A Good Idea

by Cristina Moracho

  When I got to the clearing by the driveway I stayed back, deep in the tree cover, trying to assess the situation. Silas’s Dodge Ram was there, and two other cars I didn’t recognize. There were no lights, no voices, no smell of weed wafting toward me on the cool night breeze. I waited as patiently as I’ve ever waited for anything, motionless, watching the house and the wigwam and the cars, until I was certain they were all deserted. Still in the shadows, I circled around the clearing to get a better look at the house, which I had only ever seen from the front. There was a back door, and after one more thorough glance around—no motion sensor lights mounted in the trees, no vicious guard dog snoozing with the proverbial eye open, still no sign of Silas—I left the safety of the woods and stepped into the moonlight.

  To my surprise, even Silas kept his door unlocked. I didn’t understand why Silas didn’t have more security, why he would leave his house so vulnerable, but then I thought, why would he? He didn’t live in it, surely didn’t keep any valuables or money or drugs inside, so why bother? I doubted it would have been as simple to get inside the wigwam, but for my purposes it didn’t matter. All of the land belonged to Silas, so it didn’t matter where the police found the pills. It would be on him.

  Silas’s house felt all wrong. This was definitely a place where terrible things had happened. The walls breathed mold and mildew, and the stale air had a faint, sharp odor of bleach. There was no door between the kitchen and whatever was in the next room; I couldn’t see much in the darkness, just the vague, hulking outlines of what I hoped was furniture. I waited for my eyes to adjust before I dared try to navigate my way around.

  I eased out the Ziploc bag that Owen had thoughtfully hidden inside an empty box of Lucky Charms. In the shadowy kitchen light, the overly enthused leprechaun on the front had never looked so sinister. I flipped the box around so he was facing away from me as I contemplated the best place to hide it. It had to be believable, somewhere covert enough that the police would be convinced Silas had put it there himself, but not so imaginative that they would miss it altogether. Slowly the objects around me came into focus, and I gingerly moved into the living room.

  It was not the hovel I’d expected, a well-used drug den filled with empty pizza boxes, dirty needles, and used condoms, but I suspected the benign look of the place belied its unsavory history. Maybe Silas had cleaned house after the scabies incident Owen had mentioned. The living room was sparsely decorated, with a couch that was in better shape than Owen’s and a nonspecifically Native-looking throw rug that could have come from Pier 1 Imports. On the wall across from the couch was an enormous painting of either a wolf or a coyote—in the dim light, it was impossible to be sure which—howling at a red moon hanging low in the sky like a piece of bloated, overripe fruit. I didn’t need to check the signature to be reasonably confident that Silas had painted this clichéd atrocity himself, perhaps in the midst of one of his peyote-guided vision quests.

  The bathroom was off the hallway between the living room and bedroom. Here, things were more in keeping with my expectations. The walls were covered in pornography, page after page cut out of magazines, lined up neatly and stapled to the plaster. The toilet seat and lid were a scorched gray-black, as if someone had gotten so frustrated with a plumbing problem that they had simply torched the shitter. The tub was filled with used, reeking cat litter, and the mirror above the sink had a single, fine crack running across it diagonally, like something you’d see on a delicate porcelain teacup. Something about that crack made my stomach go cold—I couldn’t pinpoint why, but it would have bothered me less if the glass had been shattered altogether.

  I reached out—some habits die hard—and gently opened the medicine cabinet. It was empty save a single, gigantic roach, which swiftly made a desperate leap from shelf to sink. I leaped back myself, into the hallway.

  The door to the bedroom was ajar, and as I pushed it open, my satiny glove gleaming slightly, I thought about what I would do if I were wrong, and Silas was inside, waiting for me. In my pocket I held tight to Owen’s knife, but that was just for false courage. I had no doubt I would be at Silas’s mercy.

