by Em Garner
And the way I did when I killed the man in the woods behind our house. The one I don’t think about, ever, because the memory makes me shake and sweat and want to pass out. I don’t remember the feeling of his hands on me, the sourness of his breath, or the stink of his sweat. I don’t remember the way his blood was hot and sticky on my hands, or the sound he made when I gut-stabbed him. I never think of those things because I don’t want to remember that once I killed a man, or that I’d do it again if I have to.
With shaking hands I turn the door handle. Slowly. The door creaks, so I open it slowly, too. I’m tensing, listening for the sound of screams or moans, even the shuffle of feet. I can hear the low mutter of voices, one low and deep and therefore not Opal or my mom. A man’s voice. I can’t make out what he’s saying, but it sounds urgent and important.
I slip through the door and stand in the kitchen, breathing hard, listening. They’re still by the front door. If I turn to my left, I can sneak through the family room and come at him from the front. If I turn to my right, it’s a short skip and jump through the dining room to attack from the side. Faster, but potentially more dangerous because I’ll be revealing myself right away, and I can’t remember if the furniture in the dining room’s been moved around. Also, I hear Opal saying something but not what, and I don’t know where she and my mom are.
When I hear my mom cry out, I don’t waste any more time thinking. My mind goes blank. The hammer goes up.
I’m screaming when I round the corner at top speed. I hit a chair, knock it out of the way. Pain bursts into my shins, but I’m not even limping as I cross the room, ready to bust in the face of whoever’s hurting my mom and sister.
I’m moving too fast to stop, even when I see who it is. My socks slide on the floor when I try to slow down. I stumble, sliding, and bury the hammer into the wall, up to my wrists.
Just about a foot from Dillon’s head. Nobody says a word. The only sound is my harsh breathing and Opal’s small squeak. Dillon seems stunned speechless, eyes wide, jaw dropped. He hasn’t even moved. If I let go of the hammer, I can probably pull myself free of the hole I’ve made in the wall, but my fingers won’t release.
From behind me I hear a low, muttered garble. Not words. Not humming. Not a groan or a grunt, either. It takes me a few mangled seconds to figure out what it is, and when I do, I manage to pull the hammer and my hands from the wall.
My mom’s laughing.
Opal, standing behind her, looks back and forth from me to Dillon. “I thought you liked him, Velvet!”
Dillon lets out the breath he must’ve been holding. “Velvet, are you all right?”
It takes me a few more seconds to realize that I can see everyone and everything because the lights are on. Just one here in the front hall, one in the kitchen, one in the family room. Dillon’s hair has fallen over his eyes and he shakes his head to get it out of the way. I put the hammer on top of the small table where we usually put the mail that needs to be taken down to the mailbox.
“Dillon.” My voice sounds harsh.
My mom’s still laughing gently, her eyes bright. She shakes her head and reaches for me. She hugs me hard, her hand stroking my hair. When I pull away to look at her, it seems impossible that after everything we’ve been through, I could be annoyed with her, but I am.
“It’s not funny!” I scowl.
My mom shakes her head. Her gaze goes to Dillon, then to me. She doesn’t speak, and her smile’s crooked, drooping on one side, but I get her meaning. She’s echoing what Opal said.
“I do like him,” I say. I look at him. “I just didn’t know it was him. God, you guys. I thought… I thought…”
Then they’re all hugging and patting me. Even Dillon gets pulled into it by my mom, until we’re all in this great group hug that should feel awkward but makes me laugh, too, when I start to see the humor in all of it. Or maybe the only way to react any longer to any of this is to laugh, because if we don’t, we might as well just give up.
“I’m sorry, Dillon.”
He shrugs. “No problem. I guess I should’ve called first, huh?”
I roll my eyes at his joke. My mom backs up, tugging on Opal’s sleeve. Opal’s clearly not ready to leave, her eyes wide as she stares at me and Dillon. Still, she gives in to my mom’s tugging and they head for the family room to leave me and Dillon standing in embarrassed silence at the front door.
