Savage Lane

by Jason Starr

  Then something weird happened. Along with the crickets there was another noise—it sounded like a woman giggling. Naturally Owen freaked. He stopped, aiming the light from his phone in every direction, expecting to see a woman. He had no idea what he’d do when he saw her, but he wouldn’t be able to just let her get away.

  Then he heard the giggling again. It sounded the same as before—not very loud, at the level of a whisper, but there wasn’t anyone here—at least there didn’t seem to be. At the same time, he knew he was hearing it, that he wasn’t just imagining it. There it was again. It sounded familiar; he’d definitely heard it before. Was it Deb? He shined the light at her face and she was dead, with those wide-open teddy bear eyes, no doubt about it. Then where was the giggling coming from?

  He just wanted her gone, buried, as fast as possible. At the spot in the woods where they’d hooked up that time, he started digging a hole with the shovel. Like last time, it was hard work. There was enough moonlight through the trees to see what he was doing, but it would take a long time before the hole was big enough to fit a body. In the movies they always made it look so easy—a guy goes into the woods with a shovel and boom, a few minutes later there’s a big grave there. Not the case in real life. The dirt was heavy, maybe heavier because of the rain before, and after digging for like ten minutes it was maybe a couple of feet deep and, worse, he seemed to be hitting something hard, like a root of a tree—you never see that happen in movies either; in the make believe world, nothing ever gets in the way.

  He kept working, digging in a different spot, away from the root and finally, after like a half hour, he was exhausted and sweating like crazy, but at least it was starting to look like a grave. He knew it wasn’t deep enough yet, though, so he kept digging, sweating his ass off, getting blisters on his hands for maybe another half hour, and then he dragged the body off the wheelbarrow and then kind of rolled it into the hole. It fit and there seemed to be about two feet of space on top. Deeper would have been better, but this was deep enough to cover a body and he didn’t want to spend any more time out here.

  He took her cell phones out of her purse and tossed them into the hole, smashing them with the shovel until they were crushed. Then he took her cash out of her purse—seventy-three bucks—and then dumped the purse and everything else in it into the hole. He wanted to take off the jewelry she’d been wearing—a wedding ring, bracelets, a necklace—and try to sell the stuff at some point, but he knew that would be too dangerous. He wanted to do this right, have zero chance of getting caught.

  He dumped dirt onto her face, covering all of her head. The rest of her body was easier to cover and soon her whole body was buried. There was a lot of leftover dirt so he spent some time flinging it away in different directions, and then he covered the gravesite with some leaves and twigs and, he had to fucking admit, he’d done a damn good job, at least as good as the other time. He didn’t leave so fast, though; he added a few twigs here, a few more leaves there, like he was doing the finishing touches to a painting. When he knew there was nothing else he could do, and sticking around was only torturing himself, he headed along the path, pushing the empty wheelbarrow, hating that he was starting to cry.

  WHEN HE got home he was through crying; he just hoped he didn’t have to deal with any bullshit from Raymond. Though it was almost one in the morning, Raymond was sometimes up late, drinking beer and stuffing his face with whatever food he could get his hands on. The TV was on in the den, which got Owen nervous, but then he peeked in and saw Raymond passed out on the couch, the TV on to some black-and-white movie. The whole downstairs reeked of beer farts.

  Owen went up to his room and took off all his dirty, muddied clothes and put them in the hamper. He’d do laundry in the morning, but he wasn’t worried about the dirt because his clothes were always dirty from the country club. He was more worried about CSI shit, like if Deb’s hairs were on the clothes, or in the trunk of his car. There was no big rush now, though; he had plenty of time to clean up and make sure everything was perfect.

  In the hot shower, Owen was thinking about Karen looking so sexy in her yoga pants. He wished he’d kissed her, just gone for it, what the hell? He knew she’d wanted him to, that she definitely would have been into it. Going with the fantasy, he pictured them making out in the hallway, getting her so turned on she was practically panting. Then they somehow wound up in the kitchen, and she was bent over the table, and he was pulling down those yoga pants, and then they were doing it from behind, and he was grabbing onto her hair, pulling on it, the way Deb used to like it pulled.

