“I just thought you should know.”
A voice from the depths of the sea, not ten feet away, but a world away. A voice rings out of the darkness. Imagine. Coming out of this potato girl. Potato face. Girl made of pudding who I used to fuck. Look at her now. Standing there, earnest, yearning, leaning in, concerned tilted eyes. Professing what? What does this blue-jean girl in the earth-stripe sweater want with me? Why is she here? Why did she come here? Why is she still here?
Go away. Go away, blue jean. Just because I turned you out doesn’t mean shit, you hear me. I turned you inside out like I did a million girls, a million times. Do you think I remember their names? I’m a fucking crook, for God’s sake. A low-level jackleg crook, no less. Couldn’t be more less. Yeah. I fucked you, pudding girl. White thighs. Why are you still here? What do you want from me?
Not enough pills to make it go down, not enough pills to erase it. Jeff swallowing the amber bottle, tipping it back like a shot glass, who the fuck cares, right?
“It’s just. Beth is like that. I know. I’m her best friend. . . . She hurts people.”
What a crock! “She hurts people.” What after-school-special schoolhouse drama is this. “I’m her best friend.”
Some best friend.
Showing up here, out of the blue, out of some kind-heart act, with pictures, evidence, of your oh-so-best-friend getting pawed, getting licked, getting off.
Out of the abyss, out of the blue pitch carpet, she’s emerged, to spy, to report, to ruin.
“Jeff—”
Without a word pudding-face is pinned to the wall. A-ha! I’ve got you by the neck. Held up to the wall by your stupid neck, stupid face. I’ll fucking kill you right now. I’ll fucking strangle you right here at the Green Mill Inn. I will make you pay, you gloppy little piece of shit spy reporter. Shatterer.
Shatter her.
I will shatter her.
No, no, it’s not you I want, pig-face. It never was. I want something else now. Something frail and beautiful and betraying. Something I wanted to take with me to Scranton. Something I wanted to marry and move to California and make a home with baby and Mommy and me. Something I would tear my hands on the stars reaching for.
Beth. My little Beth. Elizabeth.
Nobody makes a fool of me. Nobody.
TWENTY-ONE
Waking up in an unknown place. Not knowing where, what happened, why am I here? Staring at the stranger pig on the sofa. A nice place. Made of brick. Wood floors even. An afghan pulled over him, stranger blob snores into the morning.
I woke up here. In this nice room, a bedroom, a boy bedroom. Man bedroom. King bed. Green sheets. Bedding. A design. A thought behind it. He lives here. This is his house. His green bedspread. His things. How did I get here? Waking up in an unknown bed, tucked in the sheets fully dressed, even my shoes. Funny.
Tiptoeing past the stranger and out the side door, through the pantry beige beige beige and out into the white snow blanket. Morning, no clouds now. Just crisp white sun and a bright blue sky, freezing cold, freezing cold bright white light glare off the snow. There’s a sidewalk and a street and a diner four blocks down on the corner—look at that OLD MILWAUKEE sign coming out from the brick-lined streets. Not far from the library. I know where we are. I know where I am. Me. I know where I woke up. Not far from the library. There’s a diner and I’ll call for a cab. Say I spent the night at Shauna’s.
Shauna.
What did she tell me last night? What happened? Something about a locket. Something bad.
Just get home. Get home. Get to bed. Crunching across the snow, down the sidewalk, what a miracle it seemed. Morning. A new day. Each time. A new day. A simple majesty.
How gleaming, how full of wonder, how grand.
How lucky. How lucky I am.
The luckiest girl in the world.
TWENTY-TWO
How silly to make night come at 4:30, dipping down into darkness before even the evening news. Sitting in the wood-panel box at the Green Mill Inn, these endless nights of sundown. Never light. Never light. The closing in of sunshine, the caving in of blue. Banishing hope to spring.
Drawing a blueprint of the house she would one day live in, a colonial house who knows where . . . maybe down in Georgia or maybe Santa Barbara, someplace warm and swimmy with palm-tree summer nights and cool pine winters. No snow. Enough of snow.
“Guess what.”