  I should have been more scared than I was. I should have been terrified, but I wasn’t, and I wondered if Betty’s death, her desire to die, hadn’t been motivated by the deep depression I’d imagined but by apathy. Maybe the unlights deserted her but left nothing in their wake, no joy, no anger, nothing. Maybe she’d just gotten curious. Maybe Calder had been curious, too. Maybe it was fate being its most devastatingly efficient, pairing up two teenagers with complementary, morbid curiosities, one who wanted to die and one who wanted to see what it felt like to kill someone.

  In any case, Silas wasn’t inside the bedroom. There was just a bare, stained mattress on the floor and a dusty dream catcher nailed to the wall above it. The closet was empty except for a few wire hangers. This left me with something of a dilemma. There was so little actual stuff in the house that there were no decent hiding spots for the pills. I supposed I could leave them in the cereal box, put it in one of the kitchen cabinets, and go the “hidden in plain sight” route.

  There was one more thing. According to Owen, I was holding about ten grand worth of Oxy, more than sufficient to get Silas slapped with a trafficking charge. So in the end, a few pills more or less wouldn’t make any difference. After all, no one actually ever notices if anyone picks out a few of their favorite marshmallows in an actual box of Lucky Charms.

  Even if Silas was in jail by the end of the night, there were surely more stressful days ahead. My best-case scenario had me back in the kitchen at the Halyard by week’s end, washing dishes for Owen for the rest of the summer, my inevitable punishment for saving his ass by doing this unbelievably stupid thing.

  Whatever happened, it was best to be prepared. I unfolded the cardboard flap on the top of the box, reached in and grabbed a handful of pills, and tucked them away safely in the pocket of my bag where I kept my keys, cigarettes, and MetroCard. A beat later, I decided to slip a couple in the pocket of my jeans, next to Owen’s knife. Just to have them handy.

  I braced myself as I opened the cupboard above the kitchen sink, expecting more antennaed creatures to break for freedom. I had a different kind of surprise. There was actually a small but tidy collection of canned goods lined up on the shelves—tuna fish, chicken soup, garbanzo beans—and some packets of instant oatmeal. The cereal wouldn’t look quite so out of place, after all. I slid the box between an old Cup O’Noodles and a bag of brown rice, wiped the dust from my—Betty’s—gloves on my thighs, and headed for the door.

  I’d been in Silas’s house for less than ten minutes, and that was plenty of time for me to get cocky and careless. I should’ve looked out the window before I opened the back door. Instead, I made it halfway down the steps before I realized Calder was waiting at the bottom.

  I turned and ran back inside, heading straight for the front door. I flung it open, raced down the stairs and toward the driveway as Calder came around after me. My Chucks pounded the wet dirt as I sprinted up the overgrown path—maybe I would reach the road and a car would be driving by and I could flag it down—but he was right behind me, those long legs giving him all the advantage he needed. He’d spent the last four years playing lacrosse; I only ran to catch the subway. Still, I gave it everything I had, even when tears started to blur my vision and my atrophied muscles were screaming in protest, and I made it farther than I ever thought I would, and I even had time to think, So, this is what running for your life feels like, right before he reached out and grabbed my messenger bag and tackled me to the ground.

  I landed facedown in the dirt, hands splayed in front of me, Calder on top. I threw a wild elbow and caught him in the throat—not enough to do any real damage, but enough to startle him for a second. I tried to wriggle out from underneath, but he caught me by the legs, dragging me back toward him while I kicked violently, hoping for another stroke of luck, but m
ine was all used up.

  I’d pushed it far enough, and now the universe was pushing back.

  Calder flipped me over and held me down by the shoulders. I slammed the heel of my hand into his temple and his grip loosened—too briefly. Grabbing my hands, he pinned them beneath his knees, straddling me, panting, and I was trapped.

  “Get the fuck off me,” I said weakly.

  “Goddammit, stop fighting me, Finley,” he said. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

  “Bullshit.” I tried to wrest one hand free and he dug his knee in harder, until the sensation in my fingers dimmed.

  “Listen to me,” he said, leaning forward so his face was only inches from mine. His breath was sour, and the rest of him smelled like sage and fabric softener.