  It was weird—now he felt like Deb was in the shower with him. He didn’t see her there—he wasn’t totally schizo—but he could hear her. She was giggling, like in the woods. Why wouldn’t she leave him alone? Was she jealous of Karen? Yeah, probably. After all, she wasn’t exactly happy with Karen when she was alive, screaming at her at the country club, so it figured she wouldn’t be thrilled with her when she was dead either. Owen didn’t like this sudden change in the giggling though. It reminded him of how she had changed in real life—loving him in the morning when they were playing student-teacher at the school and then turning and becoming so cold and distant in the car. It was like that game his mother used to play with him when he was a kid—moving her hand over her face, her expression turning from a smile to a sad face. He loved it when his mother had a happy face, but hated it when her expression changed, and it was the same way with Deb. He wanted her angry giggling to stop, he wanted to shut her up the way he had when he’d strangled her, but he couldn’t strangle her again.

  He still heard the giggling when he got out of the shower and later in bed when he was trying to sleep it was still there. It wasn’t loud, he could barely hear it actually, but it was just loud enough to annoy the hell out of him, like a dripping faucet. It was worse than a dripping faucet though, because you can fix a dripping faucet, or put in ear plugs, but even with two pillows over his ears, he couldn’t make this stop.

  IN THE morning, he still heard it. It wasn’t as loud as last night, but it still bothered him when he focused on it; maybe that was the key—to not focus on it. If he just ignored it, didn’t give it any attention, hopefully she’d give up and leave him alone.

  Luckily he had a lot to do this morning so he had plenty of distractions. He figured Deb’s husband Mark had probably called the cops by now and soon they’d look for Deb, find her car in the parking lot, and then start searching everywhere for her. He put in a load of laundry along with his clothes from last night. Raymond wasn’t on the couch anymore—the fat fuck had probably crawled into bed with Owen’s mother in the middle of the night—but the whole downstairs still smelled like beer farts. After a quick bowl of Frosted Flakes, Owen went out back and vacuumed the inside of his mother’s car, especially the backseat, and then he vacuumed the trunk. He could still hear the giggling—the noise of the vacuum didn’t help block it out much—but it was okay; he could deal. When he didn’t think there could possibly be any hairs or fibers left, he was about to go back into the house, through the garage, when Kyle came out with his jacket on, looking angry.

  “Where you goin’?” Owen asked.

  “Out,” Kyle said.

  “Where?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Owen remembered when he was Kyle’s age, eleven years old, and realizing how shitty life at home was. Back then he’d wanted to get out of the house all the time, get as far away from Raymond and all the bullshit as he could. Then one day he decided he had to get out permanently, and he packed his backpack with everything he thought he needed for the rest of his life—a few pairs of jeans, some T-shirts, his toothbrush, and a bunch of comic books—and he took a shuttle bus to the Metro North train station in Katonah and bought a one way ticket into the city and planned to never see his mom, his little brother, or his asshole stepdad again. It was November, maybe December, and sunny when he left, but when he got out at Grand Central it was cloudy and much colder and
he didn’t have a jacket. He walked to Times Square because he didn’t know the city that well and it was the only place he knew how to get to. Using some of the money he’d brought—his life savings, about forty bucks—he bought a hot dog and knish. When he finished it he couldn’t think of anything else to do so he just walked around, back and forth along the crowded streets, until it got dark and colder. He was tired and realized he had nowhere to sleep. He went down to the subway, figuring he’d sleep on a train, but the station smelled like piss, and he saw a couple of rats on the tracks. He decided that it sucked big time, and he went back to Grand Central and took a train back to Katonah. He called his mom to come pick him up. She was worried and crying, and he told her he was sorry, but he really wasn’t; he just said he was sorry because he knew that was what he was supposed to say. He knew Raymond was going to give him hell for running away, and he did. Later, Raymond came into his room and beat the shit out of him and even though his mom was right across the hall and heard him screaming for help, she didn’t do anything about it. Owen was used to it, though, and he’d learned an important lesson that day. He’d learned that, yeah, life at home sucked, but life in the rest of the world sucked too, so he might as well stick it out at home for as long as he could stand it.