Beth looking up from her blueprint, cover it up before she sees, she’ll say it’s stupid. Standing there in the doorway. Shauna Boggs. A parka and gloves and a flyaway little smile, rouge, and lip gloss. Hair teased.
She hadn’t seen Shauna for days now, maybe over a week. Not wanting to see anyone. Not wanting to leave the house.
“Um . . . what?”
“I got a surprise for you.”
The clock on the wall behind, above the door, a school clock. 8:30 PM. Gonna be a long night, this one. Bored already, drawing blueprints.
“Oh yeah, what kinda surprise?”
“We got a party to go to. I got you the night off. A birthday party.”
“I don’t know.”
“Look, they said you can just close up. Slow night. And your birthday coming up and all. Anyways, they like you.”
“Yeah, right.”
“Um, look around you. It ain’t exactly Grand Central Station. Call ’em if you want. I don’t mind . . . C’mon, it might be fun.”
“Well . . . alright, maybe just for an hour or so. I still got some bookkeeping.”
“No problem. I think it’s just nice if you show up, you know, just say hi.”
“Yeah, okay. Where’s it at?”
“It’s a surprise, silly. I got a blindfold and everything.”
“Weirdo.”
“C’mon, it’s part of the fun.”
This is a funny gray house out by Route 31. A shitty little wood-clack thing, seems like only one room from the looks of it. Taking off the blindfold. Tah-dah!
Inside the party’s in full swing, blasting Santana from the corner speakers and the girls and guys swimming with beer swill and cigarette smoke playing it up. Playing the part. Not a bad party but Beth wasn’t staying, she knew from the minute they walked in she wasn’t staying.
Not bad people, really . . . just not her cup of tea. Okay, a little low maybe. A little too old, too, frankly. Also, no fucking streamers or nothing. No kind of birthday party, for sure. Shauna probably just got a cake and would spring it on her. Some announcement over the music and the obligatory happy birthday, that’s it.
Let’s just be honest. Not her scene.
“Hey, Shauna, I appreciate this and all, but I kinda feel guilty about leaving. I should go back and clock out at least.”
“No sweat. I understand. Let’s just go see who’s here, say hi, and get back. I invited a bunch of your friends from Hope, maybe they’re upstairs.”
Rolling her eyes, not wanting to be here anymore. Not wanting to think about Shauna inviting her old college friends, here of all places. This dump. She would have to explain . . .
“See lookit. They’re playing your song. Right, Superstar?”
That black circle drop-down and the needle pointing. The Carpenters now, up through the rafters. Karen Carpenter, with a voice like glass.
Up the rickety-rick stairs and to the landing on the right, a murmur of voices coming through the light, smoke.
Into the room and now something’s changed.
“Take a good look.”
The door shut behind her and now something nervous, sinister through the rafters. Look around the room and there is Billy, there is Russ, there is Terrance, there is Randy. Not a single schoolmate. Something’s wrong. Something’s rocky and warbled, greedy eyes and in the corner, tied to the beam, a rope. And now there’s Jeff Cody. Step out like the star. The ringleader. His circus.
The song from downstairs softer now, muffled.
Shauna turns, what role is this, what is happening, or is it happening at all?
“Happy birthday.”
If this were happening, which it’s not happening, can’t be happening, but if it were happening, there would be here a knock on the head, a dull clock, and then a thud. You would see and hear twenty cuckoo birds like an old-fashioned Looney Tune you watched with your dad back home. If this were happening, but of course it can’t be happening, you would be thrown down in the corner on the floorboard planks and before you know it you would be pinned down by God knows who or what but there would be nothing you could do. A circus game called the Jawbreaker, take a ride, buy a ticket.
Those lulling lyrics drifting up the staircase.
If this were not what it is, which is a dream, a nightmare dream that of course you will wake up from, in a cold sweat and look around the pin-quiet room, the safety of home, and sigh and thank God it was all a dream, if this were not a dream it would be you, now, kicking and screaming but now there’s something in your mouth and now there’s something covering your eyes. A blindfold. Tah-dah! What kind of dream is this—a circus with the ringleader, step right up, ride the Tilt-a-Whirl, now the Gravitron, now the Zipper. The ringleader, your Jeff Cody—the one who begged to come to Thanksgiving and begged, pleaded, to take you away with him. Come away with me.