“I’m sorry, Velvet. Really. I didn’t know I’d scare you like that. But… wow.” Dillon lifts the hammer, hefting its weight. “Impressive. You really could’ve taken me out with this.”
“I…”
He shakes his head. “It’s okay. I understand.”
We’ve all had to do things we normally wouldn’t have. Dillon’s seen a lot of Connies at his mom’s work. I’m sure he does understand. And suddenly, I want to tell him my story, the one I’ve never told anyone. Nobody knows.
“There was a man in the woods,” I tell him, blurting it out so I can’t stop myself. “I went out to get some wood for the fire. This was before, before now.”
I’m babbling, but Dillon just nods and takes my elbow with a glance toward the dining room. He seats me at one of the dining room chairs and takes the one across from me. He sits with my knees between his, his hands holding mine. His hands are big and warm.
I look at him. “My mom had gone away. She knew she was getting sick. She left. We didn’t… I thought she’d be back.”
It sounds so stupid now to say it, but Dillon only nods again.
“It was just me and Opal. The power was going on and off, on and off. We could hear sirens and smell smoke. I tried listening to the radio but there wasn’t much, just that emergency warning system thing they had running all the time back then.”
Dillon remembers this, of course. His hands squeeze mine. I’m grateful for the touch.
“Anyway, it was cold. Not like it had been in the summer, when it started. It was starting to get cold, so I went out in the backyard to get some sticks. We had wood from the woodpile, but no kindling. It was getting dark and Opal was inside, watching a movie on her portable DVD player, since the power had gone out again. We thought it would be back on soon. I mean, it usually did come back on. Anyway, I was picking up sticks. And the man came out from behind a tree.”
“A Connie?”
I shook my head. “No. He looked scuffed up, his clothes torn, beard stubble, like that. His hands were rough. I remember that his hands were rough.”
“Did he hurt you, Velvet?” Dillon sounds angry, and he squeezes my hands again.
“He tried.”
“What happened?”
I take a deep breath. This is like pulling off a bandage, or more like a scab. It’s going to hurt, and ugly stuff’s going to come out, but it will heal better in the end. “He grabbed me. He was muttering something about the end of the world. Well, we all thought that, huh? And it didn’t end. I don’t know if he was crazy, or just bad. I didn’t recognize him, anyway, though that doesn’t mean anything. He could’ve lived a few houses down, or he could’ve been from far away. It doesn’t matter. He put his hands on me, and his voice changed. He called me names.”
Dillon doesn’t ask me to repeat them, and I don’t want to. They’re the names men use to hurt women, but that man didn’t know me. They didn’t matter.
“He started… trying…” I swallow hard and my voice drops to a whisper. “I had a little hand ax with me. To cut the kindling.”
Dillon frowns. He passes his thumbs over the backs of my hands. When he shifts, our knees touch.
“I buried it in his stomach,” I say, and wait for Dillon’s face to twist with disgust.
It doesn’t. “You’re amazing, Velvet, do you know that?”
“Why? Because I killed a man?” My voice is small.
Hard. I turn my hands in his so our palms press together.
“Because you’ve done all this, everything, and you keep going. You’re so brave. And you came out of that
doorway with that hammer.…”
“I could’ve hurt you!”
“But you didn’t,” Dillon says. “And if I’d been someone bad, someone trying to hurt your mom and Opal, you’d have protected them. You’re amazing. And beautiful. And brave. And strong.”
I hitch in a breath. Dillon barely knows me, but I can’t deny that what he’s saying feels good. “I killed him and left him out in the woods. When the soldiers came the next day, they found him. They asked me who he was, but they didn’t ask me if I killed him. And I didn’t tell them.”
“I don’t blame you. Listen, Velvet, lots of people had to do things they aren’t proud of. It’s been a bad year and a half.”
“Have you?” I’m not sure what I want him to say. If I want him to be like me, or if I’d rather he has stayed clean.
Dillon frowns. “I’ve had to do bad things, sure.”
“Kill someone?” My voice rasps. “Have you had to do that?”
