The Garden of Last Days

by Andre Dubus III

  The Honda was low. He had to bend down, her head resting against his palm, her warm back against his arm, and his knee slipped on papers but he laid her down on the new seat in the new car in the clean garage. Now her hair encircled her face like flowering ivy. One hand was under her, the other across her belly. He wanted to pull that arm free but she’d stopped snoring and she could come out of it and he straightened up and half ran back to his truck for his shirt to cover her again. But—shit—Caporelli written all over it. They’d trace him in no time. In a couple hours the air would be plenty warm, but now it had a chill to it and there was nothing else to cover her with.

  Except what he had on; he grabbed his back collar with his good hand and yanked it over his head, gathered it up in his fingers, held his breath as he raised his bad hand, and yanked again, dropping it through the sleeve.

  Too much time had passed since he’d opened those doors. The sky was a lighter blue, and he could see the black rise of a gabled roof over the wall, the dark shuttered windows.

  He leaned into the Honda and lay his T-shirt over the girl, tucking it in lightly around her hips and legs. She had such a pretty little face; he didn’t see Spring in it anywhere. He kissed his finger and held it over her, then he backed out and pushed the door closed. He pressed the lock button on the driver’s door, all four of them thumping down, and he pushed that door closed too—quiet, quiet—and pulled on the handle but could no longer get in and neither could any other sonofabitch except the owner and he was going to chance that the driver of this new car, the handler of all those papers on the floor, was a decent man like he was, a man who’d do the right thing.

  Still, he should call the law soon as he could, tell them where she is. But can’t they trace a cell phone call? Pull up your cell bill faster than you can press the End button? These thoughts running through him as he reached up and grabbed the handle and with too much noise pulled the door clacketing back down. He wanted to leave it halfway open, let some fresh air in, but when he let go, the door began to rise back up. He pushed down till it was a foot off the concrete but it rose up again and goddamnit he had to close it all the way, run back to his truck, start her up, the engine tearing a hole through the quiet of the alleyway. He got his door shut and, bare-chested, backed away.

  He switched on his parking lights and moved slowly down the alley the way he’d come. He looked up over the walls and the dark rise of roofs to the sky, a hint of peach in it from the east. The digital on his radio told him he had just over thirty minutes to set himself in the ditch under the CAT, and it was going to be hard to make a cut in the hose look like a tear. Maybe he should loosen the nuts on the clamp instead. Shitty maintenance could shake those loose too. His ratchet set was in the toolbox, wasn’t it? He wasn’t sure, but why wouldn’t it be? His heart began to slow down now but his head felt heavy on his neck, his eyes and shoulders ached, and he wished his wrist and hand weren’t so damn swollen. Not that Cap Jr. had a brain in his fucking head about anything like this. But would the doctor at the hospital say anything? They might. And that could change everything.

  At the alley’s end he pulled to a stop. Across the street, in the deep blue light of dawn, an armadillo crept over the bahia lawn of a rich man’s home. AJ’s lights were on him but the creature took his time, the bony plates of his hide shifting as he went. It was the right thing to lay the girl down away from bugs and reptiles, but there was a cool emptiness inside that pulled on him the way not seeing Cole had pulled on him, and as he turned left away from St. Armand’s Circle, he knew there wasn’t much time but he couldn’t just leave her back there without a call to the county. There had to be a pay phone somewhere. He looked behind him at the street sign. A palm tree was in front of it and he had to stop and back up and read the words in the white glow of his reverse lights—Fruitville Road.

  He looked down the alley once more, couldn’t even make out the building, and he put his truck in drive and accelerated, the V-8 pulling him ahead under a cobalt sky, getting lighter and lighter to the east.

  BASSAM TURNS OFF the engine and sits. It is dawn in the parking lot of the Acacia Inn and across the street are two hotels, their many balconies lighted from beneath. He can see the ocean between the buildings. The sky above it is now nearly visible, a blackish blue that makes the water appear gray, its waves breaking on the sand. His chest aches. Beside him is the half package of cigarettes he smoked on his drive west, the three empty bottles of Coke. Khalid.

