by Amy Lloyd
‘I don’t eat the brown kind.’ He pushed the paper plate back to her with one finger.
‘We don’t have anything else.’ She gave him the soda, which he turned about in his hand, frowning at the unfamiliar logo.
‘What is this?’
‘It’s a Coke. But made from cactus and something. They’re OK, honest.’ Sam put the paper plate and the sandwich down on the floor and sat next to the boy. He wrinkled his nose and started to hand the can back to her when she said, ‘It’s either that or water. Dennis doesn’t let us have real Coke in the house.’
‘Why not?’
‘He says it’s full of corn syrup.’
Ricky shrugged.
‘I love it though. I always buy it when I’m out.’ They fell quiet and behind them Sam could hear muffled laughter from the kitchen. The can hissed as Ricky pulled the tab and took a hesitant sip.
‘It tastes like Diet.’ Ricky looked disappointed.
‘Yeah, it’s not great. Better than nothing though.’
‘I guess.’ He drank it in huge gulps, wincing as he swallowed. The end of his nose was red and raw and he wiped it again on the back of his hand.
‘How long have you been sick?’ Sam asked eventually.
‘Dunno. All week.’
‘Have you been to a doctor?’
‘No,’ he said with a snort. ‘I don’t even know why we’re here. It’s creepy here.’ He looked up to her quickly. ‘Sorry.’
Sam sighed. ‘I think it’s creepy too.’
‘Everyone thinks it’s creepy. One time, I was here with my brother Aaron, and he dared his friend to go up and touch the garage, but he wouldn’t even do it. And he ate a worm once.’
‘A worm?’
‘Yeah. He does anything if you dare him.’
‘He sounds kind of gross.’
‘He is.’ Ricky started to giggle. Sam could hear the bass rumble of fluid in his chest. After a small coughing fit he asked, ‘Did he really do all that stuff?’ His eyes looked at Sam all wide with hope and horror, wanting to hear a ghost story but not wanting to be afraid.
‘Dennis?’ Sam asked. ‘He never did anything. That’s why he’s not in prison any more.’
‘People at school say that there are bodies here. That if they could find the bodies he wouldn’t be allowed out of prison, but he hid them really well.’
‘There’s nothing like that here. Those people are just trying to scare you. The police looked all around here. They searched everywhere. There’s nothing here. No one could hide them that well.’
‘What about out there?’ He pointed to the backwoods, so dense with foliage that Sam couldn’t imagine how vast it was.
‘They searched there too.’
‘What if …’ He stopped, shook his head. ‘Some people say he ate them.’
Sam looked him in the eye. ‘That’s just not true. Are you scared of him?’
Ricky shrugged again.
‘You shouldn’t be scared of him. Dennis hasn’t done anything. He wouldn’t.’ She wondered how she could prove to him that it was all just stories and myth. ‘Besides,’ she said, ‘I’m married to him. I’d know if he was a bad guy. He’d never hurt anybody.’
Ricky looked at her and nodded weakly.
She took the uneaten sandwich and went back inside, stopping to eavesdrop on their conversation in the kitchen. ‘Remember Mr. Jeffries?’ she heard Lindsay say. ‘Well, he was running a video store in town but the police raided it in like … ninety-seven, ninety-eight? And he had all kinds of illegal videos back there, kids, animals, rape.’
‘Ugh, I knew it.’
‘Right? Anyway, he was out by two thousand two, lived in Fiddler Park for a while and now he’s back in town. No one gives him shit. You see what I’m saying?’
‘He was always a creep.’
‘And he’s out there now, people don’t bother him, and you’re like some kind of p-puh-puh …’
‘Pariah?’
‘Right! Oh my God, I was trying to be smart. I’m so embarrassed!’
‘It’s good to see you try.’
‘Aw, thanks.’ Her laugh was rusted with years of cigarette smoke.
Sam strode into the kitchen as if there were no one else there, holding the uneaten sandwich in front of her like a shield.
‘Oh hey, Sam! He didn’t eat it?’ Lindsay said.
