The Drowning Game

by LS Hawker

  Where she’d pulled that out of, I could only guess.

  “Yes! That’s right!” Jeannie said. “I remember, because I told Bart it was a ridiculous name. A wop-­greaser name.” After the initial excitement at having remembered something important, Jeannie’s face fell. She covered her mouth with her hands and stared.

  “I’m sorry,” Petty whispered.

  “I don’t want to talk about it,” Jeannie said from behind her hands. “How could this happen to our family?”

  “It’s over,” I said. “It’s all right.”

  “How could this happen to our family?” Jeannie repeated in a whisper.

  It appeared that Jeannie knew something horrible had happened but couldn’t quite remember it. So the question remained: Where was Petty’s mom? It wasn’t like we could ask Jeannie, since she thought Petty was Marianne, and that Petty was a toddler, and that it was nineteen-­ninety-­something.

  Tears filled Jeannie’s milky eyes. “Where did it go?”

  Where did what go?

  “I’m sorry,” Petty said again.

  I reached for Jeannie’s hand. “It’s all right. It’s all in the past.”

  “All in the past,” Jeannie echoed. “I’m so tired.”

  “Why don’t we leave now and let you get some rest.” I stood, and Petty did too.

  Jeannie sat staring for a moment more, then went and sat on her bed. She had nothing more to say.

  “We’ll see you soon, Jeannie,” I said as she lay down, turning away from me and Petty.

  “Goodbye,” Petty said.

  I led the way into the Colorado afternoon and immediately lit a cigarette. I thought about asking Petty if she wanted one to calm her nerves but knew she’d throw a rod. So I leaned back against the car and smoked while she paced in front of me, her fingers at her lips.

  I waited until we were buckled in the car. “Where in the hell did you get the name Bellandini? How did you know? Did you remember from when you were a little kid, or what?”

  “No,” Petty said. “When I was in Mr. Dooley’s office going through the box, there was a file folder marked ‘Bellandini.’ Now I wish I took it.”

  “Your dad—­I mean, Michael Rhones—­kept a file on him? Now, that’s twisted.”

  “Yes.”

  “She thought you were your mom,” I said, excited. “Yesterday, she wasn’t saying ‘Mama.’ She was trying to say Marianne.”

  “I know.”

  “Bellandini has to be your dad’s name.”

  “Right.”

  “What’s the matter? Why aren’t you as excited as I am?”

  She didn’t answer right away.

  “I am,” she said. “But there’s all this other stuff going on inside me. Like—­and this is going to sound crazy—­I feel bad for my dad. For Michael Rhones. He loved my mom. You could see it in the pictures. You could feel it when you read the letters. And it drove him insane.”

  I stayed quiet, even though I wanted to dance around. We’d done it. We’d cracked the code. And it was largely thanks to my steering Jeannie in the direction we wanted her to go. No way could Petty alone have gotten the information we needed.

  As soon as I thought this, I realized how selfish my excitement was. It wasn’t about finding Petty’s family, it was about my cleverness. But this wasn’t a puzzle, it was Petty’s life. The seriousness of this situation hit me, that and how ill-­equipped I was to handle it. Shame washed over me.

  “Petty, this must be awful for you.”

  “What if this Bellandini guy is worse than Michael Rhones?” Petty said. “I don’t know what I’ll do. I really don’t.”

  “But there’s only one way to find out. We’ve come this far. Let’s go back to the motel and we’ll call information.”

  I started up the Buick and drove to Motel 9. When we were in our room, Petty paced up and down, wringing her hands.

  There was a knock on the door, and she looked at me, alarmed.

  I went to the door.

  “Who is it?” I called.

  “Management,” came a voice, but it didn’t sound like the old guy.

  “What is it?”

  “There’s a problem with the water. Can you open up?”

  I did.

  A tattooed young man stood there.

  “Hi,” he said. “We have to turn the water off until tomorrow morning, so you won’t be able to shower or flush until then. Okay?”

