Down River

by John Hart

  She’d told the preacher that she and Danny were going to be married. She’d said the same to me, but about Gray Wilson.

  He was going to marry me.

  Danny Faith. Gray Wilson.

  Both were dead.

  Everything took new meaning; and while nothing was certain, a sense of dread overtook me. I thought of the last thing the preacher had told me, the last words Miriam had said before she fled the church and its minister.

  There is no God.

  Who would say something like that to a man of faith? She was gone. Lost.

  And I’d been so willing to not see it.

  I tried to call Grace, but got no answer. When I called my father’s house, Janice told me he was out after dogs again. No, she said. Miriam was not there. Grace either.

  “Did you know that she was in love with Danny?” I asked.

  “Who?”

  “Miriam.”

  “Don’t be absurd.”

  I hung up the phone.

  She knew nothing, not a damn thing, and I drove faster, accelerated until the car felt light beneath me. I could still be wrong.

  Please, God, let me be wrong.

  I turned onto the farm. Grace would be there. Outside, maybe, but she’d be there. I crossed the cattle guard and stopped the car. My heart hammered against my ribs, but I did not get out. The dog on the porch had tall triangular ears and a filthy black coat. He lifted his head and stared at me. Blood soaked his muzzle. Teeth glinted red.

  Two more dogs came around the corner of the house, one black, the other brown. Burrs and hitchhikers infested their matted coats, snot ringed their nostrils, and one had shit caked in the long fur on his back legs. They loped along the wall, kept their snouts down, but teeth showed at the sides. One lifted his head and panted in my direction, pink tongue out, eyes as eager and quick as darting birds.

  I looked back to the dog on the porch. Big. Black as hell. Bloody rivulets dripped from the top step. No movement in the house, door closed fast. The other dogs joined the first, up the stairs and onto the porch. One passed too close and suddenly the first was on it, a whirl of black fur and gnashing teeth. It was over in seconds. The interloper made a noise like a human scream, then scuttled away, tail down, one ear in shreds. I watched him disappear around the house.

  That left two dogs on the porch.

  Licking the floor.

  I opened the cell, called Robin. “I’m at Dolf’s,” I told her. “You need to get out here.”

  “What’s happening?”

  “Something bad. I don’t know.”

  “I need more than that.”

  “I’m in the car. I see blood on the porch.”

  “Wait for me, Adam.”

  I looked at the blood dripping down the steps. “I can’t do that,” I said, and hung up. I opened the door slowly, watching. One foot out, then the other. The 12 gauge was in the trunk. Loaded. I reached for the trunk latch. The dogs looked up when it popped, then went back to what they were doing. Five steps, I guessed. Five steps to the shotgun. Fifteen feet to the dogs.

  I left the door open, backed along the side of the car, feeling for the loose trunk. I got a finger under the metal and lifted. It rose in silence and I risked a glance inside. The gun pointed in, barrel first. My hand closed around the stock. Eyes on the dogs.

  The gun came out, smooth and slick. I cracked the barrel to check the loads. Empty. Damn. Jamie must have unloaded it.

  I looked at the porch. One dog was still muzzle-down, but the big one stared at me, unmoving. I risked a glance in the trunk. The box of shells was on the far side, tipped over, still closed. I stretched for it, lost my view of the porch. The stock clanged against the car and my fingers closed on the box. I straightened, anticipating the hard silent rush, but the dog was still on the porch. He blinked, and the painted tongue spilled out.

  I fumbled at the lid, opened the box. Smooth, plastic shells. Brass caps bright against the red. I got two between my fingers and slipped them in, eased the gun closed, flipped the safety off. And just like that, the dynamic changed.

  That was the thing about guns.

  I put shoulder to stock and made for the porch, checking the far corners for other dogs. More than three dogs in the pack. The others had to be somewhere.

  Ten feet, then eight.

