‘At the Side of the Road’ by Ethel Rohan

Cissie Murray sold Wexford potatoes and strawberries by the dual carriageway, under a grey-white awning she pretended was a fancy marquee. For every hundred cars that passed, maybe one stopped. Meanwhile, Cissie held hard to her phone—texting friends, playing games, and bopping to music with frantic rhythms. For this, Dan Topher paid her thirty euro a day.

This Friday, Cissie had forgotten her phone at home. She felt clammy and irritated, her hands, her head, having little to do. For hours she hummed songs to herself, watched greenflies race over the strawberries, and haggled with a few customers, all wanting something for nothing.

Shortly after noon, just as Cissie was thinking about doing handstands to feel her blood run, a red Honda Civic pulled up. Right off, she could tell the fortyish driver wasn’t interested in her potatoes or strawberries. He strutted toward her, a gummy, twitchy fella with a bloated face and mad, dilated pupils.

“What’s a grand little thing like you doing all alone at the side of the road?” His Drogheda accent sounded like something broken. He leaned closer over the dirty potatoes, looking like he was about to demand a bag full of her. She gave silent thanks for the table of produce between them. He reeked of fermented sweat, and his brown, rotted teeth made her think of a dilapidated fence.

“You must get right bored, like? I know just the cure.” He grabbed his crotch and his cracked tongue darted from his face. Cissie grabbed the golf club she kept by her nylon chair and raised it high with both hands, trying not to betray the shake in her arms. He whirled about and rushed to his car. Cissie dispatched a roar that felt fantastic.

*

Mid-afternoon, the rain beat down on Cissie’s fantasy marquee. In three hours, she hadn’t made a single sale. She could see her mother’s smug, jellied face. The whole country was down on its knees with the recession, and still her mother singled her out for failure. At least she had a summer job to get her through until September, and then she didn’t know what. Her parents were insisting she attend college (“They let you in, didn’t they?”) but that seemed like another cage. She could emigrate. Only that didn’t feel like a choice, either, but more like her generation’s sentence.

The endless vehicles ploughed past in the relentless rain, sending up a dirty spray. The constant going, everyone else in motion, made Cissie feel as if the downpour had gotten inside her. She imagined waving her arms at the traffic, as though she were in some state of emergency. A young, muscular man would pull over in a shiny car, looking tanned and gorgeous, or else pale, chisel-faced, and with just the right amount of edge. He would sample the strawberries and invite her to taste the juice coating his thick lips. Right there, on the grass verge, they would fuck until he shattered everything that had numbed inside her.

All afternoon the July rain drummed the awning, the heavy, black clouds determined to sink the entire island. Near evening, a certain strawberry caught her attention, one shaped like a tiny heart.

“Aren’t you lovely?” She looked around, feeling foolish, but only the cows in the fields and crows on the power lines could have overheard. She placed the strawberry inside one of the countless white plastic bags beneath her stand, and then into her backpack. Later, at home, she would dip the strawberry in sugar and disappear the fruit heart with the barest nicks of her teeth, in full and languid control of its erasure.

Dan Topher’s battered white Hiace appeared in the distance. Cissie felt sick to her stomach.

“Is that all you sold?” Dan would roar, his eyes so wide their lids seemed taped back. “Are you good for nothing?”

Only it wasn’t Dan behind the wheel, but one of his field workers, Trevor. A looker and maybe a year or two older than Cissie, he could have stepped out of one of her daydreams.

*

The Hiace rattled down the motorway toward Dublin, Cissie so rigid with temper she seemed all bones. As they’d packed up, Trevor had thrown her tent into the back of the van like it was nothing. That pretend marquee was the best part of this whole gig.

Trevor sat smoking a roll-your-own cigarette. She could taste the blue-grey smoke. She coughed, putting her whole body into it, but his only response was to cut a smirk. In the rearview, her mood made her brown eyes inkier. The rain had darkened her hair, too, plastering it to her head, and her mascara bled black down her face. She would look a lot prettier if she fixed herself, but forget that.

