MalContents by Randy Ryan C.; Chandler Gregory L.; Thomas David T.; Norris Wilbanks Page A
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Adirondack chairs. Grandpa Wally had bought three chairs, right off the back of the truck. Hell on the ass, they were, but Sunny loved the memory. Three new expensive ones out of the latest uppity Sonoma catalogue graced the deck.
Sunny killed the engine and floated up to the dock. Her arrival sent a sunbathing turtle scrambling into the water. Overhead in the branches, a blue jay bitched. A dragon fly darted past. She drew in a deep breath of the day’s warmth and glanced up. Not a single cloud stained the sky.
When Sunny woke up, it was raining. Not just raining, but a downpour drilled against the roof. The loud plunk of raindrops drew her eyes toward the windows. The sills were soaked and growing wetter.
In a fog, Sunny pulled herself out of the fetal curl she’d passed out in and stood. The room took a spin. Sunny wobbled. For an instant, she didn’t know where she was or how she’d gotten there. Then she recognized the antique brass bed with the headboard decorated in porcelain finials, and the Paul de Lonpré print of Cosmos flowers in the gold-gilt frame. Foster’s Island. The main bedroom.
And the rain was getting in.
Sunny shook out of her fugue state and hurried over to the windows, drawing both down. A few hours earlier, she’d opened every window on a cloudless day to air the place out, which she’d last visited with Joseph in late April. Before crawling into bed exhausted, the day had been dry and comfortable, picture-perfect. A wall of nasty, damp air slammed into her on the way to the next window.
The air wasn’t simply humid; it smelled putrid, like something dead was falling out of the sky, its decaying molecules contained within the raindrops. The stench triggered a memory still fresh in Sunny’s mind: that rotting odor of crab from Rona Bustamante’s fridge mixed with a liberal dose of the dead mushrooms in her pantry.
Sunny ignored the comparison and willed her twisting guts to settle. She closed the window in the bathroom before heading down the stairs and followed suit, in sequence, around the first floor, living room to back bedroom to kitchen. When the house was sealed up tight against the storm, she found herself struggling to breathe because, though now dry, closing the windows had also bottled the foul-smelling humidity within its walls.
Rain splattered the windows. The guttural cadence steadily crawled on Sunny’s nerves. Sweat blossomed on her upper lip, at her hairline, seemingly everywhere across her body. She walked down to the fridge and opened the door. Cool air spilled out, a temporary reprieve. She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, loving the citrus-tinged scent of the organic cleaner she used to wipe down the glass shelves.
The house had been wired for electricity years before Sunny bought the island; an underwater cable snaked out to the pole on the shore opposite the boathouse, out of sight and mostly mind. Sunny had installed satellite for the TV, which droned on in the background as she cooled off at the open fridge door and waited for the central a-c, another of her upgrades, to kick in. The reassuring hum of the unit whispered through the house. Sunny extracted herself from the refrigerator and poured a cold drink, seltzer with a wedge of lime.
She walked it back into the living room, where the television was tuned to YUM! and one of the lower-tier network offerings, The Grossest Thing I Ever Ate , one of those experimental attempts at programming designed to lure in the elusive male viewer. Her own lunch, a lightly grilled chicken breast with basil mayonnaise and slices of garden tomato, was starting to take on the distinction of the grossest thing she’d ever eaten while she waited for the a-c to still her heat-fueled nausea.
Robin Newmark, a ballsy young Brit with spiked hair and a smoky Cockney accent, was bouncing across the screen, blathering about Rocky Mountain Oysters while pulling a sour face. Sunny reached for the remote and was about to change the
Sunny killed the engine and floated up to the dock. Her arrival sent a sunbathing turtle scrambling into the water. Overhead in the branches, a blue jay bitched. A dragon fly darted past. She drew in a deep breath of the day’s warmth and glanced up. Not a single cloud stained the sky.
When Sunny woke up, it was raining. Not just raining, but a downpour drilled against the roof. The loud plunk of raindrops drew her eyes toward the windows. The sills were soaked and growing wetter.
In a fog, Sunny pulled herself out of the fetal curl she’d passed out in and stood. The room took a spin. Sunny wobbled. For an instant, she didn’t know where she was or how she’d gotten there. Then she recognized the antique brass bed with the headboard decorated in porcelain finials, and the Paul de Lonpré print of Cosmos flowers in the gold-gilt frame. Foster’s Island. The main bedroom.
And the rain was getting in.
Sunny shook out of her fugue state and hurried over to the windows, drawing both down. A few hours earlier, she’d opened every window on a cloudless day to air the place out, which she’d last visited with Joseph in late April. Before crawling into bed exhausted, the day had been dry and comfortable, picture-perfect. A wall of nasty, damp air slammed into her on the way to the next window.
The air wasn’t simply humid; it smelled putrid, like something dead was falling out of the sky, its decaying molecules contained within the raindrops. The stench triggered a memory still fresh in Sunny’s mind: that rotting odor of crab from Rona Bustamante’s fridge mixed with a liberal dose of the dead mushrooms in her pantry.
Sunny ignored the comparison and willed her twisting guts to settle. She closed the window in the bathroom before heading down the stairs and followed suit, in sequence, around the first floor, living room to back bedroom to kitchen. When the house was sealed up tight against the storm, she found herself struggling to breathe because, though now dry, closing the windows had also bottled the foul-smelling humidity within its walls.
Rain splattered the windows. The guttural cadence steadily crawled on Sunny’s nerves. Sweat blossomed on her upper lip, at her hairline, seemingly everywhere across her body. She walked down to the fridge and opened the door. Cool air spilled out, a temporary reprieve. She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, loving the citrus-tinged scent of the organic cleaner she used to wipe down the glass shelves.
The house had been wired for electricity years before Sunny bought the island; an underwater cable snaked out to the pole on the shore opposite the boathouse, out of sight and mostly mind. Sunny had installed satellite for the TV, which droned on in the background as she cooled off at the open fridge door and waited for the central a-c, another of her upgrades, to kick in. The reassuring hum of the unit whispered through the house. Sunny extracted herself from the refrigerator and poured a cold drink, seltzer with a wedge of lime.
She walked it back into the living room, where the television was tuned to YUM! and one of the lower-tier network offerings, The Grossest Thing I Ever Ate , one of those experimental attempts at programming designed to lure in the elusive male viewer. Her own lunch, a lightly grilled chicken breast with basil mayonnaise and slices of garden tomato, was starting to take on the distinction of the grossest thing she’d ever eaten while she waited for the a-c to still her heat-fueled nausea.
Robin Newmark, a ballsy young Brit with spiked hair and a smoky Cockney accent, was bouncing across the screen, blathering about Rocky Mountain Oysters while pulling a sour face. Sunny reached for the remote and was about to change the
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