Theresa Monsour (16 page)

“Our orders were to talk you out of this,” said Ryan. Patrick took a bump off his beer and nodded.

“Can't believe they called you bozos,” she said.

“They figured we'd stand up for Jacko because we wear the same uniform,” said Ryan. He and Patrick were both orthopedic surgeons and had a practice together.

Patrick raised his bottle. “To the medical brotherhood.” He took another sip.

“I got a news flash for you guys,” said Murphy. “I'm not the one who did the walking.”

“I'm sorry, Potato Head,” said Patrick.

“
Imma
told us it was your doing,” said Ryan.

“I guess it's my fault,” she said. “No. There's no guessing. It
is
my fault.”

Patrick picked up his six-pack and tucked it under his left arm. “Let's assign blame inside, where it's warmer. Besides, I'm starving.”

“Go ahead,” said Ryan. He pulled his sister by the elbow toward the first hammock. “We're gonna go for a swing. Be inside in a minute. Don't eat all the
kibbee
, you sow.” Patrick made an
oink
noise, went inside, shut the door behind him.

Murphy opened her mouth to protest but then closed it. Ryan was two years older than Patrick and much more serious. He undoubtedly took to heart his parents' request to intervene. She'd have to hear him out now or he'd hound her later.

They lowered themselves into a hammock. Ryan set the six-pack down between them. “Want one?” he asked. She nodded. He picked up a Rolling Rock, twisted off the cap, handed her the bottle. Picked up another one, opened it.
They sat for a few minutes, their feet flat on the porch floor. They moved the hammock back and forth by bending and straightening their legs. She wrapped her arms around herself. He set his beer down, took off his jean jacket and draped it over her shoulders.

“Thanks.”

He picked up the beer, took a bump. Cupped the bottle between his palms. “What's the deal with you and Jacko?”

All her brothers called him that; Jack hated it. Another thing about her family that aggravated him. She took a sip of beer. Switched the bottle to her left hand and ran her right index finger around the mouth of the bottle. “We're finished. He found out I saw someone else. Over the summer.”

“Is that why you're finished?”

She paused. At first she felt insulted, then she told herself it was a fair question. “It didn't help. That's for damn sure. But you know we've been having problems for a long time. Haven't been able to live together without fighting.”

He stopped moving his legs. “I know. I figured. I don't know.”

“You figured we'd keep limping along.” She switched the beer back to her right hand. Lifted it to her lips. Took a long drink. Wiped her mouth with the back of her left hand. “That's what I figured, too. But Jack's really mad. Hurt. This might be it for us.”

“So who's this guy? Is it serious?”

“Erik Mason. Investigator with the ME's office.”

Ryan nodded. Took another bump off his beer. “What about the second half of my question?”

She took a sip of beer. “I don't have an answer right now. I don't know. All I know is Jack walked out and I think this time, we're split for keeps.”

Ryan finished his beer. Set it on the floor. Started swinging the hammock again. “Maybe that's not so bad,” he said in a low voice. “Lately, when I've seen you with Jacko, I haven't been so sure about the two of you. I've watched you watching him. Reminds me of someone sitting on the edge of their seat in a movie theater.”

“Waiting for the next scary scene,” she said. She took one last sip, set the bottle down, pulled her brother's jacket tighter around her shoulders.

He stood up. “Let's go in. It's cold out here and I'm hungry.” He started for the front door. She bent over, put the empties in the six-pack carton, stood up and followed him. Still cleaning up after them, she thought. He was holding the door open for her. She walked through and he leaned into her ear to whisper, “Let me do the talking or Ma will throw us all out before we get to the
koosa
.”

She smiled and nodded, even though she had no intention of letting anyone do the talking for her. They were still trying to take care of her.

HE STOOD IN the shower with icy water needling his body and creating a puddle of diluted blood at his feet. His pa kept pounding on the door with his fist. Pounding, pounding. Trip wished the pounding would stop. Wished the bleeding would stop.