  “Hey, wait a sec,” Owen said to Kyle.

  Kyle, half on his bike, about to leave the garage, looked back.

  “You okay, bro?” Owen asked.

  Kyle looked down, toward his Nikes. “Mom and Raymond are fighting again,” he said.

  Owen knew this was why Kyle was taking off; he didn’t know why he’d bothered asking.

  “So just ignore ’em,” Owen said.

  “It’s really bad,” Kyle said.

  Owen could tell Kyle was scared, just wanted to get away. He knew how that felt.

  “Did Raymond say something to you?”

  “No,” Kyle said.

  “Did he do something to you?” Owen’s fists clenched, his fingernails digging into his palms.

  “No.” Kyle was looking at his Nikes again.

  Owen knew Kyle was lying about something, but he didn’t know what.

  “Okay, but you remember what I told you,” Owen said. “If he ever does anything to you, if he ever lays a hand on you, you come to me, okay?”

  Kyle got fully onto his bike and rode away.

  Owen knew that Kyle needed him, and he was always there for his little bro, looking out for him. He took him to swimming practice, play dates, and brought him to the country club on weekends. He liked Kyle, thought he was the coolest kid in the world, and wanted to keep him away from Raymond. It was one of the main reasons why Owen had stayed living at home the past couple of years. Owen was afraid if he left, Raymond would start picking on Kyle, and Owen would rather take the hit himself than see Kyle get hurt. The way Owen saw it, it was his job to take care of his little brother; it was his main reason for living.

  Back in the house, Owen heard his mother and Raymond fighting—yeah, they were really going at it, but it was no worse than usual. He was yelling like a lunatic—maybe cause he was a lunatic—calling her a cunt and a whore and, like always, she was just taking it, not saying anything back. It always amazed Owen how his mother could be that way, how she could take so much shit. Meanwhile, Owen was trying to figure out if there was anything else he needed to get rid of. He’d put the laundry in the dryer soon, so he didn’t have to worry about that anymore. He’d do some more cleaning up later, then he’d be able to chill.

  Ignoring the giggling, he was pouring a glass of Pepsi in the kitchen when his mother came in. She was forty-six but looked more like sixty. A few years ago she found out she had breast cancer and had to go through chemo, radiation, all that shit, but it wasn’t the cancer that was sucking the life out of her—it was living with Raymond, putting up with bullshit every fucking day. Even before she was diagnosed, she’d looked older, thinner, more stressed out than other moms. Her face especially looked old—she had permanent wrinkles on her forehead and she looked like she was making a sad face even when she wasn’t.

  But now she was sad—crying, her face wet with tears.

  “I hate him,” she said. “I hate him so much.”

  She went to the door leading to the deck in the backyard, like she was going to go out, but she just stood there, staring out.

  Owen gulped down some more Pepsi, then said, “So leave him already.”

  Her mother didn’t turn around or answer, but Owen heard her crying. He also heard Deb giggling, but the crying was louder.

  “I’m serious,” Owen said. “It’s time already. What’s he going to have to do before you walk out, kill me?”

  “Stop it,” she said.

  “Or kill Kyle?”

  “I said stop it.”

  “You know it’s gonna happen,” Owen said. “It’s a miracle it hasn’t happened already. And what about you? How much more abuse can you take?”

  Now she turned, whispering but it seemed like she was yelling, “Keep your voice down.”

  “What, you’re afraid he’s gonna hear me?” Owen said. “Ooh, I’m so scared, Big Bad Raymond’s gonna beat me up. See, I don’t have to run away from him anymore. I used to be weak, but I’m bigger now, I’m stronger. I can stand up to him now, and you can too. You can say, ‘Enough,’ and do what you should’ve done years ago. Kick him the fuck out.”

  “I can’t do that.”