  Bassam pushes the cigarette package into his pocket and leaves the small rental car. At the fuel station halfway across the state, before driving away, he counted his remaining money: nine thousand five hundred sixty-five dollars. But from the bank he had withdrawn over sixteen thousand he was to wire directly to Dubai. He does not wish to do the subtraction, and he steps onto the concrete walkway, the keys in his hand.

  The room is dark and smells of cheap incense and his sleeping brothers. Soon it will be time for the first prayer but today they travel north so he will let them sleep a few extra moments. Softly he closes the door. He is pulled backward, an arm squeezing his chest, metal pressed to his throat.

  “Bassam?”

  “Yes, what is wrong with you?”

  Imad drops his arm and Bassam steps away, his heart beating too quickly. His legs feel weak and he breathes deeply and the shadow of Tariq moves around the corner of the kitchenette.

  “Bassam?”

  “Yes, what is wrong with you both? Who is going to have a key but me?”

  The bedside lamps illuminate, Imad standing there at the wall switch fully dressed in shirt and pants, his feet bare. Weeks ago he shaved his beard and mustache and looks to Bassam like a big boy, his eyes shining.

  “Why didn’t you answer my calls? You were supposed to be back by Isha.”

  “I couldn’t.”

  “But where were you?” Tariq too is dressed. He is younger than them both, but his trimmed mustache makes him look older, almost handsome. “We thought you were caught.”

  “No, excuse me, I again should have called.”

  “But Bassam,” Imad tosses the retractable razor onto the bed, “where were you?”

  He can lie. Bassam can stand here and lie to his brothers, but to do so would be as if he’d lain with the black whore. His face warms with shame, a baboon crying in a thorn tree while they sit around Shaytan’s fire.

  “One of the whores lost her child and the police held us searching for her.”

  “Bassam,” Imad says, “what if they held you longer? You could have ruined everything.”

  “Did you wire the money?” Tariq’s button-down shirt is tucked neatly into his pants. Seeing it, Bassam feels dirty, unprepared. “We will wire it before our flight, Insha’Allah. Brothers, don’t worry. I went there to strengthen myself. Now hurry, the sun is rising and I must perform my ablutions and after Fajr we need to pack and go.”

  Bassam moves past tall Imad and looks no longer at Tariq and steps inside the bathroom. O Allah, I take refuge with You from all evil and all evildoers. He pulls closed the door, but it is dark and he must open it again and fumble for the switch and turn on the light. Imad stands by the bed. Bassam ignores him and closes the door. Around the sink is a puddle of water, black whiskers floating there. Two disposable razors. A bottle of cologne Amir prefers. Three toothbrushes lay on their sides, and Bassam closes his eyes to prepare himself for ablutions but in the darkness there is the lie he told to his brothers, that he went to the whores for strength when it was the opposite—he went there because he could not stop himself. And the money he gave so freely, yes, it will be used for the future, Insha’Allah, and he should not have given it to the kafir, but sitting there drunk amid the whores, burning one bill, then the next, he could feel his resolve strengthening once again, for of all the treasures of this earth found again in Jannah, he knew money would not be one of them, dirty money and every sin committed for more and more of it.

  The man in Dubai may be angry, as wi
ll Amir in the north, but Allah is pleased. And Bassam al-Jizani opens his eyes and begins to wash this body he is so nearly free of.

  THE ICE CREAM had helped, had calmed Deena’s stomach and made her sleepy. But sleep never came and she lay in bed another hour and maybe she dozed off because she couldn’t be sure her thoughts were dreams or her dreams were thoughts: there was AJ crying tonight, smelling like liquor; there was his face after he’d hit her months ago, like he was just warming up but wanted somebody to stop him too, his blue eyes sorry but not sorry; there was Cole eating the breakfast she knew she’d make for him sooner than she’d be ready to, French toast covered with melted butter in a pool of syrup—she could see herself cutting it up before she served it to him and her heart started beating faster in preparation for this task and she kept telling herself to stop thinking and sleep, fool. Sleep.