  “Okay,” I said. “Thanks.”

  The guy held up a hand and walked to the next room as I shut the door.

  “No flushing,” I said to Petty.

  “That’s weird,” she said.

  I picked up the phone and dialed information. The recording asked me for city, state, and name, to which I replied “Colorado. Bellandini. Can I get the address too?”

  “One moment, please,” the recording said.

  Petty sat clutching a pillow and staring at me.

  A live person came on the line. “Spell the name for me,” the operator said.

  I did and heard clacking computer keys. I held my breath.

  “There’s a Mitchell Bellandini in Paiute, Colorado, but no phone number,” the operator said. “But his address is 33 Timbervale, Paiute, Colorado. May I help you with anything else, sir?”

  I couldn’t speak.

  “Sir?”

  “No other Bellandinis in Colorado?”

  “No, sir.”

  “How do you spell the town name?”

  She spelled it and asked again if there was anything else she could help with.

  “No,” I said. “Thank you very much.”

  I hung up the phone and wrote the name and address on a pad of paper before I forgot it.

  “That’s your dad’s address,” I said.

  “My dad,” she said, staring at the paper. Her eyes welled up and ran over.

  “Hey,” I said, reaching for her.

  Petty pulled away and covered her face with her hands. “Don’t,” she said.

  “I’ll just get the map out of the car so we can figure out how to get to Paiute,” I said, and went outside to give her some time alone.

  I walked around for about ten minutes then knocked before reentering.

  Petty was squatting by the fridge next to my folded pajamas, and suddenly I knew she’d found her mother’s necklace. My stomach seemed to collapse in on itself.

  She turned her head and I saw the look of betrayal on her face. She stood and held up the necklace.

  “Where’d you find it?” I said, stalling for time, the map clutched in my sweaty fist. I had to think of a plausible explanation.

  “Right here,” Petty said, her voice crackling with anger. “In your pajamas.”

  “How did that get in there?” I said. “You must have bent over and it—­”

  “It didn’t fall off my neck. It’s clasped. You took it.”

  I could think of nothing to say.

  “Why would you take the only thing of my mom’s I own?”

  “I wasn’t going to keep it forever,” I said.

  “What does that mean?”

  “I don’t know.”

  She stared at me, as if trying to divine from my face the answers I couldn’t verbalize. Then she put the necklace on.

  “Keep your hands off my stuff.” She went in the bathroom and closed the door.

  I went and leaned my head against the door. “I’m sorry, Petty,” I said.

  She didn’t answer.

  “Listen,” I said. I had to tell her the truth, or most of it, anyway. “I need to tell you something.”

  It was silent in the bathroom. I took a deep breath, closed my eyes and plunged in.

  “I didn’t leave college because I ran out of money,” I said. “I w
as asked to leave because I got caught stealing stuff from the other guys in my hall at the dorm.”

  She opened the door, causing me to lose my balance and stumble toward her.

  “What?” she said, her face red.

  “That’s right,” I said.

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I mostly blame it on the dead mom and the asshole dad. But the truth is, I was pissed at all these guys who had so much money, so much stuff—­laptops and iPads and iPhones, expensive clothes and great cars—­and I had shit. I figured they wouldn’t miss little things, and if they did, they could run out and buy five more.”

  “So they kicked you out of college.”

  I nodded. “Yeah. And I also used to be in this band called Disregard the 9 and I stole stuff from my bandmates too.” I explained about the upcoming band gig in Kansas City, which was why I’d been reluctant to bring her to Denver.

  “Didn’t you like your bandmates?” she asked.

  “Well, yeah, but—­well, I sometimes steal stuff when I’m stressed out. Like now.” But I couldn’t admit to her that this was not exactly what was going on here.

  “That’s messed up,” Petty said.

  “I know. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I’m really sorry.”

  “You said you stole from the guys in your dorm because they had better stuff than you.”