“No.” He shakes his head. “But I’m not sorry you did it, just sorry you had to do it.”
“It doesn’t just go away,” I tell him. “Even if you pretend it didn’t happen, or you don’t think about it. It doesn’t go away. Not ever. Dillon, I was so angry, so scared, I just hit out at him. I killed him because I could.”
“Because he was attacking you,” Dillon says quietly.
It’s my turn to shake my head. “Because I could. I was able. Because I felt I had no other choice. It’s the way the Connies are. They do what they do because they don’t know how to stop themselves, and they can.”
“You’re not a Connie, Velvet.”
I tell him something else I’ve never shared with anyone. “I drank ThinPro, Dillon. Not a lot of it. I wanted to wear a bikini that summer, because the popular girls did. My parents had cases of it all over the place, even though both of them told me it wasn’t for me, that I didn’t need to lose weight or anything like that. So I snuck some.”
I think we both know what that means, or could mean. It’s a weight I’ve been carrying with me for over a year and it’s only gotten heavier over the past couple of months.
“You’re not a Connie,” Dillon says again. With my hands in his and his eyes staring into mine, I can believe him. At least for those few moments. We both know that could change, possibly at any moment. We just don’t know. Nobody does. But for now he’s right.
“Thanks.”
He smiles. “You’re welcome.”
I remember Craig and hang my head. I sigh. It’s my turn to squeeze Dillon’s fingers. “There’s a body in my basement.”
“What?”
I look up. “I found it just a while ago. It’s our neighbor. He’s been dead for a while.”
I can tell by the look on his face that Dillon thinks I’m joking. He doesn’t let go of my hands, though. He just tilts his head like he’s trying to figure me out. “Really?”
“Yeah. Really.” I want to laugh again, though it’s not funny.
“Did you…?”
“No.”
Dillon looks relieved, something I can’t blame him for. “So what are you gonna do?”
“I guess I should call someone.” There will be a lot of questions I don’t want to answer. The police will come and do what? Take him away? Maybe take me and Opal away, too, make us leave. “I don’t want the cops to come.”
“Yeah, I guess you wouldn’t.” He doesn’t make it sound bad.
“Will you help me get him out of there? I don’t want Opal to see.”
He nods after a second, though he still looks wary. “Sure. Of course.”
Again, a weight is lifted. Having Dillon here is more than just tingly and delicious, like a cute boy stopping over to say hi. He’s making me feel better about everything.
“Let me serve them dinner first. Get them settled. Then we can keep them distracted and do it, okay?”
“Okay. What’s for dinner?”
“Spaghetti?” I’m already standing. My legs don’t feel wobbly, but I don’t let go of Dillon’s hands.
He doesn’t let go of me, either. “Enough for one more?”
“Of course.”
We stand there staring at each other like idiots, until Opal shouts, “Hey! What’s for dinner?”
Then we laugh and our hands unlink, not like they’re breaking apart but more like they’re just easing into a separation that could end at any moment, bringing our fingers back together. We work together in the kitchen, and I discover there are lots of things I like about Dillon besides his hair and eyes and smile. He tells good jokes and stories. He keeps Opal occupied. He even figures out how to set up the TV and DVD player so she and my mom can watch a movie, since there’s nothing but snow on the regular channels.
“How long will your genny last?” he asks after we’ve washed the dishes and made our secret way down to the basement.
“I don’t know. I figure a day or so before I have to refill it, but I’m going to turn it off when we go to bed.”
“Good idea. I can bring you some more gas tomorrow,” Dillon says. “It’ll be easier than you riding your bike.”
“You don’t have to.” I pause in front of the workroom.
“I want to. Is he… in there?” Dillon sounds a little nervous.
Craig doesn’t look as scary now that I know what I’m expecting. And there really isn’t much of him left to wrap inside the tarp. We secure it with duct tape. He doesn’t weigh much at all, though I know I’d never have been able to lift him by myself. Together, Dillon and I get the bundle up the stairs and out the garage without Opal even looking up from the TV.