  I rallied what abdominal muscles I had, raised myself off the ground like I was doing a stomach crunch, and snapped my head forward on my neck, my forehead hitting him square in the face, so hard his nose started bleeding and my vision went momentarily gray. When it cleared, nothing had changed. I was still pinned beneath Calder, but now he was seething. I looked at him, really looked at him, and for the first time that night I had the good sense to be truly afraid.

  “Are you finished?” he said.

  I nodded mutely.

  “I’m going to get up now, and then you’re going to get up, and then we’re going to take a walk in the woods to go see Silas. Okay?”

  “No fucking way,” I whispered.

  “He doesn’t mean you any harm. He just wants to talk to you.”

  “Then tell him let’s meet for a beer at Charlie’s tomorrow.”

  “He’s got Serena.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  He let go of my hands long enough to fish something out of his pocket and dangle it above me. It was Serena’s crucifix.

  “Oh my God,” I said. “Is she—”

  “She’s fine. For now. But we’d better get going. Okay?” He stood up, reached down, and extended one hand. I was winded and sore, but I still wouldn’t take it. I rose on my knees, slowly, and then came up the rest of the way.

  “What does Silas want?” I asked.

  “To help you find the answers to your questions.”

  “I don’t need him for that. All I need is you to finally tell the truth.”

  “I killed her,” Calder said. “She asked me to, and I did it. Are you satisfied? Was that everything you wanted to know? Is that all you needed, this whole summer?”

  I hated him for killing her, but I hated him almost as much for being right. He hadn’t told me anything I didn’t already know, and I was still far from satisfied. “Fine. Where are Silas and Serena?”

  “I’ll take you to them. Right now.”

  I took one last glance over my shoulder toward the road. I thought I saw the fleeting glow of headlights, heard the rumble of a diesel engine. I’d made it closer than I thought, but not close enough.

  “Okay,” I said. “Let’s go.”

  • • •

  Calder followed me through the forest, keeping me in front so as not to let me out of his sight. He held on to the strap of my messenger bag like I was a dog on a leash. The path was narrow, barely wide enough for one person, and the woods surrounding us were dense and thick. Out here, the moonlight didn’t penetrate, and we hiked silently in the dark, the only sound our feet shuffling along the ground. I stumbled on a rock hidden under a pile of leaves, and Calder yanked me up by the strap of my bag before I could face-plant in the dirt.

  “Are you all right?” he asked.

  “What the fuck do you care? Aren’t you marching me to my death?”

  “I told you, Silas doesn’t want to hurt you.”

  “What are you doing hanging out with that asshole, anyway? What happened to you, Calder? You used to be such a nice guy.”

  “I’m not so bad. You’ve met worse.”

  “Like your father?”

  “He can be a real dick, it’s true. He’s got a few surprises up his sleeve, though.” He laughed. “You know he gets high?”

  I stopped short and Calder bumped into me. “On blues?”

  “He smokes weed, you idiot.” He nudged the small of my back and I got moving again. “He even used to grow it himself. Not a whole lot, just a few plants in a patch out in the woods behind our house. I knew where he hid his stash in the garage, and I used to help myself now and then. When he decided to run for mayor, he got a little paranoid and burned it all. I went looking for a bud one day and found a fifty-dollar bill instead. I know how to take a hint.”

  “So that’s how you met Silas? Buying drugs for your father the mayor?”

  “It’s not like I was getting it by the pound. Just the occasional eighth.”

  I hoped I lived to see this piece of intelligence revealed in the police blotter. “And that’s it? That’s all you ever bought from Silas? You were never, say, the middleman between him and Owen?”

  “I wouldn’t know anything about that.”

  “I’m sure you wouldn’t.”

