Half an Inch of Water: Stories

by Percival Everett

  Harold sat beside him. “That’s going to be a long conversation.” He looked at the box. “It’s not like this guy can be helped now. I say you give it to Keasey and forget about it.”

  “See, that bothers me. Keasey has a head in a box. What’s going to keep him from putting my head in a box? He’s going to see that I opened the thing and then he’s going to know that I know he’s running around chopping off people’s heads. Where does that leave me?”

  “Then maybe you should go to the cops,” Harold said.

  “You’re right about that conversation. I don’t even know if this is fucking Keasey’s truck. It might be the dead guy’s truck for all I know. And I’m the one with his head, driving his truck. I tell them I went down there to pick up a package for a guy for a thousand dollars. What do you think will be their first question?”

  “What did you think was going to be in the box?”

  “What?” Donnie said.

  “That would be their first question,” Harold said. “What did you think would be in the box?”

  “Yeah, right, and what do I tell them?”

  Harold yawned.

  “Sorry to fucking bore you,” Donnie snapped.

  “It’s the middle of the night.”

  “It’s morning,” Donnie said. “It’s morning and I’ve got a goddamn head in a box.”

  “Let’s tape it up,” Harold said. “Then you take it to Keasey and everything will be good.”

  “You’re no help,” Donnie said. He pushed the box back into the bed and shut the gate. “Listen, sorry I got you out of bed. Think about me while you’re banging Shannon in there. Think about your old friend Donnie driving around in a pyscho’s truck with a severed head in a box.”

  “What do you want me to say?” Harold asked. “I don’t know what you should do.”

  Donnie got in and started the engine. He didn’t say anything else, just drove off into the morning.

  Harold was dressed for work and sitting at the kitchen table when Shannon walked in.

  “So, what was that all about?” she asked. “Is Donnie all right? He looked like shit.”

  “Donnie’s Donnie. Believe me, you don’t want to know what’s going on with him. Sorry he woke you up.”

  “I’ll go back to bed. Wanna come?”

  “Don’t tempt me,” Harold said. “Work, work, work, work, work.”

  “Well, don’t forget to eat some lunch.”

  “Yes, Mother.”

  On his way to the garage, Harold spotted a white Malibu in his rearview mirror. It came up on him fast and rode his bumper. He couldn’t make out who it was through the tinted windshield. The driver of the Chevy flashed his lights and blew his horn. Harold pulled into the parking lot of the Tasty Freeze. He got out of his Duster. Keasey got out of the Malibu.

  “What’s the problem?” Harold asked.

  “Hey, where’s your friend?” Keasey asked. He leaned forward, his posture combative.

  “How the fuck should I know? I’m on my way to work.” Harold turned back to his car.

  “I’m talking to you,” Keasey said.

  “Give me a break, man. You made some arrangement with Donnie. I ain’t his father, his brother, or his guardian.” Harold reached for the door handle.

  Keasey grabbed Harold’s arm.

  Harold didn’t like that and he liked Keasey’s attitude even less. He pulled back and punched Keasey hard in his left side. The man buckled, held on to the rear fender of the Duster.

  “I told you to leave me the fuck alone.”

  “Donnie never showed up with my shit.”

  “Not my problem,” Harold said.

  “He’s still got my truck,” Keasey said, not yet fully erect.

  “Again, not my problem.”

  Keasey still held his arm against his side. “Sorry I came on so strong.” He seemed suddenly a completely different person. “Did Donnie get in touch with you? Call you?”

  “I’m going to work.”

  “He didn’t look in the box, did he?”

  Harold wasn’t listening, but he heard. He got behind the wheel and closed his door, started the engine, and left Keasey standing there. In his mirror, Keasey looked like a much smaller man. More, he looked scared, really scared. And this made Harold scared.

  Harold pulled into his parking spot at the garage and felt his fingers clench the steering wheel more tightly. His mouth went dry. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up. Keasey’s bronze Silverado was parked behind the garage. Harold was terrified and angry in turns. He got out and walked to the pickup. The bed was empty. Donnie was nowhere to be seen. Harold called his name. He walked around the building, ending up at the door to his office. It was still locked.