  The alpha dog lowered its head. Lips rippled, black and shiny on the inside, jaws two inches apart. The growl rumbled in its throat, grew louder so that the other dog looked up and joined in; both of them, teeth bared. The big one stepped closer and hair rose on my neck. Primal, that sound. I heard my father’s words: Only a matter of time before they find a streak of bold.

  Another step. Close now. Close enough to see the floor.

  The pool of blood spread wide and deep, so dark it could pass for black. It was smeared where they’d licked it, stepped in it, but parts of it were smooth, like paint cut with fine lines where it slipped between the boards. From the pool to the front door I could see drag marks and bloody handprints.

  Blood on the door.

  But this was not a dog attack. I knew that at a glance. It was the way the blood pooled, how it had already turned as tacky as glue.

  Scavengers, I told myself. Nothing more.

  I angled to the side of the steps and the dogs tracked every step, shoulders hunched, heads low. I gave them plenty of room, but they did not move. We froze like that. Gun up, teeth bared.

  Then the alpha dog flowed down the stairs and across the yard. He stopped once and seemed to grin, and the other dog joined him. They loped over the grass and disappeared into the trees.

  I mounted the steps, still watching for the dogs, and crossed the porch as quietly as I could. The smell of copper filled my nose, bloody paw prints streaked the floor. I turned the knob slowly, pushed the door with a fingertip.

  Grace curled on the floor, blood around her, black dress dark and wet with it. She clutched her stomach. Her feet pushed feebly against the floor, church shoes slipping in the fine, red film. Blood welled from between her fingers. I followed her eyes.

  Miriam sat on the edge of a white chair across the room, facing Grace. She leaned forward, elbows on her knees, hair hanging over her face. The gun dangled from her right hand, a small automatic, something blue and oiled. I stepped into the room, pointed the 12 at Miriam. She straightened, flicked the hair from her face, and pointed the pistol at Grace. “She took him from me,” Miriam said.

  “Put the gun down.”

  “We were going to be married.” She paused, scrubbed away tears. “He loved me.” She jabbed with the gun. “Not her. That bitch aunt was lying.”

  “I’ll listen, Miriam. I want to listen to everything. But put the gun down first.”

  “No.”

  “Miriam—”

  “No!” she screamed. “You put it down!”

  “He used you, Miriam.”

  “Put it down!”

  I took another step. “I can’t do that.”

  “I’ll put the next one in her chest.”

  I looked at Grace: the slick, red fingers, the agony in her blued-out face. She shook her head, made a wordless sound. I lowered the gun, put it on the table, and held out my hands. “I’m going to help her,” I said, and knelt next to Grace. I took off my jacket, folded it over the stomach wound, and told her to push. Pain burned in her eyes. She groaned as she pushed. I kept my hand on hers.

  “She’s nothing special,” Miriam said.

  “She needs a doctor.”

  Miriam stood. “Let her die.”

  “You’re not a killer,” I said, and realized immediately that I was wrong. It was the way her eyes glittered, sparks of crazy light. “Oh, my God.”

  I saw it all.

  “Danny broke up with you.”

  “Shut up.”

  “He was breaking up with all of his girlfriends. He wanted to marry Grace.”

  “Shut up!” Miriam yelled, stepping closer.

  “He used you, Miriam.” />
  “Shut up, Adam.”

  “And Gray Wilson—”

  “Shut up, shut up, shut up!” All but incoherent. Rising to a scream. Then the pistol jumped in her hand. One slug tore into the floor, peeled back bright, white splinters. The other struck my leg, and pain exploded through me. I hit the floor next to Grace, hands clutching the wound. Miriam dropped beside me, face twisted with worry and wild regret.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, fast and loud. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to. It was an accident.”

  I struggled to pull off my belt. Blood jetted onto the floor before I got the belt around my leg. The flow diminished. The pain did not.

  “Are you okay?” Miriam asked.

  “Jesus . . .” Agony rifled through me, hot, acid spikes of it. Miriam found her feet. She paced rapid circles, the gun in agitated motion, black eye spinning away from me and then back. I watched it anxiously, waiting for it to wink red.