“Sweet! Sweet! Open up, goddammit!” Now a sharp sound. He was hitting the door with his cane.

Trip looked at his arms. The cold water had washed the red off. His feet were wet with blood and water. He reached for the shampoo. Squatted over her body. Wedged the bottle under her hips so it propped her up and cleared the drain. The blood and water started running down the hole. He stood up and rinsed his hands under the shower. Pulled open the stall door as much as he could with her body blocking it. Hung onto the door with his left hand. Lifted his left foot into the cold spray and held it there until it was clean and stepped out with it. Lifted the right foot. Watched the water drip from it. Set that foot on the bathroom floor. He shut the shower door. Let the water keep running. Keep sending the red down the drain.

Pounding with his fist again. “Sweet! What the hell is going on in there! This is my house! I want to know!”

He stood naked in the middle of the bathroom, dripping water onto the floor. He was so tired he couldn't think. He needed a good lie and he couldn't come up with one. Not even the kernel of one. The same sensation as reaching into a cereal box, feeling around, finding it empty. Not one nugget. Not even crumbs. He peered in the medicine cabinet mirror for inspiration. All he saw was an exhausted man with thinning hair matted to his head. He grabbed a towel off the bar and rubbed his scalp. Lifted it off his head. Hair all over the towel. He wrapped the towel around his waist and went to the door. Put his hand on the lock.

More knocking with the cane. “Justice! Open this fucking door right now before I break it down!”

He twisted the lock and opened the door. Stood silently in front of his pa.

“Sweet?” His pa's face didn't show concern as much as curiosity, and Trip found that unsettling. Minutes earlier, a woman had been screaming in their bathroom.

“She's d . . . dead, Pa.”

“What? Who?”

“Keri. She c . . . cut herself real b . . . bad with the straight-edge.”

“Killed herself? In our can?”

Trip jumped on the suggestion. “Yeah. Suicide. Yeah. She's been real d . . . d . . . depressed lately. About her weight and s . . . stuff. I walked in on her and . . .”

His father shoved him aside with his left arm and thumped over to the shower with his cane. He pushed open the shower door. The bottom of the door bumped against her body. Frank looked down. Squinted. Even with his poor eyesight he could make out the wound across her throat. Deep, red, raw, oozing blood as water splattered it. The straight-edge razor on the shower floor. Pieces of something scattered all over the stall. Bent over to get a better look. The shower radio, busted in a bunch of pieces. Leaned closer. Saw the shampoo bottle propped under her
body, letting the blood flow down the drain. He stood straight, turned, looked in his son's face. Trip thought he saw the corners of his pa's mouth curl up for an instant. Stifling a smirk. “Suicide my ass! You did the bitch!”

Trip took a step back from him and raised both palms defensively. “Pa. No. I didn't.”

“Who in the hell kills themselves by slitting their own throat?” The old man closed the shower door. “Why'd you do it, Sweet? Why?”

It came to him; a noble reason with the added bonus of being partially true. “She was trying to k . . . k . . . kill you, Pa. She d . . . doped you up.”

It worked. The old man's jaw dropped. Then: “What the hell? Why she wanna do that?”

Trip blurted out the first word that came to mind: “Money.”

“What money? I don't got a pot to piss in, and neither do you.”

“Your Social Security checks. She was gonna hide your body and make me cash the checks.”

Frank's eyes narrowed. Suddenly his son was part of the plot. “How she gonna make you do that?”

“Blackmail.” Trip regretted that word as soon as it left his lips, tried to switch gears before his pa asked the next obvious question. “Didn't you think it was weird the way you g . . . got all sleepy all of a sudden? She slipped you a sleeping p . . . p . . . pill. How do you suppose she gave it to you, P . . . Pa? Hid it in your food? Your beer?”