  Inside, everything appeared in order, just as he’d left it, just as it had looked every morning for the past eight years. He dreaded Keasey coming and finding his truck at his place. He walked into the work bays and rolled open the big doors. He then went back to the Silverado. The bed was empty. The doors were locked. Harold could see inside. There was no box. At least there was no box. Harold told himself that if Donnie survived this mess, he would kill him.

  Business went as usual that day. In fact, business was pretty good. People picked up their vehicles, paid in full, and left. Others dropped off their cars and trucks and left without complaint. And not a word from Donnie or Keasey. Still, Keasey’s truck was parked behind the garage.

  Harold called Shannon at home and asked her if Donnie had called or come by. He had not. He didn’t have a number for Keasey. He thought about calling the cops and telling them the truck had been left there, but decided that he would sound like a nut or, worse, like somebody trying to cover his ass.

  It came time to close up the shop and the truck was still there. He wouldn’t worry about it tonight. He did hope that Donnie was all right, at least alive. He’d just locked the door connecting his office to the service area when he heard a noise. He unlocked the door and looked into the garage. With the big doors down it was pretty dark in there. He reached to the wall beside him and flipped the switch. Nothing happened. He grabbed the flashlight from the bracket by the door. He shined the light past the Land Cruiser in the middle bay and onto the back wall. Nothing. Another sound came from behind him in the office. He tried the light in there as well, but it didn’t come on. He thought he saw someone pass by the window. He got scared. He went to his desk, opened his drawer, and took out his .38. He checked the chamber and saw it was loaded. He picked up the phone and called the cops on speed dial.

  “Can you send a car to Harold’s Garage, over on Cypress? I think I have an intruder.”

  Harold heard a louder noise from outside, like an empty fuel can falling over. He let himself out the office door. He could see better outside and so he turned off his flashlight. He walked along the wall of the building. He added a new fear to his current one, that the police would show up and shoot the man with the gun. He made his way to the back and the Silverado. He looked around.

  It might have been there the whole time and he hadn’t seen it. Regardless, it was there now. The cardboard box was sitting on an oil drum set against the wall of the garage. Suddenly it was hard for him to see, as if the darkness had fallen extra fast. He switched on his light and looked all around.

  He looked at the box and stepped closer to it. He opened the flaps and peered inside. He shone the light into the box and could just make out the mass of light brown, maybe blond hair and maybe an eye. The box stank.

  And now the police were on the way. His head was swimming. Fucking Donnie, was all he could think. Then he heard footfalls on the gravel around the corner. He hadn’t heard a car, so he didn’t think it was the cops. But if it was and he had the pistol up, they might shoot him. They would shoot him. He saw no beams of flashlights approaching the corner and so he thought it probably wasn’t the police. He was shaking. He looked at the head, trying to figure out what to do.

  When he looked up again he saw someon
e large. Larger than either Donnie or Keasey, but something wasn’t quite right. He shined his light at the figure. The man was wearing a muddy suit, but above the collar of the filthy jacket was nothing. His once-white shirt was red and black, but there was no head.

  Harold felt like he wanted to pass out. Was this a joke? The man, the body, was huge, six feet without the head. Harold looked at the box, picked it up, and pushed it toward the suit.

  “I take it this is yours.”

  The muddy hands reached out and took the box, and the body walked away into the darkness.

  When the police arrived, they found Harold sitting with his back against the front tire of the Silverado.

  “Sorry, boys, it was a false alarm. The power went off and I’m afraid I got spooked.”

  The cops looked around. “Are you all right?” one of them asked. “Yeah.”

  “Well, your lights are back on,” the other said.

  “Okay,” Harold said.

  “Sir, are you sure you’re all right?”

  “I’m sure.” Harold stood and nodded.

  The police left. Harold went back into his office. He switched off the light in the service area and locked the door. His hands were shaking. He walked over to his desk and was about to put away his pistol, but thought better of it. He put the gun in his pocket.