Trevor caught her looking at his hands, dirty from picking potatoes and strawberries all day long. The Hiace picked up speed. Usually Cissie craved any kind of thrill, but she didn’t much care for racing in this rain, not with the blinding mist coming off the heavy traffic in front. They barrelled over the slippery tarmac, the van’s rattle growing. She pressed her foot to the floor, biting back a plea for him to slow down, refusing to give him the satisfaction.

Trevor lifted his phone from between his thighs and started to text.

“Put that away,” Cissie said, no longer caring about her pride.

His thumb continued to type, his attention jumping between his phone and the road. The van’s noises climbed, the sounds of falling apart.

“Stop it, I’m serious,” Cissie said.

He laughed. “Relax.”

Just as she was about to slap the phone from his hand, an articulated truck swerved into their lane. “Watch out!”

Trevor slammed the brakes. A wet squeal. Cissie lurched forward, the seatbelt locking hard against her chest and neck. They wobbled for several long, chilling seconds. The van righted itself.

“You okay?” Trevor asked.

“What do you think?” she said, rubbing the side of her neck.

“Calm down, would you. There’s practically sparks coming off you.” He lifted the last of his cigarette from the ashtray, inhaled with a hissing sound, and issued a series of smoke rings. Cissie followed the float of circled smoke toward the ceiling. She imagined wearing the breathy bracelets on her wrist, still warm from his mouth.

At the edge of the city, the Hiace passed the shell of yet another ghost housing estate, each unfinished home a headstone to the collapsed economy. Cissie’s hand remained clasped to the side of her neck. It didn’t hurt any longer, but Trevor didn’t need to know that.

“I’m going to this concert in town tonight. Kacey Musgraves. Do you want to come?” he said.

“She’s American, right? Country?”

“That’s the one.”

She started to say no. She didn’t like Trevor or country music, didn’t have her phone or much money, and was soaked head to toe. “Yeah, maybe.”

*

In town, inside the food court next to the Academy, Trevor sneaked extra food for Cissie from the all-you-can-eat Indian buffet. She enjoyed a warm, giddy feeling as he spooned the rice and meats onto her plate, an illicit two-for-one meal. The chef, intent on his work and oblivious to their theft, stood skinning a gnarl of ginger root. He worked the peeler backward, drawing it toward his body instead of away. Cissie saw a flash of him peeling a strip of skin from his hand. She wondered why he’d put himself in such unnecessary danger, just as Trevor had earlier. People needed to be more careful with themselves, and others.

She ate fast, barely breathing, barely chewing, the spicy flavours singing in her mouth. Once she’d sated the worst of her hunger, she slowed down, holding the curried food on her tongue, savouring. Trevor watched, his face shiny and lips greasy. He seemed almost aroused. She allowed herself to linger for a beat on his fall-into-me eyes, his let-me-drink-you lips.

She hadn’t been with a fella in months, not since Derek. After eighteen months together, Derek dumped her. “It’s gotten old, you know?”

No, she didn’t.

“Why Cissie?” Trevor asked. “Do your parents not like you or something?”

“I used to know another Trevor.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. We called him Not-So-Clever Trevor.”

His smile snapped like a rubber band. “Aren’t you hilarious?”

*

On the street, Cissie and Trevor waited in the long queue outside the Academy. Passersby stared, there something about the crowd and the fear of missing out.

“Who’s playing?” a youngfella asked the attractive couple standing in front of Cissie and Trevor, his Dublin accent sharp enough to gouge.

The woman, likely Polish, replied.

“Who?” the youngfella said, the single word a deep stab.

The woman nudged her companion’s arm. “You say.”

Cissie wanted to have someone in her life that she could tell, “You say.”

Trevor continued to text. Cissie’s fingers twitched, missing her phone.

“Gina’s here. Nice.” Trevor scanned the long queue of concertgoers. Someone called his name. He lit up, his smile pushing back his ears. A pretty, lean brunette squeezed her way through the waiting crowd.

