in this instance. She had found a Steely Dan tape and slipped it in the deck. Rikki Don’t Lose That Number. Even if this wasn’t the night they’d planned, at least she wasn’t in her dorm room. She drank, she sang a few bars, she imagined the jewels — the rubies, sapphires, diamonds nestled casually in the box in the back. Bennett might let her see them.

“Roll me one,” he said and put his hand on her thigh, possessive, and she was possessed. She rolled him a smoke, adding in the tiniest bit of Mary Jane, just like he’d taught her, scooching the contents in, pulling the paper tight, then a firm roll, a twist of the ends. She didn’t like either kind of smoke herself. She had the roll-up in her mouth, she was lighting it for him, when she saw a dark shape across the road in front of them. Bennett’s hand lifted off her lap, she could feel his body begin to react, but as they were rushing toward the object — an old carpet? — and the road was ribboning it toward them, there was no time to react, he could not have swerved. He had both hands on the wheel.

The car lumped up and then down and Bennett kept going.

“Bennett —” she said.

Because something in the motion of the car going over the carpet, the lifting and descending of the wheels, the unexpected resistance, the carpet being more solid than she’d expected — this troubled her, she felt a tickling in her lower gut.

“Shouldn’t we —”

“No,” Bennett replied simply. He was hunched like a bear, both hands on the steering wheel.

He should though. He should stop, he should just check. She looked over at him, his gaze was straight ahead. Maybe she should insist, but how? Her voice would be strong and shrill in the dark car — her voice would be loud. Already they were moving away, they were scrolling forward through time, and the distance and the minutes made her doubt herself, so she listened to the scratchy groove of Steely Dan and she handed Bennett his smoke and she sipped the Bordeaux. Any Major Dude Will Tell You. Further and further on, the road rolled them casually