I finished up, then headed for the bar. My fan club hollered something and I waved in their direction without even hearing what it was. I nodded to Zeke, turned down a beer, and got right to the point.

   “I need a huge favor.”

   “Okay.”

   “Rachel’s schedule. It would be good if she could be home when Brian and I are. As much as possible. If you can work it out.”

   He hesitated for a moment, then pulled out the schedule from underneath the bar and looked it over.

   “I’ll still need her to close on Fridays and Saturdays. She can have Tuesdays and Sundays off, and the rest of the week I can give her the eight to four shift. She’s been here longer than the others, anyway, so she has seniority, for what it’s worth. Will that do it?”

   “Close enough. I really appreciate it, Zeke.”

   “She might bitch a little, because the tips are bigger at night.”

   “Let me worry about that.”

   He nodded and put the schedule away. Scratched his chin. “You know, Tess. Even with all this, you still can’t watch her all the time. She’s a big girl and if she’s gonna get in trouble, she’s gonna do it no matter what you do.”

   I rubbed my eyes. I had never been so tired in my entire life. “I know. But at least this way she’ll be safe from him.”

   “Maybe, but--”

   “I gotta go, Zeke.”

   I really did. I still had lots to do.

   5:11.

   I sat in my car, thinking it all over. Zeke was right. I couldn’t protect her; not this way. If she wanted to go back to doing her thing, that’s just what she’d do. And now, with no rent to pay, she’d have extra money to do it with. Because there was no guarantee that she’d save it for school. And even if she was serious about making changes, even if she really did want to straighten out her life, there was still Tim. There would always be Tim. And there couldn’t be. Not anymore.

   I ran through the mental list I’d started the minute I’d crawled out of bed. I’d been adding to it, bit by bit, all day long. Because even though I’d never committed a crime, I’d spent the past seven months watching cop shows with Brian. And even though those were only fictional, they were at least somewhat steeped in fact. So I had a good idea of how to do what it was that needed to be done without incriminating myself…or anyone else.

   First step: Walmart in Westville. It was Black Friday, the busiest shopping day of the year. I wouldn’t be noticed or remembered in the crowd of people. And it wouldn’t look odd, buying the things I’d need.

   Next step: Kendall’s camp. They wouldn’t be back in town until January, when snowmobiling and ice fishing would beckon. And until then, Mrs. Dyer, can you give the camp a quick cleaning every week? I had the key to the front door on my key chain, next to half a dozen others. A key…and knowledge of what was inside the camp.

   There was a gun in the den closet. Locked up in a box. The bullets were locked in the desk drawer. And the extra key to those locks was in the bathroom medicine cabinet.

   Because there was a rampant teenage drug problem in New Mills. And sometimes those teenagers got desperate enough to break into houses. Desperate enough, sometimes, to kill. And sometimes rich people bought guns to protect themselves from those desperate teenagers. And, sometimes, they talked about things in front of their cleaning ladies. As if their cleaning ladies didn’t have eyes and ears and a brain. As if they weren’t there at all.

   The Walmart parking lot was packed. I adjusted my mittens, pulled my big, knitted hat over my schoolmarm bun, and did a quick check in the rearview mirror. Pulled the hat down even lower to cover my eyebrows. Just like lots of other women on this cold, November night. I stared at my feet as I walked in the door, away from the cameras, and that wasn’t odd, either. Lots of women hated looking at their big asses on the security screen.

   I nodded to the greeter without looking at her and wheeled a cart towards Men’s Shoes. Grabbed a pair of size ten boots. My feet were size seven. Brian’s were size twelve. Then the winter clothes department. Big, thick, manly gloves, for fingerprints and gun shot residue. A scarf to cover my face, a brand new coat, and a pair of big, bulky jeans. Because there would be lots of blood splattering, everywhere, and maybe even some brain. Then I stopped for a moment in the electronics section to get a gift for Brian. It was the action flick we’d gone to see on our first date; the one that wasn’t really our first date. And, finally, I tossed in a package of wrapping paper. Cheerful and red. Santa and his reindeer.