  He sat on the sofa and switched on the television. Somewhere on the West Coast somebody was playing baseball. The daylight was startling even on the screen. Harold knew he would never see Donnie again. He knew also that Keasey was gone, along with his pregnant wife. The Silverado? He’d have to figure out what to do with that. He’d claim it was abandoned, maybe. Then he stopped thinking about all of those things, realizing that he was trying to distract himself. What had he just seen? What would he tell Shannon? Would he tell Shannon anything? Would he show up for work the next day? He looked back at the game. It was so sunny in California.

  Graham Greene

  I had done some work on the reservation nearly ten years earlier, helping to engineer an irrigation ditch that brought water from a dammed high creek down to the pastures of Arapaho Ranch. I slept on a half dozen different sofas during the seven months of the project. The tribe paid me well and I left, thought that was the end of it. Then just a few weeks ago I received a letter from a woman named Roberta Cloud. I was not so much surprised by the call as I was by the fact that she was still alive. She’d actually had a friend write for her as she was blind now, the letter stated. The friend said that Roberta needed my help. It was a short letter, to the point, without many details. The letter ended with an overly formal “Until I see you I am sincerely, Roberta Cloud.”

  I made the drive up from Fort Collins on a Thursday. I left in the morning and stopped at Dick’s Dogs in Laramie for an ill-advised early lunch. I loved the dogs, but they never loved me back. I drove into a stiff early-winter wind that caused my Jeep to burn more gas than usual. The high-profile, flat-faced vehicle felt like it was on its heels as I pressed into the breeze. I hit Lander midafternoon and drove straight through to Ethete. Ethete was just a gas station with a convenience store. There was a yellow light at the intersection that flashed yellow in all four directions. I stopped and grabbed myself a cup of coffee.

  A heavyset woman rang up my drink and the packaged cake I’d put on the counter.

  “Think it will snow?” I asked.

  “Eventually,” she said.

  I nodded. “Can you tell me how to get to Roberta Cloud’s house?”

  “She’s on Seventeen Mile Road.”

  “Where on the road? Closer to here or Riverton?”

  “Did you know it ain’t seventeen miles, that road?”

  “How long is it?”

  “Changes,” she said. “I’ve never measured it myself. Some people say it’s only thirteen miles. Dewey St. Clair said it’s nineteen, but I think he just said that because he was always late for work.”

  “How will I know Roberta’s house?”

  “She’s at the first bend. There’s a purple propane tank in the yard. Big one.”

  “Thanks.”

  I drove back to Seventeen Mile Road and turned east. After a couple of miles I saw the bend and there was the big purple tank. Someone had scrawled Indian Country across it in white paint, but the last letter of the first word and the last two of the second were worn off, so it read India Count. I rolled into the yard and waited behind the wheel for a few minutes. A black dog came trotting from the house next door. I got out and opened the back of my Jeep. I placed a carton of cigarettes on a stack of three new dishtowels and a twenty-dollar bill on top of that. The dog walked me to the door.

  I knocked lightly. I didn’t remember Roberta all that well. I recalled only that she was the oldest person I had ever talked to. She looked to be ninety back then. The gift was customary. I didn’t know if she smoked, but the tobacco was important. I knocked harder and a woman called for me to enter. I did.

  Roberta Cloud sat in a rocker across the room, backlit by the sun through a window. She didn’t rock.

  “Ms. Cloud?”

  “Yes?”

  “It’s Jack Keene.”

  “Mr. Keene, you came.”

  “Yes ma’am. You call, I come. That’s the way it works.”

  “I could get used to that,” she said.

  “I have a few things for you,” I told her.

  “Thank you, Mr. Keene.” She pointed to the table.

  I put down the towels, cigarettes, and money. “Please, call me Jack.”

  “Sit down, Jack.”

  I sat on the sofa under the window. The sun came through the glass and hit my neck.

  “I was wondering if you got my letter,” she said.

  “You didn’t give a phone number and I knew I could get here faster than the mail.”

  “And here you are.”