  “I know, but—­”

  “I’m not one of those rich guys,” Petty said. “I don’t have anything but this necklace.”

  “I told you—­I’m totally stressed out and—­”

  “When I’m stressed out, I run,” Petty said. “You might want to try it. Of course, you’d have to quit smoking.”

  Maybe it was the crack about smoking. Maybe it was getting caught doing something stupid and careless and preventable. Whatever the cause, I snapped. “When have you ever been stressed out? What would you have to be stressed out about? Because you can’t find an Offender episode on TV? Because somebody accidentally made eye contact with you at the dump? You don’t know anything about stress! You’ve never lived in the real world, never had to deal with . . .”

  I ran out of gas as Petty’s expression became icy steel and she walked toward me. I backed up until I hit the wall.

  She poked me in the chest. “I never knew my mother. I was kidnapped by her husband. I’ve been locked in my bedroom every night for my whole life. I almost died of the flu because my dad wouldn’t take me to a doctor. I’ve been assaulted at the dump and had to fight for my life. I was attacked by Randy King. I’m on the run from the law. And now I’m having to drag a whiny boy along with me so I can find my real father. So don’t tell me I don’t know about stress, you sheltered, spoiled brat!”

  She yelled the last part and slugged me hard in the arm. It hurt.

  A voice shouted from inside the motel. “Shut the fuck up!”

  “You shut up!” Petty shouted back.

  I stood rubbing my arm, wishing I could redo the last thirty minutes, realizing that she was right. I was a sheltered, spoiled brat.

  “Petty, I’m sorry. I won’t take anything of yours ever again.”

  “If you do? I’m going to do more than slug you.” She touched the knife beneath her shirt.

  My nose twitched but didn’t say anything. The air in the room seemed chillier now. Her wall of suspicion had returned, and I’d built it for her. I’d blown it.

  “Petty . . .” I said.

  She ignored me, walked to the couch and lay down with her back to me.

  I'D THOUGHT DEKKER was my friend, but now I didn’t know anymore. Although my dad—­or the man I’d thought was my dad—­had been silent and sullen the last years of his life, he’d been solid, dependable, always there.

  I wanted to talk to Deirdre Walsh. I wanted her to be real and to be my true friend. But the picture of Deirdre in my mind morphed into Roxanne. Roxanne and her cherry-­pink hair, her big, black-­rimmed eyes. Roxanne, who didn’t want anything from me. She was my friend. She’d said so, and I believed her. I held on to that picture of Roxanne in my head with all my strength, and I felt a little better.

  I sat up on the couch. Dekker started, sitting there on the bed, like I was going to jump up and cut him.

  “So we’re going to Paiute first thing tomorrow, right?” I said.

  “Yes,” Dekker said. “Whenever you want.”

  “Do you mind if I turn on the TV?” I said.

  “No,” Dekker said. “Do you want me to go get you a snack or something? Are you hungry? Thirsty? Just say the word.”

  He was trying to make it up to me. It didn’t exactly excuse what he’d done, but it seemed to me he really was sorry. Hearing about the rock show in Kansas City changed something inside me. That was the reason he hadn’t wanted to bring me to Denver, not because he didn’t like me. This revelation loosened the tension in my jaw and chest, giving way to relief, which made me want to forgive him. Eventually. For now I figured he could squirm a little so he’d know his behavior was unacceptable.

  “Maybe we could go get some ice cream in a little bit,” I said.

  “Sure,” he said in an eager voice. “I think I saw a Dairy Queen not too far from here.”

  I sat on the chair and faced the television. He flicked on the remote and handed it to me. I channel surfed, not really seeing the TV, thinking about my baby pictures and my real name. Anne Marie Rhones. Maybe when I found my real dad, I’d change my name back. Anne Marie Bellandini. It sounded exotic, like the name of someone who traveled a lot and wore big hats. I pictured my new name, my new family, my new home, my new life—­maybe in Paiute, Colorado.