The tiny song, somehow a lullaby.
What strange dream is this with Billy and Russ and Randy and Shauna, too, yes, Shauna, too, her voice from the corner. In this dream she is doing something strange, she is riding the Screamin’ Swing, but no it couldn’t be that she’s yelling, it couldn’t be that she’s shouting, it couldn’t be that she’s egging them on? In this dream that’s not happening she is rabid she is feral she is saying things like that’ll-show-her and yeah-that’s-right and take-her-down-a-peg. Now the Jump N Smile, now the Crazy Wave, now the Rocket Ride, but they would never say you deserve this, they would never laugh and say that, they would never say ha ha now you know don’t fuck with us, little miss perfect.
And now the song, a prayer.
If this were happening, which thank God it could never be, because there could never be a party, a real live party, with folks downstairs smoking and laughing and guzzling it up while upstairs there’s a girl not yet twenty-three and hog-tied and everyone yelling a three-ring ordeal, a Ferris wheel, getting kicked getting sliced getting diced, a knife show, a knife-throwing show, and these things could never happen ’cause if they could then what would be the point of storming the beaches of Normandy, what would be the point of praying to Jesus, what would be the point of singing the soprano part of “Ave Maria,” if these things could be happening?
The tiny song makes itself tinier.
Oh no, what sort of strange dream is this with Jeff Cody, circus master, he is wearing gloves, why is he wearing gloves? Jeff Cody who said sweet nonsense and future promises and love love love, he would never hurt you, could never hurt you. He would die before he hurt you so now you know it’s a dream. In a dream you can never die. Did you know that?
The voice like glass, extinguished.
In a dream you can never experience your own death. See? Have you ever? No. No one has. So, that, too, is a sign that this is obviously a dream, logically a dream. And this is not, this is not, this is not really happening. No, you see Jeff would never hurt you and now you know, with his hand around your throat, playing Tumble Bug, playing Topple Tower, playing Pinwheel, his hands now both around your throat, his hands digging in further, the cameo locket, blue-and-white Wedgwood locket, you’ll give it one day to your baby girl, no, he would not, could not. You can’t die in your dreams, remember? You can’t die before that colonial-style house maybe on the middle of the coast somewhere maybe someplace quiet you can’t die in your dreams, remember that. It’s impossible. He could never. He would never ever. He could never, ever hurt you.
TWENTY-THREE
How many different kinds of silence can there be? Staring at the ocean, a big blue silence, the vastness of the universe, what does it mean? Standing next to your one true love, your reason for living, a long deep red pulling silence. Love me back. Oh please, love me back. Driving in the car at four in the morning, Jeff, Shauna, and Billy, a body in the back . . . a charcoal silence, as fixed as ash.
What will become of us? What have we done? Did we do this? Is this happening? What happened? How did this happen? How did this happen so fast? If so . . . if it is so . . . what does it make me? Who am I now?
I am not who I thought I was.
But then, who am I? Who is this new person I inhabit? A killer. I am a killer.
Driving through the 4 AM snow, wanting to dim the headlights. Wanting to scream. Wanting to unwind the clock. Make the hands move backward. Stop this watch, for God’s sake! Stop it, stop it now, before someone gets hurt. But there is already someone hurt, someone hurt in the back. In the trunk, someone so hurt in fact her eyes are made of glass and she’s staring at me. She’s staring at me through the trunk. Oh Lord, make her stop. But the Lord is not listening. No, no. He will never be listening again. He has lost me. He has left me behind. Or I have left him. I left him when I walked into that tricking room, that grabbing house. Left him for good.
Two headlights peering into the pitch black, making two blare cones of light. Nothing else on earth, only us. Erase us. Erase us.
Jeff coulda let them do more, they wanted to do more, boy, did they. But that was the line. Even as she bled buckets, bled white, he put a stop to it. Flabbergasting, the logic. Something male and owning.