Frank thought about it. “She did give me a new pill today, right before you got to the house. I knew it wasn't time for my usual meds. Vitamin. That's what she said it was.” He shook his cane at the shower door. “Vitamin my ass. Murdering witch. Glad you did her, Sweet. I thank you for protecting your pa.”

Trip was stunned at how easily his pa accepted murder. Even if it was murder with a palatable motive. He studied the old man. Saw more than acceptance in his expression. Satisfaction.

His pa pushed the shower door open again and looked down at the body. Said in a low voice, “Shows what goes around comes around.”

“Pa?”

His voice sounded distant. Removed from the moment. “Reminds me is all.”

“Reminds you of what, Pa?”

“Nothing, son.” He pointed up at the showerhead with his cane. “Shut that off before we get a triple-digit water bill.”

“What about the b . . . blood?”

“What about it? We'll rinse it all down the drain at once, when she's done bleeding like a butchered hog.”

Trip stepped around him, leaned into the stall, shut off the water. “What do we d . . . do with her, Pa?” He started to shut the shower door. Didn't seem right to discuss it with her body bleeding right under their noses.

“Wait.” His pa reached into his left pants pocket and handed Trip two coins. “Close her eyes and put these on them. Bad luck letting the dead watch you.”

Trip fingered the money. “Thought you're supposed to use pennies.”

“What did I give you?”

“Dime and a nickel.”

“That penny stuff's an old wives' tale. Any coin should do it. Except quarters maybe. Quarters are too big; probably wouldn't sit right on the eyeball. Besides, that's all I got on me except for some folding money. That sure as shit ain't gonna work.”

Trip stood with the nickel and dime in his right palm. Remembered something about quarters and the dead. An echo from his childhood. What was it? He had goose bumps on his arms. Whatever it was, it was something bad.

His pa touched his shoulder. “Son. Wake up. Put them on her.”

Trip kneeled on the shower stall lip, shut her right lid with his left index finger and held it down while he set the dime on it. Shut her left lid, put the nickel on it. He stood
up and surveyed his handiwork. Silver on her lids was spooky. Made it seem as if her eyes were wide open and lit up from the inside out. A flashlight shining inside a jack-o'-lantern. “Pennies would have been b . . . better. More natural.”

“Shut up about the stupid pennies. Close the shower if you don't like how it looks.”

Trip pulled the door closed. “What are we gonna do with her?” He tightened the towel around his waist. Paced back and forth the length of the bathroom. Planted a hand on each side of his head, trying to press out an idea. Took his hands down. Black strands on his palms. Shook them off. “Could stick her in her car trunk and drive it a ways away. Leave it somewhere.”

“She walked here. Her beater's parked in front of her trailer.”

“Her trailer. What if we carried her back to her own trailer, dumped her in her own shower? I got a key.”

“She'd be a big load to haul outta here. Wheelbarrow might work. We'd have to do it in the middle of the night. Nosy neighbors. Gotta watch for them. She's got that old bat living next door; never sleeps. No. Too risky taking her back to her place. Too many eyes around here.”

“Gotta b . . . b . . . bury her or something.”

“Need to dig a big fucking hole. Bobcat would come in handy.” Frank chuckled. Thought that was funny. “Where the hell would we bury her? We ain't got no land.”

“We c . . . can't leave her here.”

His old man nodded. “She'd rot and stink up the place. Someone might smell her. Call the cops.”

“The cops,” said Trip. “Who knows she was here? Her b . . . b . . . boss?”

“Nah. I heard her on the phone. Told them some bullshit about visiting some boyfriend outta town. She sure as shit couldn't tell them she was fucking her client. I mean her client's son.”

Good catch, Pa
, Trip thought.

Frank scratched his chin. “So what do you do with a dead cow?” His eyes widened; he thumped his cane on the floor. “You cut it up and store it in the freezer.” He thumped his cane again. “Yes sir. We got that great big chest freezer in the spare bedroom. There's a plan if I ever heard one.”