  “Of course you can,” he said. “You just do it, don’t even think about it.” He whispered, “When he’s out of the house just change the locks, the fat fuck won’t be able to get in. If he comes back you get a restraining order. He won’t be able to hurt you or us ever again.”

  “I’m sorry, Owen.” Sobbing, his mother came over and wrapped her arms around his waist, hugging him tightly. It was weird, freaky—he couldn’t remember the last time his mother had hugged him and it was shocking how skeleton-like her body was.

  “I’m so, so sorry,” she said, still sobbing.

  His mother never apologized to him before for anything, and he didn’t know what to say, so he didn’t say anything. It was silent except for his mom’s crying and Deb’s giggling.

  Finally, feeling nothing, Owen said, “I’m sorry too, Ma. I mean I want to forgive you for everything you did to me, for not being there for me all the times I needed you, but I can’t. I wish I could, but I can’t.”

  More silence, then his mother said, “That’s not why I’m sorry.”

  Owen was confused. “It isn’t?”

  “No,” she said. “I mean I’m sorry about that too, but now I’m sorry that…” She waited then said, “I’m sorry that you… that you have to move out.”

  Now Owen was completely confused. He wasn’t sure he’d heard her correctly.

  “What did you say?” he asked.

  “It’s for the best, it really is,” she said. “It’s causing too much trouble for all of us with you living here. It’ll be better for me, it’ll be better for Kyle too.”

  Owen felt a rush of pain, of hurt, and he didn’t know where it was coming from or what it meant. All he knew was that he’d felt this way before, and he was feeling this way again, and that it sucked.

  “Why are you doing this to me?” he said, feeling like he’d asked this question dozens of times before, because he probably had.

  “Please don’t make this any harder, just try to understand,” she said. “I did the best I could, I tried to protect you, but things are different now. You’re working now, making money, and you can find something else over the winter. You should have your own space, be independent.”

  “Bullshit.” Owen’s face was hot. “This isn’t about me, it’s never about me. It’s about you, you and that stupid asshole. You’re afraid of him so you take it out on us.”

  “Quiet,” his mother said.

  “Fuck you.” Owen sprayed spit in his mother face. Deb’s giggling was suddenly louder, and he shouted at her, “Shut up!” and then back to his
mother, “You don’t care about me or Kyle. You’re the worst mother in the world cause you don’t give a shit about your kids.”

  “I only want to do what’s best for everybody,” she said.

  Owen was maybe five years old, throwing a bowl of macaroni and cheese at his mother, the bowl shattering on the kitchen floor, and then he was back in the present, saying, “So this is your idea for me to move out? This is what you want?”

  “Yes.”

  He grabbed her bony arm. “You’re full of shit. He told you to do this, so you’re doing it. You’re like his fucking pawn. You have no life of your own.”

  “That isn’t true.”

  “You have no idea how much I hate you,” Owen said, and then he smelled Raymond’s reeking sweat as Raymond grabbed him by his arm from behind and yanked him away. Owen let go of his mother’s arm, knowing that he’d need to defend himself, but it was too late, Raymond had already hit him in the nose. There was a crunch but the pain didn’t hit yet. Then Raymond hit him again, in the cheek, and Owen lost his balance. He reached back with his hands, trying to brace his fall, but he was going down too fast, and his head slammed against the stove. Dazed on the floor, he couldn’t tell if the back of his head hurt or not because his nose and face hurt so much it was hard to feel anything else.

  Raymond was over him saying, “…out of this house tonight, you hear me? I see your face around here again, I’ll break the rest of it.”

  Owen was squirming on the kitchen floor, touching his face, feeling all the blood, then seeing it on his hands. He was groaning in pain, but telling himself that he couldn’t cry, he couldn’t give Raymond the satisfaction. He wanted his mother to hit Raymond, or at least scream at him, but when he looked up his mother wasn’t even there. She’d probably gone upstairs, and left him alone with Raymond, the way she always did. He’d once heard Raymond tell his mother, “The boy needs a man’s discipline.” Now Raymond was standing over him, hands on hips.