  I woke with a start. I must have nodded off. The motion and sound on the TV remained the same, Dekker’s position in the chair hadn’t changed. But my OODA Loop activated. Something was different. I listened. Glanced quickly around.

  Someone was outside the door.

  I jumped off the bed, startling Dekker. “What the—­”

  I held my finger to my lips and grabbed onto my knife, listening for sounds beyond the room, sounds hidden by TV noise.

  Fright stiffened Dekker’s shoulders as he stared at me. An urgent knock at the door jangled his limbs.

  “Gas leak,” shouted a familiar voice. “We need everybody out in the parking lot immediately.”

  I shook my head at Dekker but he leapt to the door as if he couldn’t see me.

  “The water and now the gas,” Dekker said. “A real palace I picked out for us, huh?”

  In my mind I shouted NO! but he reached for the doorknob as I dropped to the floor and rolled under the bed. I heard the knob turn just as the door was kicked inward. The sounds of Dekker straining to close the door were drowned out by the voice on the other side.

  “Open this door, you son of a bitch!” Someone repeatedly threw himself against the door. It slammed against the wall and there was scuffling.

  I heard Dekker gargle, as if someone held his throat.

  “Where is she, you little bastard?”

  It was the voice of Randy King.

  Chapter 23

  I STARED INTO the furious face of Randy King, who slammed the door shut before throwing me onto the bed, knocking the wind out of me.

  How did Randy find us? It wasn’t possible.

  “Where is she?” Both of Randy’s fists were balled up and ready to rumble.

  “Who?” I said. I hated how high my voice sounded. I tried and failed to pull it into a lower register. “It’s just me here.”

  “Bullshit! The old man in the office said there was a tall boy and a skinny girl in here.” Randy strode to the bathroom and threw the door open.

  A plausible explanation popped into my head.

  “All right, I had Ashley Heussner in here,” I said. I sat up slowly so as not to attract another body throw. “B
ut she took off with some meth dealer, I guess.” I tried to put on a companionably masculine Women, huh? face, but it probably looked more like constipation.

  “Bullshit. Where’s Petty?”

  “I don’t know,” I said.

  “Don’t you lie to me, boy.”

  “I put her on a bus to Detroit.”

  Randy sneered at me then walked over to the dresser and began opening and closing drawers. I knew it was just a matter of time before he bent over and looked under the bed. He pulled a pair of panties out of Petty’s drawer. “These yours?”

  “I told you. Ashley was here. She left all her stuff.”

  I hoped Petty couldn’t get at her gun. I wasn’t sure what she’d do, cornered like this so close to her goal.

  Randy paced, pushing his cowboy hat back on his head. Finally he sat on the couch, and I willed him not to look down.

  “Tell me where she is, and everything will be all right,” Randy said, obviously switching gears to Good Cop. “Dooley can get the charges against you dismissed. He seriously can do it. Tell me where Petty is. I’m doing you a favor, because you don’t know what you’re dealing with here.”

  He was right about that. I couldn’t speak, because I was afraid I was going to puke.

  Randy’s eyes narrowed. “Listen,” he said. “It’s like I told you the other day. Petty is very disturbed.”

  “Do you expect me to believe that?”

  “I don’t give a shit if you do. I’m telling you as a courtesy.”

  “Get out of my room,” I said.

  Randy walked to the edge of the bed and bent down, his face within an inch of mine. He drew a very large pistol out of his jacket pocket. “Or you’ll what? Call the cops? Go ahead.” He smiled.

  I tried not to blink. I held Randy’s stare until I couldn’t anymore.

  “That’s what I thought,” Randy said. He sat back on the couch and put his gun back in his pocket.

  I was sure he’d only pulled it out to make me aware of its presence.

  “We can help each other out here,” Randy said. “And we can help Petty in the process. See, Dooley is working on drawing up commitment papers right now. She needs to be in a mental hospital, and I’m going to see that she gets there.”