  “Here I am. What can I do to help you?”

  “I want you to find my son.”

  “Ma’am?”

  “My son. I’m one hundred and two years old. I’m going to die and I want to see my son one last time. I haven’t seen him in a bunch of years, maybe thirty.”

  “Ms. Cloud, I’m not a detective.”

  “He’s a good boy. I was twenty when I had him and he never gave me any trouble.”

  I did the math. “Ms. Cloud, that would make your son eighty-two years old.”

  “I reckon that’s right.”

  In my head I did more math. I was told once that the average Native American man lives to be forty-four. I wasn’t sure I believed the statistic, it being so shocking and sad, but I was certain it wasn’t a gross exaggeration. Ms. Cloud’s son would be defying the odds if he were still alive.

  “So, you’re telling me you haven’t seen your son since he was fifty-two years old.”

  “His name is Davy.”

  “Do you know where I should look for David?”

  “Davy. His name is Davy. That’s what’s on his birth paper. His name is Davy.”

  “Davy.” I looked at Roberta Cloud’s wrinkled face, her cloudy eyes. I wondered if she could see at all.

  “When I met you years ago I knew you were a good man,” she said. “And here you are.”

  “I’m glad you think that,” I said.

  “That’s why I wrote to you.”

  I didn’t know whether to feel flattered or like a sucker. “Ma’am, I have to say that I don’t think I’m the person to try to find Davy.”

  She nodded. “You’ll find him. I believe with all my heart that you will find him.”

  “Why do you believe that, ma’am?”

  “Let’s just say I have a good feeling about you.” And then she let out a high little laugh that seemed incongruous.

  “I see.”

  “The last I heard he was working in the restaurant in Lander. The restaurant would be a good place to start.”

  “There are many restaurants in Lander, Ms. Cloud. Do you know the name of the restaurant?”
/>   “No, I don’t.” She reached over to the table beside her rocker and picked up a photograph. She pretended to look at it and then pushed it toward me.

  “Ms. Cloud, eighty-two is kind of old to be working in a restaurant. Working anywhere.”

  “Here’s a picture of Davy.”

  I took the photo and looked at it. I looked at the olive-skinned man with a long braid. He looked familiar. The man in the picture looked to be in his midforties. “It’s an old picture, Ms. Cloud. Do you think I’ll be able to recognize him?”

  “You’ll know him when you see him,” she said.

  I wanted to ask her if she was sure he was still alive, but thought better of it.

  “What’s his birthdate?” I asked.

  “The second of December,” she said quickly.

  “The year?”

  She directed her useless eyes at the ceiling. “I don’t know,” she said. Maybe she was crying.

  “Ms. Cloud,” I started.

  “Mr. Keene,” she said, her voice softer than before. “I’m going to die in one week. I can’t stop it, that’s the way it is. I know you will find my Davy.”

  There was nothing for me to say. Actually, there were many things I could have said, but none of them to Roberta Cloud. But I said the one thing that I could say to her and that was “Yes ma’am.”

  “Well, you had better hurry, Mr. Keene. The clock’s ticking.” She laughed.

  Needless to say, I did not. Hurry, that is. What was I supposed to hurry up and do? I rose, bid her good-bye, and walked out into the cold March air. I looked at the propane tank and was sorry it had been so easy to spot. I stood just outside the door and heard no movement from inside. I wondered briefly what had prompted me to respond to the old woman’s letter. Briefly, because I answered the question in short order. I was there because I was a stupid do-gooder, a typical idiot with a slight messianic complex. I thought I’d come up here and the old woman would ask for something simple, like a repair on the aforementioned propane tank, and I would do it, feel good about myself, and help out an old woman. I got what I deserved for being a nice guy.

  I climbed into my car and drove to the reservation office. Maybe this would be simple. Perhaps Davy Cloud, if he was still alive, which I doubted, was living only miles away on the reservation. As I parked and got out I peered up to see that the sun was giving in to a sky that looked like snow. Inside, I found a lone woman sitting at a desk behind a long, high counter.