  We trudged on through the night quietly after that. I could hear the creek somewhere to our right; I knew we must be getting close. I guessed at the odds that Silas just wanted to “talk” to me, and they came up less than favorable. The righteous cloak of anger I’d worn all summer was threadbare by now, and I was as weary as I was terrified, but I refused to linger in the woods or drag out this forced march so I could feel the fresh air on my face a little longer. I actually found myself walking faster, eager to get to our destination, Calder quickening his stride behind me to keep up. Whatever Silas had planned, I just wanted to get it over with. And then I figured, what the hell, I was probably going to die anyway, it might as well be painless. I fished the pills from my pocket and slipped them discreetly in my mouth. I had no spit—Scared spitless, I thought, and almost laughed. I chewed the blues into a fine powder and swallowed it down.

  I smelled the sweat lodge before I could see it. Sage, and campfire, and a hint of weed; wood smoke drifted through the trees in a gray fog that stung my eyes. The fire pit illuminated the clearing in the distance, and just beyond the flames was the squat outline of the sweat lodge.

  Silas emerged, pushing the flap aside. He was alone, as if he sensed us coming, which I figured he had. Why not? I wouldn’t put anything past him at this point; for all I knew, the birds were his familiars and had been tracking me since the second I stepped onto his property, reporting back to him at regular intervals.

  He was completely naked except for his hemp necklace and a thin sheen of sweat that covered his entire body. He was at least a foot taller than me.

  “Hello, sister. You made it,” he said, as if I had just arrived at a dinner party.

  “Here I am,” I said, spreading my arms wide and gesturing to my person. “Where’s Serena?”

  He nodded behind him. “She’s inside.”

  “Bring her out. I want to see her.”

  “She’s fine, Finley, you’ll see. You can come join her.”

  “I’m claustrophobic. I don’t do well in small spaces.”

  Silas turned the bullshit fountain back on. “There’s infinite space inside your mind, and that’s where the real ritual takes place. It’s not about the physical.”

  “What am I doing here, Silas?”

  “You tell me. You’re the one who was trespassing on my land tonight. Do you have any tobacco?”

  “I have cigarettes,” I said, confused.

  “That’s fine. You have to make an offering to the fire before you can go inside the sweat lodge.”

  I reached into my bag and took out a cigarette. With shaking hands, I tore off the filter; following Silas’s instructions, I walked all the way around the fire, stopping at each of the four directions to toss in a pinch of tobacco.

  “You know the difference bet
ween a white man’s fire and a native man’s fire?”

  I shook my head.

  “The white man takes a few huge logs and uses them to start a fire. But they burn down quickly, and he spends the rest of the night running back and forth into the forest, looking for even bigger logs to keep the fire going. What’s the point of building a fire if you nearly freeze to death keeping it alive? The natives, we know better. We collect a great big pile of sticks, build ourselves a nice modest fire, and spend the night feeding it without having to leave its warmth. Are you ready?”

  “I guess.”

  “Take off your clothes.”

  “What?”

  “It’s about a hundred thirty degrees in there. At the very least you’ll want to strip down to your underwear.”

  “He’s right,” Calder added. “You don’t want to go in wearing jeans.”

  I lifted my bag over my shoulder and let it fall to the ground with an exaggerated thump. I kicked off my shoes, peeled off my socks, and rolled down my jeans, hoping the outline of the knife didn’t show through the pocket. My sweatshirt and tank top I draped on top of the pile. Finally the opera gloves came off. I wondered if by morning my things would be tossed into a Dumpster somewhere in a different county.

  I tried not to think about my parents, or a hiker stumbling across my body someday, when there was nothing left of it but hair and teeth and my naked bones, maybe a few threads of my black cotton panties and the plastic underwire of the Victoria’s Secret bra I’d bought on sale in New York.

  I shivered in my underwear, arms crossed over my chest, and looked up at Silas. “Okay?” I said.

  “You too, Calder,” Silas told him.

  Calder obediently stripped down to his boxers, and we followed Silas into the sweat lodge. Once he shut the flap behind him, the darkness was nearly absolute, except for the tender orange glow of the rocks piled together in the center. The air was thick and wet with steam, like the inside of a sauna, but hotter than that—hotter than anything I’d ever felt.