We carry Craig all the way around the house and into the woods, as far back as we can with only the light from the family room to guide us. We settle him against some fallen trees. I have a shovel and we take turns digging a hole. The ground’s rocky, and in the end, it’s very shallow, but we slide him into it and cover him with dirt and rocks and the limbs of fallen trees.
“Do you want to say something?” Dillon sounds out of breath.
“Should we?” I don’t really know what to say. “Umm… Craig was a good neighbor and he deserves better than this. And… this isn’t how it should’ve happened, but the world’s changed a lot and I guess this is the best we can do.”
I feel like I should recite a poem or something, but nothing comes to mind. The whole situation is entirely bizarre and yet compared to everything else that’s gone on in the world, burying my neighbor in the backyard doesn’t really seem so bad.
We get back in the house just as the movie’s ending. I check on Opal, who’s asleep with her head in my mom’s lap. My mom’s stroking her hair, her eyes heavy lidded, and I leave them both to clean up in the kitchen.
Dillon and I scrub our hands and arms at the sink, glad for hot water and lots of soap. It’s not a shower, but I might still get one later. For now this is good enough.
He blows a handful of suds at me. That seems like a good idea, and I blow one back. Then he splashes me, and I can’t let that go without retaliation.
I’m not sure how it ends up that he’s got me in his arms, but the kiss is everything a first kiss should be. Soft and slow and sweet… and magic.
Dillon pulls away, looking worried. “Sorry, Velvet, is that okay? That I did that?”
I nod, smiling. “Yeah. Definitely.”
He kisses me again, even slower this time, and I know that while I may have thousands of memories I want to forget, this isn’t one of them.
TWENTY-THREE
WE HAVE A COUPLE OF WEEKS TOGETHER, me and Dillon, in which he comes over every day after his work is finished at the Conkennel. He takes me to the post office to pick up the assistance checks and to the bank to cash them, to the store for groceries and gas station to buy gas for the generator. He spends time with my sister like she’s his and my mom as though she’s normal. Dillon makes life normal for me.
I don’t know what I’d do without him.
He helps Opal with her
homework. He walks her through the math problems I’d have struggled with. He’s patient with her. He promises her a game of Uno if she finishes on time, without whining, and Opal does the work seriously, nibbling her pencil.
“Hey, Opal,” Dillon says. “Do you think you’d be okay here with your mom while I take Velvet someplace?”
I look up from the pot of beans I’ve been stirring on the fire. Yeah, we can use the stove, but beans have to cook a long time, and I don’t want to use the generator when I don’t have to. Dillon found me a cast-iron pot that will cook them slowly and makes them taste better. I meet his eyes across the room.
Opal shrugs. “I guess so. Will you be back before it gets dark?”
With spring on the way, the nights take longer to get here, but Opal still doesn’t like to be left alone in the dark, even with Mom. I wouldn’t, either. Even so, I’m surprised she agreed to Dillon’s request.
“I promise.”
“Are you taking her to the store?” Opal asks.
She loves going to the grocery store and I hate taking her, because she always wants to spend our minimal money on junk cereals and candy, no matter how many times I have to tell her that just because the list of foods we’re approved to buy includes them, that doesn’t mean we have to buy them.
“If she needs to go. Velvet?”
I want to say yes, just to get out of the house for a short while, though I know I don’t have any money. “Sure. Mom, I’m going to go with Dillon for a while, okay? You stay here with Opal.”
It’s still hard to know what she hears and understands, though every day there’s a little more glimmer in her eyes. Every day she moves a little less unsteadily. She dresses herself, feeds herself, and uses the bathroom. She doesn’t talk, though. I know she can—she has a voice, I mean. And she can communicate sometimes, too, though more often than not, she simply does whatever it is we tell her to do. But words seem beyond her.
Right now she’s sitting on the couch, flipping through an ancient home and garden magazine she’s looked at a dozen times already. Maybe more. She studies the pictures, her face blank. She turns the page. Sometimes she turns the page backward to look at it again.