The color drained from Trip's cheeks. Not only was the idea repulsive, but the enthusiasm his pa showed for it was sickening. This was wrong. All of it. From the minute he opened the bathroom door and saw his pa's face, it felt wrong. This man smirking over a dead woman, talking about cutting her up like a side of beef, this wasn't his pa. Not the one he knew. The bit with the coins. How did he know what did and didn't work? He'd done this sort of thing before. Covered his tracks after murdering someone. “Pa. I d . . . don't know.”

Frank detected the horrified reaction in his son's voice. “I'm only trying to help, Sweet. What you've done here, it's a sin.” He nodded toward the shower stall. “But what she was planning was worse. A bigger sin. And you're my flesh and blood. Flesh and blood comes first. I got to help you.”

Unconvincing speech. Still, he didn't know what to say. How to confront the old man. He was in no position to judge anyone.

“Okay. What do we d . . . do first? Maybe we don't n . . . need to cut her. She c . . . could fit as is.”

His pa nodded. “Let's give it a try.”

“How do we c . . . carry her down the hall without m . . . messing up the carpet?”

“That blue tarp in the shed. Should be plenty big and strong. Don't even have to lift her. Grab the corners of the thing and drag her.”

Trip dropped his eyes. The blue tarp. He'd buried the bridesmaid in it. “I threw it away, Pa. Had a b . . . big hole in it. How about an old b . . . bedsheet?”

Frank shook his head. “Blood might drip through.”

“We'll wrap her neck in a garbage bag. Seal it with
d . . . duct tape. Got a couple of rolls in the kitchen, g . . . good and wide.”

“Now you're talking. You get the tape and bag and I'll get the sheet.”

Trip watched his pa thump out of the bathroom and head down the hall. He couldn't remember the last time he'd moved so quickly and with such purpose. His old man was having fun. He'd done this before, or something close to this. Would he be shocked to learn about the bridesmaid? The ranger? Maybe not. What about the others Trip had flattened over the years? What about what happened in high school? Would it horrify his pa or make him proud? He brushed the thoughts aside. One thing at a time. He dropped the towel on the floor. Went into the hallway. Retrieved the clothes he'd left outside the bathroom door and slipped them on. While he dressed he watched his pa digging around the hall closet for an old sheet. He was humming to himself. One of Elvis's religious songs. “How Great Thou Art.” He used to hum that song when he did household chores. When he had the strength to vacuum and sweep. As unbelievable as it seemed, this task of getting rid of a body had actually reinvigorated his old man.

Trip walked through the front room into the kitchen and pulled open a drawer to the right of the sink. The designated junk drawer. Stuck. Always stuck, crammed as it was with tools, glue bottles, rolls of tape, scissors, rubber bands, bottle caps. He yanked hard and it popped open. He reached into the back of the drawer and pulled out a roll of masking tape. The wrong stuff. He set it on top of the counter. Took out the claw hammer and pliers and screwdriver. Put those on top of the counter. Reached way back. Felt it with his fingertips. Slid it to the front of the drawer. There it was. A roll of silver-colored duct tape. He shoved the other junk back in the drawer and forced it shut. He opened the cabinet door under the sink and took out the roll of kitchen garbage bags. Ripped two bags off the roll.
Held them up. They were a flimsy generic brand. Usually leaked. He pulled two more off the roll. That should do it, he thought. Shut the door. He went back to the bathroom. His pa was standing next to the shower stall with the door open. Staring at her body. An old sheet was draped over his left arm. Had cowboys on it. Trip never figured his old man would give up a set of cowboy sheets. Maybe that's all they had left in the closet. Maybe he couldn't see what he'd given Trip.

“Got the t . . . tape and garbage bags,” Trip said, holding the tape in his left hand and the bags in his right. His pa didn't answer. Kept looking down at the body. “Pa? Having second thoughts about the p . . . p . . . plan?”