The Drowning Game

by LS Hawker

  Randy switched off the Ram and stepped out. He smoothed his mustache.

  I moved the Winchester strap to my other shoulder.

  “Listen,” he said. “I wanted to come by and explain a ­couple of things to you. And I brought you something.” He turned and pulled out a large bouquet of flowers in a cone of floral paper. He held them out toward me.

  I didn’t move.

  “For you.” His mustache twitched.

  Sweat rolled down the side of my face and it tickled, but I still didn’t move.

  “Can we sit down?”

  “Can if you want,” I said, pointing at the misshapen Adirondack chairs my dad had made out of some dump-­scavenged wood.

  He walked over to one of the chairs and lowered himself into it. It creaked. He took off his Stetson and wiped his forehead with his shirtsleeve. “Hot one, huh?”

  I nodded.

  He put his hat back on and laid the flowers on the ground next to his chair.

  “Petty, I wanted to tell you how this all came about. This will and everything. I take it your dad never mentioned the . . . our . . . his will to you.”

  Why would he include me in my wedding plans?

  “I met your dad about ten years ago at the Quivera Gun Club in Salina, though we’d been neighbors for eight years. Anyway, he’s—­was kinda like you, not real talkative, you know, but a serious, right-­minded guy.” Randy coughed. “You understand what I mean by right-­minded?”

  I shrugged.

  “A Second Amendment kind of guy. I was the one who sponsored his membership to the Kansas State Militia.”

  I didn’t care.

  He squinted up at me. “Would you mind sitting down? I admire your defensive posture, but I’m not the enemy.”

  But he was.

  Although marrying Randy would be the path of least resistance, the dreams I’d had for myself would die with Dad. When I thought about going out into the world alone, the fear nearly convinced me to go along with his wishes.

  Almost, but not quite.

  Because something just beyond my reach was coming into focus. What was Dad’s goal for this arrangement? To keep me caged. And what did that make me? Livestock.

  That kind of thinking was not normal. That was not how a father was supposed to think of his daughter. Didn’t that prove Dad had no idea what was right for me? And if he was wrong about that . . . maybe he was wrong about how dangerous the world was too.

  Maybe he was wrong that I couldn’t navigate the world on my own.

  This idea exploded in my brain and showered sparks, lighting everything up, and I knew Randy was wrong too. He was the enemy. He was the one standing in the way of my freedom.

  I stood there a moment longer, then moved the other chair farther away from him and sat down, laying the shotgun across my knees.

  “Thanks,” he said, rubbing his neck. “I was getting a crick looking up at you.” He smiled at me. At least, I think he did. It was hard to tell with that mustache in the way.

  I didn’t smile back.

  “So anyway, when you turned eighteen, your dad told me about his plans for you. I didn’t think too much about it, because he wasn’t an old guy by any means. But I agreed, because he was absolutely set on making sure you were taken care of for the rest of your life. I want you to know, though, he didn’t say nothing about the insurance policy.”

  I spat on the ground.

  “Cross my heart,” he said, actually drawing an X on his chest with his finger. “I was as shocked as you. But that’s how serious Charlie was about protecting you, and he knew I had the same values as him.” He cleared his throat again and gazed up at the sky. “All this to say I don’t expect it to be your typical marriage. It would be a straight-­up business deal. I house you, clothe you and feed you, and I control the money. But I’ll buy you anything you want. We could even build a house that has two sides to it—­one for you and one for me. Of course, your side would have to be locked up, but you’re used to that.”

  I was used to that. It was familiar and safe and easy. But it wasn’t normal.

  So Dad and Randy had planned everything out for me. Years ago. I still wouldn’t have any say in my own life. I was going to be a militia man’s “wife,” and that was all.

  I stood. “I have to go to work.”

  Randy didn’t move, just gazed up at me from under his Stetson. “No you don’t.”

  “Yes, I do,” I said, gripping the rifle.

  Randy dug a cell phone out of his pocket and held it out to me. “No, you don’t. Ask Dooley. He’ll tell you all about it.”

  I didn’t understand what he was telling me, so I didn’t answer, just stood there staring. He opened the phone and pushed some buttons then held it out to me again. I felt a chill of fear, as if he were handing me a live grenade. I heard a voice coming out of the phone but still I didn’t take it. Randy frowned and held it to his ear.

  “Hey, Dooley, it’s Randy. You need to tell Petty about her job.” He held the phone out again. This time I took it and put it to my ear.

  “Petty?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “I’m glad Randy called, because I need to go over a few pieces of business with you. Your situation is fairly complex. I certainly hope you appreciate everything I’m doing on your behalf, young lady!”

  I kind of got the feeling he was expecting me to thank him, but I said, “I don’t have time to talk right now. I’ve got to get to work.”

  “You don’t have to worry about that anymore. I’ve called your boss to let him know.”

  “Let him know what?” My blood felt cold inside me. Randy appeared to be smiling underneath his mustache.

  “That you’re no longer a dump employee. Randy went and got your things—­he’s probably got them with him right now.”

  “But I don’t want to—­”

  “And if you need a ride anywhere, Randy said he’d give it to you. You don’t need to worry about a thing.”