‘No.’ She dumped it in the swing bin. ‘I don’t think he’s well enough to be out, really. Maybe you should take him to the doctor?’
‘For the flu? He’ll be fine in two days. He’s just trying to get as much time off school as he can. I have to make sure he’s not having too much fun or I’ll never get him back there. Like Aaron. I tell you about Aaron yet, Dennis? My God, he’s so much like you. He got himself suspended for two weeks for fighting, and for telling the teacher to go fuck herself. But she was manhandling him and I told him if any grown-up laid their hands on him, he needs to fight ’em off because only your own blood can lay a hand on you.’
Dennis smiled.
‘I named him after you. Not his first name, obviously.’ Lindsay laughed again. ‘Just his middle name. He’s Aaron Dennis.’
‘Aaron Dennis Durst?’ Dennis asked, eyebrows raised.
‘Yep.’ She turned to Sam. ‘Den was such a big part of my life. I always tell the boys he’s their uncle because he was like a brother to me. Well. Kind of.’ Lindsay winked.
‘You’re the worst.’ Dennis shook his head, letting Lindsay paw at him and punch him playfully. ‘You’re just awful, Linds, you’re the worst.’ Lindsay wiped imaginary tears of laughter from under her eyes, her heavy make-up smudging ever so slightly. Sam could tell she loved the attention, the teasing.
‘Well,’ Lindsay said eventually, out of breath. ‘We should go, but I’ll see you Sunday night?’
‘Sunday?’ Sam asked.
‘They’re releasing the first episode of the show,’ Dennis said, irritably. ‘You know this. It was supposed to be the premiere.’
Sam tried to ignore Lindsay’s smirk as she pulled her handbag over her shoulder. Sam noted how tatty and worn it was. A bunch of oversized plush-animal keyrings swayed from the handle.
‘Oh, and don’t worry,’ Lindsay said to Dennis, tapping the side of her nose with her index finger. ‘I haven’t forgotten.’ Dennis didn’t reply but Sam just caught him mouthing something to her before he realised she had seen him.
Sam watched them both as Dennis walked Lindsay to the door, his hand resting on her lower back, knowing that their intimacy was built on a history that she would never be a part of.
Twenty-six
As soon as the sound of the engine died away Sam asked Dennis, ‘What was that about?’ She tapped her nose, her face pulled into a sneering caricature of Lindsay. She knew it was an ugly thing to do but she didn’t care.
‘She’s looked after some personal items for me while I’ve been away. So that my dad couldn’t sell them. Is that OK with you?’
With that he went into the next room to continue stripping the house. Sam stood and listened to the sounds of furniture being snapped and stomped into pieces. She didn’t know whether she was in the wrong or not. Mark always said she was clingy, that she was paranoid and possessive and unpleasant. She imagined herself as a different person, the kind of woman who laughed and said shut up and pushed men playfully, instead of sulking and fighting. And why couldn’t she be that person? Sam wondered. Perhaps she should try.
Dennis was in his old bedroom. The room was mostly untouched, as if Lionel had preserved it, not so much out of sentimentality but as a curiosity, a morbid museum from which he selected items to sell when he was strapped for cash. Sam watched as Dennis sorted through the shelves that lined the top of the room. Junk was crammed in so tightly that he had to hold it all back with one hand while carefully edging something loose with the other.
Without turning to her he asked, ‘What do you want?’
‘I’m sorry,’ she said.
&n
bsp; ‘Fine.’
‘I really am. I don’t trust you enough. It’s difficult for me, seeing how you are with Lindsay because … we’re not like that, I guess.’
‘I don’t know why you’re jealous of her.’
‘I’m not, but I see how you two joke with each other and have so much history.’
Dennis sighed and stepped down from the bed. ‘We’re just friends, OK? I think you’d like her if you got to know her. You aren’t so different. She just likes male approval, you know, like you.’
Sam watched his face for clues that he was joking but his eyes were behind those lenses and his face was motionless.
‘Do me a favour.’ He held her hand and she leaned in to him, her head against his shoulder. ‘Check if the paint is dry and we can add another layer yet?’