Please God, don’t let anyone see us, don’t let anyone notice us. That’s all we need.
And now Jeff will not speak to me, has not spoken to me since the house, didn’t want me to come. Grunted. But he isn’t speaking to Billy either. This silence is generous.
Up ahead, headlights in the crossroads. Please God, don’t be a cop. Out at four in the morning, maybe someone else coming home from a party? Maybe someone else ducking down, ducking from the cops? Oh Lord, that’s a Crown Vic with a black door. Oh please fucking God. Oh fuck, God, it’s a cop. Now the light is red and the cop is coming toward us. The white-and-black cop car is coming toward us and it’s gonna pull us over and that will be that, jail for life, a body in the back, for God fucking sake. A body in the back! There’s no way out of that one. That is sent down for life, right there.
But the car turns left. Holy shit. Turns left. Away from us. Away from us. We are saved. We are safe. For the moment. Better keep moving, keep moving for miles, add on, add on distance, keep moving for miles through the black blanket night.
Pulling up to the ditch on Route 31. No cars, no sound, no light. The tires on the snow the only sound, a rolling crunch, a destination fulfilled.
And now the car, at a stop. This is it. Now is the time. If I bite my lip I can take it. No one tells me to stay in the car. No one tells me to get out of the car. I am not here. I am nothing again.
In the front, the two doors open and quick, a task, they are out, slamming the door shut, a kiss-off. A stay-put declaration.
Now goes the trunk. Open behind me. I know what’s inside. I made what’s inside. There they go by the side of the car, each taking an end, each with a face made of iron. This is not me doing this. You cannot see me doing this. With my face like this I am in disguise. Not me. Never me.
And now, far away from the light, where will it be? Where to put it? What makes the decision? Maybe crucial? Maybe this is where we slip up. Maybe this part is the great mistake.
Getting out of the car now into the ice-pick cold, walking through the flutter flutter snow. There they are, the air in huffs in front of them, talking. Words making vapor. Whisper air. Keep it secret.
“No, don’t fix her dress.”
“What th—”
“They’ll know we knew her. Fixing her dress is a tip-off.”
Ignoring me still. There she stares, in the bone-white snow under the sharp-teeth trees, black spindle hands reaching out. Take her. Get her off our hands. Hide her, dear fucking Lord. Hide thes
e staring eyes, make them stop looking at me. Stop her, she is blaming me. She is trying to take me with her.
Now they are walking back to the car. Again, not a word to me. Again, nothing.
“What about the tracks?” Billy, nervous.
“The snow will cover it, supposed to get worse.”
Back to the ash killing house, the lights downstairs dim. But still music, voices. Someone turning down the volume. Shh. A happy happy song. KC and the Sunshine Band. Not much sunshine here. Some sunny place out west, a mockery in the snowdrifts.
“Did they hear us?” Billy, taking out a cigarette, not wanting to go in. Cold air puffs and Pall Mall smoke in a jean jacket.
“No, we’re fine. They didn’t see.”
Won’t there be any last words for Shauna? Any final instructions? Maybe an acknowledgment. I am here, Jesus. Something to hold me up. Something to cling to, late night, keep me standing.
“Boggs, you say one word . . . you’re next.”
A kick in the teeth.
That sallow wooden house on the outskirts of town, two windows above looking down, watching me. You know what you did. We all know what you did. A sapping KC sunshine song, laughter through the snow down in flurries. Snow laughter, giggle snow. But that laughter and that sunshine song not for me. That laughter and that sunshine song never for me again.
PART V
ONE
Rich! Who’da thunk it? Jesus, 2003, after all those years of painting houses, drywalling, installing floors for peanuts. Now this. Seventy. Five. Thousand. Dollars. And here, at this place, this manna place, it was just getting better. Mount Pleasant Meadows, Michigan, a heaven place, a dreams-come-true place where you bet ten bucks on the ponies, one hundred bucks back, one hundred on the ponies, one thousand back. This last week alone, Troy Boggs had made five thousand. Five thousand in one week! Oh, what was he thinking? Why hadn’t he come sooner?
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