  “I don’t want to quit working. And I don’t want any rides from Randy.”

  “Already done. You can just relax. Lot of ladies would kill to be in your shoes, you know that?”

  I closed my eyes. “You said I had thirty days to think about it.”

  “But what is there to think about? It’s no contest.”

  A phrase I’d heard over and over again in TV courtroom dramas had been trying to rise from my subconscious since yesterday, and now it did. I turned my back to Randy and whispered, “How do I contest the will?”

  I heard the Adirondack chair groan behind me as Randy stood. I didn’t know if he’d heard me or not. I didn’t look back at him.

  Mr. Dooley cleared his throat again. “You don’t want to do that,” he said. “It would be expensive, it could take years and you have nothing to live on in the meantime. That’s not a viable option.”

  I turned to face Randy, who was glaring at me. I glared back.

  “I’d like to do it anyway,” I said.

  There was a pause. “As your lawyer, I have to advise against it.”

  I gulped. “Then I’ll get another lawyer.”

  Mr. Dooley laughed. “You need money for another lawyer. You don’t have any, and I don’t have time to argue about this anymore. Understood?”

  I said nothing.

  He put on a more jovial tone. “Petty, you’ve got a million dollars coming to you if you’ll just follow your dad’s wishes. That insurance policy is money in the bank.”

  Money in the bank.

  I gasped.

  “What is it? Petty?” Mr. Dooley was still talking, but I pressed the end button on the phone and tossed it to Randy, who almost didn’t catch it.

  “You got some stuff of mine?” I said, walking toward the Ram.

  He followed me to his truck, pulled a
box out of the bed and put it in my hands.

  “Mr. Dooley said you’d give me rides if I needed them,” I said. “I need a ride into Saw Pole.”

  “You going to scream or try to bust my window again?” he said.

  “I’m gonna put this stuff inside first,” I said, ignoring him. “Get in the truck so I can let the dogs out.”

  I ran the box inside then went upstairs to get my state ID. I locked up the house and opened the garage door. The dogs came tearing out and attacked the truck. Randy cracked open his window and yelled, “Get them off my rig!”

  I counted to five before I made the signal for “off” and they obeyed. Then I got in the truck and buckled myself in. I studied the buttons on my armrest to see if there was a way to keep him from locking me in and saw I could lock and unlock the doors myself. He pulled onto the county road. I stared out the window. He turned up the country music station. I daydreamed until he said something I didn’t quite catch, then looked in his direction.

  He turned down the radio. “I said, you should go to the beauty parlor. They could show you how to do yourself up. You’d be a lot prettier if you wore makeup.”

  I shrugged and turned my face to the window. He didn’t talk anymore. When we hit the Saw Pole city limits, I sat up and said, “Can you take me to the Farmers National Bank?”

  He parked in front of the bank. “I’ll wait here.”

  I’d never gone into a building that wasn’t my house by myself. I wondered if there was an armed guard inside like I’d seen on TV. I opened the door, edged inside with my back to the wall. Found the exits. No armed guard. Two tellers. One customer at a window. I waited against the wall until the unoccupied teller called out to me, “Can I help you?”

  Filled with resolve, I pushed myself off from the wall and ran to the counter. I pulled out my Kansas state identification card and gave it to the teller, a girl in a navy blue suit and a flouncy pink blouse.

  “I have a savings account here, and I’d like to close it out.”

  Chapter 7

  THIS WEEK, INSTEAD of cashing my paycheck like usual, I was heading straight to Farmers National to deposit it. I wouldn’t buy weed and PBR, I’d bank the money to buy some new clothes for the gig and beers for my bandmates to try and make things up to them. I would be smart and disciplined this time, and I’d take whatever extra hours I could pick up at the grocery. Things were turning around—­I could feel it.

  I opened the glass door to the bank and walked in, and there was Petty Moshen standing at the counter. What were the odds that, after all these years of living in the same town and never seeing her, now I’d seen her twice in one week? But then I remembered what a fool I’d made of myself the last time—­the only time—­I’d talked to her, and the humiliation drove me back behind a pillar, hoping she wouldn’t see me. But I could hear the transaction going on at the teller’s window. I tried not to listen, but the tile floor magnified every sound.

  “All right, hon,” the teller, a girl named Britney, who was three years older than me, said to Petty. “What’s your account number?”

  “I don’t know. My dad opened the account for me five years ago.”

  Not a promising start. I peeked out from behind the pillar. Britney frowned at Petty and pecked at her keyboard. I remembered that look. She’d been the type of girl who smiled to your face and talked shit behind your back. She wore pearls around her neck, paid for, no doubt, by the bank’s owner—­her father.

  Petty probably had never been inside a bank before. She was navigating all these new things on her own, and I tried to imagine how terrifying and confusing it must be.

  Britney put Petty’s card on her keyboard and typed. “Okay,” she said. “Your account number is 06315. I’ll need you to fill this form out, sign and date it, and I’ll get your cash.”

  I watched Petty bend forward, pen in hand, and I briefly wondered if she could actually write or if she was going to scrawl a big X on the paper. But then I felt like a dick for thinking that.