  The pacing slowed, the color fell out of Miriam’s face. “The things Danny did to me. The way he made me feel.” She nodded. “He loved me. He had to have loved me.”

  I couldn’t help myself. “He loved lots of women. That’s who he was.”

  “No!” An angry scream. “He bought me a ring. He said he needed money. A lot of money. He wouldn’t say what it was for, but I knew. A woman can tell. So, I loaned it to him. What else would he use it for? He bought a ring. A fine, forever ring. He was going to surprise me.” She nodded again. “I knew.”

  “Let me guess,” I said. “Thirty thousand dollars.”

  She froze. “How could you know that?” Her face twisted. “He told you?”

  “He used it to pay off a gambling debt. He didn’t love you, Miriam. Grace did nothing wrong. She didn’t even want Danny.”

  “Oh! She’s so fucking special.” Something flooded into Miriam’s face, a new awareness. “You think you know everything,” she said. “Think you’re so damn smart? You know nothing. Nothing!” She paused, suddenly crying. Bewildered. She rocked from foot to foot. “Daddy loves her more.”

  “What . . .?”

  “More than you!” Her voice trailed off. “More than me. . . .” She rocked again, tapped the gun against her head the way that Zebulon Faith had.

  A voice came from the open door. “That’s not true, Miriam.” It was my father. I’d not heard his approach. He filled the door, wearing muddy snake-boots and thornproof pants. He held the rifle low, but pointed at Miriam. His face was gray under the tan, his finger inside the trigger guard. When Miriam saw him, she jerked, pointed the gun at Grace again. The tears welled harder.

  “Daddy . . .” she said.

  “It’s not true,” my father repeated. “I’ve always loved you.”

  “But not like her,” Miriam said. “Never like her.”

  My father stepped into the room. He looked at Grace, then at Miriam. He did not deny it again.

  “I hear the things you say,” she said. “You and Dolf, talking at night. You never notice me. You wouldn’t see me if I sat down next to you. Oh. But not Grace. Perfect, darling Grace! It’s like a light comes off her. . . . That’s what you like to say, isn’t it? She’s so pure. So different from everybody else. Different from me.” She beat the gun against her head again. “Better than me.” Her voice dropped, and when she looked up, she could have shared a bloodline with any of those wild dogs. “I know your secret,” she said.

  “Miriam—”

  “Your filthy, disgusting secret!”

  My father stepped closer. The rifle did not waver.

  “You ruined me,” she said. Then she screamed again. “Look how you ruined me!” She tore at the front of her dress, buttons flying until she ripped it open. She held the pieces spread, showing us her pale body.

  Her pale, cut body.

  Every inch. Every curve. The scars shone like all the hurt the world had ever known. Her stomach. Her thighs. Her arms. Every place that clothing could cover had been cut and cut again.

  The word pain carved over her heart; deny cut into her stomach.

  I heard my father, like he was choking. “Dear God,” he said, and looking at her, I knew that the cutting was not something she’d done for five years. Not since the death of Gray Wilson. No chance. This had gone on for a long, long time.

  Miriam looked at me, and her face was an open wound. “She’s his daughter,” she said.

  “Stop, Miriam.”

  But she would not. Pain twisted her face. Loss. Anguish. She looked at Grace, and I saw jealousy and hatred. Dark emotions. So very dark.

  “All these years.” Her voice broke. “He always loved her more.”

  The pistol started up.

  “Don’t,” my father said.

  The pistol wavered. Miriam looked from Grace to my father, and her face crumpled. Tears. Rage. Those same sparks of crazy light. The barrel moved, tracked across the floor toward Grace.

  My father spoke, and desolation was in his voice. “For God’s sake, Miriam. Don’t make me choose.”

  She ignored him, turned to me. “Do the math,” she said. “He ruined you, too.”

  Then she brought the gun up, and my father pulled the trigger. The barrel leapt, shot out fire and noise enough to end the world. The bullet struck Miriam high on the right side of her chest. It spun her twice, like a dancer, and flung her across the room. She went down, boneless, and I knew, at a glance, that there would be no getting up.