  Then she opened her eyes to the darkness. Maybe she did sleep because she couldn’t remember what had just been in her head and there was a sour taste in her mouth and she gave up and climbed out of bed to go brush her teeth. The bathroom was the nicest-looking room in the house. It was bigger than most, and AJ had laid blue tiles that made it feel cool and she’d hung lime curtains and it was always here she felt his best intentions and would regret how things were between them.

  She wiped her lips on the towel, avoided looking at the plain woman in the mirror. She turned out the light and crossed the hall to check on Cole. He was curled on his side, his small back to her. He’d be up soon and she knew this lack of sleep would hit her hard after lunch, that she’d need a nap then. Sometimes she put him in front of a Disney movie and slept on the couch, but one afternoon she woke and the TV screen was blank and Cole was in the front yard piling pebbles onto the plastic yellow seat of his John Deere. Less than an hour later AJ got home, and if he’d seen that she’d never stop hearing about it. Just more proof that she wasn’t good enough. She’d never be good enough.

  She was still surprised by how he’d looked tonight, so lonesome and sorry. And again came the feeling she’d been too hard on him; honestly, part of her believed she deserved what he’d done, that it was her punishment for not loving him more than she did.

  It was after five. She should just give up and make coffee and start the day early. The sun came up around seven. She could read her magazines and watch some TV, then go outside while the sky lightened above the pines across the road. She’d sit with some fresh coffee and think a bit, reflect on things. Virginia called it prayer. Deena envied her really, having faith there’s someone or something out there who loves you and cares about what happens to you and maybe even watches over you. She wished she believed that herself, but she just didn’t. It made no sense, some eternal being who knows each one of us. And what about the other people from other religions with their other gods? Did they really believe theirs was the true one?

  In the kitchen Deena put some water on for her instant hazelnut she was already looking forward to. This tiny house was so quiet it unnerved her but she didn’t want to go turn on the TV just yet; more and more she noticed she was always craving something or moving toward something else or someplace she thought of as better or more comfortable. How many times, even when she was full, did she want to be eating more ice cream or another grilled cheese sandwich or handfuls of salty potato chips? How often was she reaching for the remote control and roaming from one channel to the next and never satisfied? How many magazines did she look through a week? Six? Seven? And she rarely read an entire article, just skimmed all those glossy pictures and advertisements of a sexy, rich life she’d never live.

  It was clear Virginia didn’t think much of her, but there was a kind of stillness to her old mother-in-law Deena admired. She smoked and she liked her coffee and always seemed to be drinking it, hot or cold, but the woman could sit out on her patio alone with no radio on, nothing to read and nobody to talk to all day long. She’d sit there with those oxygen tubes under her nostrils and look at her small lawn AJ kept trimmed. She’d look up at the sky or stare at her Virgin Mary statue. Maybe this was part of getting old, when you’re too tired to move around much and you spend a lot of time looking back. But that wasn’t it. Virginia just knew there was a God watching over her and it was like she was visiting with him somehow, talking to him.

  Well, what a comfort that would be.

  The water was roiling and began its low whistle. Before it could get high and shrieking Deena grabbed an oven mitt and lifted the kettle off the coil and poured the steaming water into her cup. God was for the weak, that’s what she really thought. It was for people who can’t face that we’re born alone and we die alone and for great stretches of our lives we’re just alone. Nobody looking out for you but you and maybe a handful of people who love you because you’re family.

  Until Cole, she hadn’t understood that, the love her mother and father had for her. Or maybe, as she got older, she hadn’t felt it all that much. But just as sure as she could feel this hot mug in her hands she knew there was a love in us we can’t explain. It was hard to believe in a god, but she did believe in this warm, dark pull inside her that she would do anything, anything for that little boy sleeping down the hall.

  Even kill. Even die.

  Isn’t that enough? To have just one human being love you like that? Can’t the memory of that keep you going? Be like a living prayer inside you?