Trevor and Gina hugged. “What are you doing here?”

“You mentioned you were going and I thought what the hell.” Her eyes cut to Cissie and back to Trevor. “I’m not interrupting anything, am I?”

He laughed. “God, no.”

Cissie’s cheeks burned. “Absolutely not.”

“Nice to meet you,” Gina said, reaching for Cissie with both arms. Cissie pulled free of the shocking embrace and scanned Gina’s face for malice. She found none.

*

Inside the Academy, amid the crush of people, Gina pulled two white plastic cups from her bag. “Sorry,” she said over the piped music. “I didn’t know you were joining us or I’d have brought a third cup.”

“That’s okay. I didn’t know I was joining you, either,” Cissie said.

Unfazed, Gina handed Cissie a cup and fixed Trevor with a dopey smile. “Trevor and I can share.” She poured a small amount of Coca-Cola from the bottle peeking from her bag. Next, the head of a litre of vodka appeared. She filled both cups to the brim.

A burst of theatrical smoke clouded the stage. The audience clapped and cheered. Cissie had never heard of the support act, a young, bearded duo from Alabama. She took a long drink, the alcohol setting fire to her throat and chest. Gina kept fixing Trevor with that smile, and touching his arm, pressing her hand to his lower back. Cissie’s jaw hurt from gritting her teeth. She was in their way. Unwanted. She took another long drink.

As Kacey Musgraves sang, Cissie swayed to the music, telling herself she was sexy, happy. She stretched her arms overhead, her thin, pale limbs ribboning the air while the singer crooned about the misery of trailer parks, and following your arrow wherever it points. Then one line cut too close, making Cissie feel as if more rain was falling inside her. Same hurt in every heart.

A heaviness came over Cissie, worse than if her roadside tent had collapsed on top of her. Derek had reached inside her chest and pulled out some tiny, essential part, dimming the rest of her. She could have died in the van earlier with Trevor, and she wasn’t sure it mattered all that much that she hadn’t.

*

Hours later, blinking, unsteady, Cissie exited the Academy, trailed by Trevor and Gina. She was headed in the opposite direction and made her goodbyes.

“You sure you’ll be all right on your own?” Gina asked.

“Yeah,” Cissie said, the music and vodka still coursing through her. She almost told Gina about the pervert earlier. How she’d chased him off with a golf club and her roar, stopping another man from hurting her.

“You enjoyed it,” Trevor said, triumphant.

Cissie startled, then realized he was talking about the concert. She scoffed. “Anything’s better than your driving and our near-death experience.”

“What?” Gina said.

“Come on, you know you’d do it all over again,” Trevor said, his dimples like finger pokes in dough.

“You couldn’t be more wrong.” Cissie wouldn’t ever give him another chance to scare her, risk her.

She walked away, heading for O’Connell Street. People milled about, laughing, shouting, and others like Cissie keeping it all in. Yellow and red car lights sliced the night. Cracked tires blasted spray from rain puddles. Stars riddled the black. The moon was a bandage.

Cissie stood alone at her bus stop, remembering the strawberry. Same hurt in every heart. She eased the plastic bag from her backpack, wondering if Derek ever thought about her. The strawberry, lying on its side on her palm, no longer looked like a heart but the head of an arrow. Follow your arrow wherever it points. The fruit’s head was aimed at her. What was that supposed to mean?

Her bus arrived with a screech. She climbed the stairs inside the double-decker, turned right instead of her usual left, and dropped onto a window seat up front. She rushed the strawberry into her mouth, tasting a seedy mix of tart and sweet. As she ate, her determination gathered. She’d survived twice in one day, and she was going to make that matter to the fullest. She looked through the fogged glass at the damp, twinkling city, and down at the pedestrians dotting the street, the lot unable to keep up with the bus, with her.

From issue #4: spring/summer 2017

About the Author
Ethel Rohan is the author of In the Event of Contact (18 May 2021) — winner of the Dzanc Book Prize, a collection of twelve stories that includes ‘At the Side of the Road’.