  Not now.

  Not ever.

  Smoke hung in the room. Grace cried out.

  And my father wept for the fourth time in his life.

  CHAPTER 32

  Grace was still alive when the paramedics arrived. Alive, but barely. They worked on her as if she could die any second. At some point, she winked out. The eyes rolled white, red fingers opened. I didn’t know that I was banging the back of my head against the wall until Robin put a hand on me. Her eyes were calm and very brown. I looked at Grace. One of her legs twitched, fine shoe clicking on the wood floor as they forced air down her throat and beat unmercifully on her chest. I barely heard the sound of her breath when they got her back, but somebody said, “She’s good,” and they bundled her out of there.

  I met my father’s eyes across the floor. He sat against one wall. I was propped against the other. As badly as I hurt, and as near as Grace was to death, my father, I think, suffered the most. I watched him as a paramedic bent over my leg. He’d checked Miriam’s body once, then held onto Grace as if he was strong enough to hold her soul in place. The paramedics had to pull him away to work on her. He was soaked with her blood, in plain, open anguish, and I knew that part of it came from what he’d done, and part of it was born from the truth of what Miriam had said with her last breath. He knew what it meant, and I did, too.

  Grace was his daughter. Fine. Fair. Happens all the time. Looking back, it made sense. His love for her had never been an understated thing. But she didn’t come to the farm until two years after my mother’s death. I’d never done the math. It had never occurred to me. But I knew Grace’s birthday, and I saw it now, Miriam’s gift.

  Truth in a dark box.

  Grace was born two days before my mother killed herself, and that could not be coincidence.

  Miriam was right.

  He’d ruined me, too.

  My father lifted his arm and opened his mouth as if he might speak, but I couldn’t have that. I put a hand on the paramedic’s shoulder. “Can you get me out of here?” I asked.

  I glanced once more at my father, and when he saw my face, he closed his mouth.

  I woke in hospital sheets: dim lights, drugged, no memory of the surgery they’d done on my leg. But I remembered the dream of young Sarah Yates. It was the same one that I’d had several nights before. Almost the same. She walked in the moonlit yard, dress loose around her legs. When she turned, she raised her hand as if a penny lay flat upon it. In the past, that’s where the dream ended. Not this time. This time I saw it all.

  The h
and rose up and she touched her fingers to her lips. She smiled and blew a kiss, but not to me.

  The dream was no dream. It was memory. Standing at my window, a boy, I saw it all. The windblown kiss, the secret smile; and then my father, shoeless in the pale, damp grass. How he scooped her up and kissed her for real. The raw, naked passion that I recognized even then.

  I’d seen it, and I’d buried it, tucked it away in some small place in that boy’s mind. But I remembered it now, felt it like a tear in my soul. Sarah Yates was not familiar to me because she looked like Grace.

  I knew her.

  I thought of what the preacher had said to me about the nature of my mother’s death. “There’s no one to blame,” he’d said, and in the shadow of the church I’d always known, those words made some kind of sense. But not now.

  I’d been angry for twenty years, unsettled, restless. It was like I had a shard of glass in my mind, a red blade that twisted through the soft parts of me, traveled the dark roads, cutting. I’d always blamed my mother, but now I understood. She’d pulled the trigger, yes, done it in front of me, her only child. But what I’d said to my father was true. She’d wanted him to see it, and now I understood why. Eight years of miscarriages. Constant failure until it wore her down to nothing.

  Then, somehow, she knew.

  And pulled the trigger.

  The anger, I finally realized, was not at my mother, whose soul had simply withered beyond her capacity to restore. Being angry at her was unfair, and in that, I’d failed her. She deserved better. Deserved more. I wanted to weep for her, but could not.

  There was no place in me for gentle emotion.

  I pressed the call button for the nurse, a large woman with brown skin and indifferent eyes. “People are going to want to talk to me,” I said. “I don’t want to speak to anyone until nine thirty. Can you make that happen?”