  She poured cream into her coffee and dumped in three spoonfuls of sugar and suspected she was full of it; she’d been loved by her own all her life and it wasn’t even close to enough. And then she had a healthy baby and a solid home built by the man who loved her and none of it had been enough; she wanted a bigger home and a more successful, better-looking man, and she wanted more children, four or five, but more than anything she wanted a different her: she wanted prettier eyes and a smaller face; she wanted a body she wasn’t ashamed of, one that wouldn’t crave food all day and night but instead would take in only what it needed; she wanted to go to college and read books she’d never even heard of and be an interesting person with interesting things to say. She wanted to tell AJ she was sorry for how much she wanted. But she also wanted him to stop scaring her with his temper, to stop scolding her all the time, to quit making her feel like everything that was going wrong right now was her fault.

  Some of it was. But some of it was Virginia’s, too. Late at night, sometimes after they’d made love, AJ would tell her about being a boy in her house, how until his stepfather Eddie came along, it was one boyfriend after another. Some would stay for a few weeks, others months. He said he spent a lot of nights alone in front of the TV while his mother and her boyfriend drank and played cards and laughed and smoked in the kitchen, or else went to her bedroom early and he’d hear them doing it, hear the bedsprings and the way his mama moaned and he’d turn up the TV or leave the house. There’d be fighting too.

  “Anybody ever hit her?”

  “I don’t know. I’d go walking.”

  “What if one of them hit her?” This before he’d ever hit her.

  “I was a boy, Deena. Jesus Christ, what do you want?”

  He was right. She knew he was right. She’d lay her cheek to his chest and tell him so. It was wrong to judge a little kid like that, but she didn’t like what that said about him even then, that when trouble came to someone he loved, he just got up and walked away from it.

  But Virginia, she never loved him enough, never held him or played with him enough—at least he couldn’t remember if she did. And now he had no real confidence in himself. Now he was a man who could hit his own wife, even if she had been hard on him in a way; was she asking for it? Did she really believe that?

  Like a sudden answer to her question, the front room lit up from outside and two men climbed out of the lighted interior of a police car, its long antennae swaying in the red glow of its taillights, Deena thinking, AJ—drunk, crashed, gone. And her face felt on fire for what she felt, not fear or dread or worry, but hope, not that she was wron
g about what had just happened to AJ, but that she was right.

  She could hear the men’s footsteps on the gravel and with trembling fingers she put her coffee down on the countertop and went to answer the door.

  AJ DROVE FASTER than he knew he should, passing all the sleeping homes, some with their lights coming on in their back bedrooms. It was a sight that made him miss Deena and Cole, and all night long he’d felt he’d done a good thing for this child and now he wasn’t so sure. What if the owner of that Honda was away somewhere or planned to sleep late and take the day off? The windows were rolled up, and man, once the day got going it could get real hot in there. And how would she feel when she woke up in a strange car in a strange garage by herself?

  Goddamnit, he should’ve taken her inside Mama’s or back home to Deena. If he was going to do something good for this girl, then damnit he should’ve done it all the way.

  He was driving north when he should be heading south to Lido Key, but there was the municipal fishing pier at the north end of Ringling’s Causeway. He might be able to find a phone booth there, though he doubted it; since cell phones, they just didn’t seem to exist anywhere anymore.

  His head ached. He was hungry now, and thirsty. But it was too late to reach for just one more Miller. He didn’t want to smell like beer when Caporelli drove up to find him pinned under the bucket. He raised his bad hand and looked at it in the dim blue light of dawn. His wrist was wider than his forearm, and the fingers of his hand thick and curled. It’d been over six hours since that big motherfucker broke it and again AJ had no worries about Cap Jr. believing his tale, but wouldn’t the doctors know the difference between what had been done to it and how long ago and what he was going to say? Or maybe they wouldn’t. Maybe they’d be as busy as those poor sonsabitches in that show Deena liked, and they wouldn’t have time to even think about it. A broken bone was a broken bone.