  She slid the form back to Britney, who peered at it, then turned and walked away.

  As if by magnetic force, Petty turned and looked right at where my head stuck out from behind the pillar.

  Her eyebrows rose.

  Busted. I stepped out of my hiding place and walked toward her.

  “Hey, Petty.” I tried to sound casual, not like I’d just been spying on her or anything.

  She stared at me.

  “How’s it going?” I said.

  “How’s what going?”

  “Just everything, I guess.”

  She shrugged.

  Britney returned and opened her drawer with a key attached to her wrist. Then she counted out cash and slid it toward Petty. “There you are.”

  Petty stared at the pile. “I need all my money,” she said. “Do I have to come back for it or . . . ?”

  Britney looked at Petty like she had three heads. “That is all your money.”

  It was two tens, a five, a one, three quarters, a nickel, and a penny.

  “You took my money,” Petty said. “Didn’t you? You’re not going to get away with this.”

  I had to stop myself from laughing out loud at this. She sounded just like someone from a bad TV cop drama.

  “Of course I didn’t take your money,” Britney said, in a puffy, insulted voice.

  I needed to redeem myself for wanting to laugh, so I decided to step in. I walked toward the cage. “How much money do you have in there?” I asked Petty.

  “I had almost thirty thousand dollars.”

  Britney and I gasped in unison, the shock deflating Britney’s indignation. “What made you think you had that kind of money in here?” she asked.

  “Give me my money or I’m calling the cops,” Petty said.

  “She didn’t steal your money,” I said, and stepped up next to Petty, putting my hands on the counter. “There’s been some mistake.”

  Britney shot me an annoyed glare, obviously done here and ready to move on with her day. I could just imagine the story she was rehearsing in her mind about the spooky girl who had accused her of embezzlement. The bitch.

  “She lost her dad a few days ago,” I told her. “She’s trying to get her affairs in order, so if you wouldn’t mind . . .”

  Petty’s suspicious gaze made my face burn, but I didn’t care. She needed someone in her corner. That’s what I told myself anyway, trying not to imagine her falling helplessly in love with me or anything.

  Britney wrinkled her nose like she smelled something bad, but she turned back to her computer. “Just a second,” she said primly.

  Petty bent over and put her hands on her knees, breathing hard. If it had been anyone else, I would have put my hand on her back. But she wasn’t anyone else, so I didn’t dare touch her.

  “There’s only been one deposit on this account,” Britney said. “The original deposit of twenty-­five dollars.”

  “That’s impossible,” Petty said, her words escaping between gulps of air. “My dad . . . deposited . . . all my paychecks . . . for the last five years . . .”

  Britney leaned out of her window and called out, “Next.”

  Now, that was just unnecessary. I blocked her view and got in her face. “Let her see the monitor.”

  We had a staring match for a minute, and I remembered all the times back in school that Britney had overwhelmed meeker girls with her nastiness, and I’d just stood by and watched. Not this time. I wasn’t going to let her do the same to Petty.

  “Yes,” Petty said. “Let me see the monitor.”

  I was surprised by the granite in her voice.

  “Fine,” Britney said in a hiss. She turned back to her keyboard and typed with a vengeance, fuming. She shoved her computer monitor toward Petty. I stepped away to give Petty some privacy. Britney pointed with her red pen. �
��See? This account was opened sixty-­two months ago with a deposit of twenty-­five dollars. Your account earns interest of one percent compounded daily, which means you’ve earned one dollar and eighty-­one cents on your original deposit.”

  Petty’s hands fluttered in front of her mouth, her eyes glistening.

  Wow. What kind of an evil man had Charlie Moshen been to do this to his only kid?

  “If you want to bring in the statements you’ve received from the bank over the past five years, we can get this straightened out,” Britney said, a snotty grin on her face. She slid Petty’s ID and the cash to the edge of the counter. “Next.”

  I blocked the next customer and said quietly to Britney, “Would it kill you to be nice?”

  “Next!”

  Petty ran out the door.

  Chapter 8

  OUTSIDE, I COULDN'T seem to get enough air.

  “Are you all right?” Dekker asked me.

  I shook my head. I looked up and down the street and then at the steamy white clouds in the blue-­gray sky, thinking.

  I should be able to get copies of all the check stubs from Mr. Siebert, my boss at the dump. Dad must have deposited my checks into another account. I could prove that with the pay stubs. This money wasn’t part of the trust. It was all mine. I needed to go down to Mr. Dooley’s office to see if he had Dad’s financial records. Otherwise, I didn’t know where they might be.

  Dekker stood motionless, staring at me.

  “What?” I said finally.

  “What are you going to do?” he said.

  “I’m not sure.” I turned and walked west down Main Street toward the lawyer’s office.

  “Um, bye,” Dekker said to my back.

  Randy’s truck kept pace with me. His window slid down. He was not pleased. “Where are you going?”

  I stopped and turned back to thank Dekker for his help, but it was too late. He was walking back into the bank.

  “I’m going to walk down to Mr. Dooley’s office,” I said to Randy.

  His eyebrows came together. “Okay,” he said, but the end of it rose like a question. I ignored him and ran down the block to Mr. Dooley’s office.