‘What’s the point of this, Dennis?’ Sam asked.
‘Of what?’
‘All the cleaning, the painting. What are we doing here? Are you planning to sell the house?’ Sam couldn’t imagine anyone wanting to live out here. Certainly, she couldn’t imagine anyone local wanting to buy the house.
‘I don’t know yet,’ he said irritably. ‘It’s what you do. When someone dies you deal with what they leave behind. You don’t just leave it all out to rot. And I don’t want to live with that fucking graffiti on the wall any more. Do you?’
Sam didn’t. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I get it.’
It was sticky-hot outside and mosquitos stuck to Sam’s moist skin in beads of sweat. She slapped one hand against her neck and brought away a black smear of an insect on her palm. She ran a fingertip over the paint: still wet. Not wanting to go back inside and clean, she sat on the porch and daydreamed about where she and Dennis would go next. New York, she hoped, but she knew he wouldn’t agree to it. Maybe a house in the Canyons in LA, with an infinity pool that made their hearts pound with the cold when they first stepped in, lit up green in the night while they wrapped themselves together and listened to the water move around them.
It was possible to change. It had to be. You aren’t a bad person, because you want to be good. If she was bad, she thought, then she wouldn’t lie awake at night as she remembered Mark’s cry, the shatter of glass and that awful noise that echoed in her skull.
On the porch she sipped a bottle of sparkling water when something flew past her ear and cracked the window behind her. For a second she sat still and asked herself what on earth could have done that. Then another struck her on the shoulder and rolled down her body, a small rock, followed by another ricocheting off the long-dead bug zapper. Shielding her face with her hands she ran inside and called to Dennis. The spot on her arm where the rock hit her stung, turning red. ‘There’s someone out there again, throwing rocks. They hit me!’
Dennis wasn’t in his bedroom. Sam walked back through to his father’s room, to the kitchen, to the bathroom, but he was gone. She heard the back door open before Dennis clomped around the corner, a shotgun hung over his shoulder, a strap with the American flag printed all over. He held out one hand to her, gesturing for her to stay against the wall and keep quiet. She watched him unhook the gun and stride through the front door. It felt as if she were dreaming until two gunshots made her jump so much she hit her head on the wall behind her. She put her hands over her ears and braced herself for more but nothing came.
Dennis reappeared and leaned the gun against the wall. ‘Kids,’ he said.
Sam waited for more but he had gone to wash his hands in the kitchen. ‘What happened?’ she asked him, voice shaking.
‘I fired a couple shots into the air. They ran out of the bushes, probably pissed their pants.’
‘Wh-where did that come from?’
‘The gun? I finally found my dad’s stash. He never had a licence but he’s got about ten of those things in a trunk under the bed. You scared? Don’t be, they won’t come round peeping on you any more.’ He hugged her. ‘Get cleaned up. We need to go to the store and then we can go out to dinner.’
The runt of the litter still wasn’t feeding well so Dennis bought some cat-milk formula and a feeding syringe before dinner. They would keep him, Dennis decided, and Tuna, but they would try to rehome the rest before they left. Sam knew Dennis was being kind to her. He insisted on going to a burger place even though he hated it. He ordered a chicken burger without any mayo but it came with mayo anyway. Sam watched him peel the limp, mayonnaise-soaked lettuce from the chicken and wrap it in a napkin.
‘You can send it back,’ Sam said, feeling guilty, like it was somehow her fault.
‘It’s fine,’ he said. ‘Really, don’t worry about it.’
The waiter returned with a side order of broccoli, limp and overcooked. Dennis looked disappointed but didn’t complain. He even talked about where they might live after this was done, smiling politely when she described the house in New England she had always dreamed of. She knew he felt bad about scaring her and she admitted she felt a little better knowing those kids wouldn’t be sneaking around any more.
When they got back home she watched him as he held the kitten, so small he could carry him in one hand. His breath came in little huffs, tiny inhalations followed by a short, hard exhalation. Sam loved how gentle Dennis was with this fragile thing, his patience as he fed the kitten formula with the syringe, wiped his mouth with the cuff of his shirt. Whoever had killed the dog, she knew it wasn’t Dennis.
‘It isn’t looking promising for this guy,’ Dennis said, holding the kitten close to his face and touching his nose to its head.
‘Should we call a vet?’
‘We’ll see how he feels tomorrow.’ He put the kitten back in amongst the crush of his siblings. Sam noticed how much smaller and less mobile he was than the others. The kitten curled up tight and continued his laboured breathing. ‘Hopefully he’ll start to improve by tomorrow.’
Sam cleaned her teeth and looked at herself in the mirror, at the freckles that had sprouted after a day in the sun.
‘Oh God …’ Dennis said from behind her.
‘What?’ She turned and spat, shielding it from his view with one hand.
‘You’re using my toothbrush …’
‘Oh? Sorry.’ She turned it over in her hand. He was right. She rinsed it off and put it back in the holder.
‘What am I supposed to use?’
‘Just use this one. I’m sorry, OK?’
‘It’s disgusting, I can’t use that.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. We’re married, and it isn’t a big deal.’
‘It gets food out from between your teeth. We need to go back to the store so I can buy a new one.’
‘What?’
‘It’s still open. It’s open all night. Let’s go.’
‘I’m too tired, I’ve been working all day …’
‘You worked for about two hours. And it’s not like you do anything else. What do you do? Besides taking pictures of everything you eat and posting it online?’
Sam stared at him. All day she’d done her best. She’d been quiet and non-judgemental and cooperative. He’d fired a shotgun, she thought. At children, for fuck’s sake. And she hadn’t bitched at all.
‘Do you hate me?’ she said eventually.
‘Huh?’
‘Sometimes I feel like you hate me.’
‘Look, forget it. I’m just a little worked up today.’
He took his toothbrush from the holder and held it under the water for a long time. Standing behind him Sam saw the same stubborn reluctance to apologise that she was guilty of herself. Instead of fighting she looped her arms around his waist and apologised for using his toothbrush. He grunted an acceptance and she went to settle on the airbed in the living room.
He appeared a few minutes later, still silent but not as tense. Without speaking he folded his glasses and rested them on the coffee table, shuffled up to her awkwardly and pulled her into him. They kissed softly; she could hear him breathing and the squeaking of the mattress underneath them. She started to
slide a hand down his shorts but he jerked away from her.
‘Sorry,’ he said. They kissed and she tried again, her hand sliding over him.
‘No, don’t,’ he said, rolling over.
‘I just …’
‘Stop it. Not yet.’ He turned on to his side, his back to her.
It almost hurt, how much she wanted him. She moulded herself to his back, and he took her hands in his and held them around him. Part of her wanted to ask him what was wrong. She thought of him in prison, eighteen years old and beautiful, of those months in general population before he moved to Death Row. Had something happened then? Or was it earlier? She remembered how he hated his father. She pictured the late nights, drunken footsteps down the hall, coming closer. She held him tighter. It wasn’t something she thought she could ask.
Eventually Dennis relaxed and she fell asleep against him. When she woke up later in the night he was gone and though she tried to stay awake until he returned her eyes closed and she drifted off, waking in the bright morning to see him lying beside her, smelling of outside, his T-shirt slightly cold to the touch.
Twenty-seven
The next morning Sam asked where he had been in the night, but he shrugged.
‘Needed to get out, couldn’t sleep.’
When he went running she set the laptop on her knees in bed and searched for news in the Red River area. The dead dog was the top story, though they said it had been killed in a break-in and there were no details about the head, nothing about evisceration. The police had been lying, Sam thought, just as Dennis had said. The report suggested the dog had been hit with a baseball bat. She couldn’t read further. It upset her too much. Instead she lay back and thought of Dennis, imagined his hands inside her dress, fingers pulling her underwear to the side.
‘Busy day,’ Dennis shouted as he came back in. ‘I have to plan the funeral, we need to fill these dumpsters for pick-up and then we better get something together for when Lindsay comes over for the premiere.’ He made his way into the shower before Sam could respond.