   Ho ho ho.

   The checkout lines were all long, which was no surprise. It took me twenty minutes to reach the cashier. I paid with cash. Then I drove to the Kendall’s camp.

   Front door. Alarm code. Lights. The grandfather clock in the living room read:

   I was over three hours late and now the alarm company knew it. But that’s natural on a day when you’ve taken your friend to a doctor’s appointment and then done some Christmas shopping. Especially when your client is in Connecticut. That’s when you don’t have to worry so much about being on time.

   I did a quick cleaning. Just so. Then I slipped on the new gloves, snatched the keys from the medicine cabinet, and ran into the den. I flipped on the light, sped over to the closet, and opened the door. It was the first time I had, so I wasn’t sure what it normally held. But right now it was empty.

   Except for a metal box on the top shelf.

   And here was a moment of truth. Because there was nothing in this closet, nothing on that top shelf--and there never had been--that a cleaning lady would ever need. No way to explain it away if an errant hair--slicked carefully back, plastered in place with hairspray, and covered with a knitted winter hat--or a drop of spit or sweat was found inside of this closet by a hardworking detective or crime scene investigator. No excuse, no alibi. Only one reason.

   Less than a minute later the gun was in my hand. It was old, but in good condition, and it was butt ugly. Black rubber grip. There was something stamped on the short, silver nose.

   Undercover. 38 SPL.

   I had never held a gun before. Ever. It wasn’t as heavy as I’d expected. Would it kick when I pulled the trigger? Would it make me fall backwards, or at least throw me off balance?

   Think about that, Tess. Prepare for that.

   I sat down at the desk. The same key that opened the gun box opened the bottom drawer.

   Bullets.

   I loaded the gun. It was easy, really. Push the catch, like so. Cylinder thing swings right out. Bullets slip right in.

   Five. Bullets. Just. Like. That.

   I stood up. Straighter. Did the math.

   I imagined his head. Lifted the gun, my finger well away from the trigger. Right about...there. Because it had to be in the head. Had to be. I had to make sure he’d die, right away. As much as I would have loved to make him suffer first.

   I ran to the kitchen and checked under the counter, found what I was looking for. A box of big, black trash bags. I grabbed three. None of them had my fingerprints on them because Mrs. Pelletier never let me near her cupboards.

   Then it was back to the living room. I entered the code, locked the door, ran to the car, chucked the gun onto the front seat, and changed into my new clothes. Slipped on the new coat and scarf and boots. Laid one of the trash bags over the seat. Started the car.

   7:18.

   I drove to the far side of town, beyond the gravel pit, onto a back road. Because if you’re a drug dealer then you want to live in the woods where you’re hidden. I drove slowly, because the road was rough, but finally saw his mailbox coming towards me. Dangling from a chain. On a thick wooden post.

   And that’s when I had to think about it. To be prepared. So I thought about all the violent movies I’d ever seen, the really bad ones. Blood and wounds and gore and splattering. I tried to imagine the smell and the sound. Couldn’t do it. But I knew it would be bad.

   And that’s when I started to feel something stirring underneath the hard, frozen soil. Fear. Nausea. Guilt.

   Tim’s house was at the end of a long, dirt driveway. I killed my headlights. Pulled in slowly.

   And saw that there were three cars. Sitting there. Right beside his.

   Time for Plan B. Because, of course, I had one.

   I backed up, slowly, parked the car in the middle of the driveway, where it couldn’t be seen from the house or the road. Just in case. Stuffed the gun into my new coat pocket.

   Just in case.

   I knocked on the door. Held my breath. And there he was.

   Coward. Rapist. Killer.

   I didn’t even flinch.

   He smiled when he saw me standing in his doorway. “Well, this is a real surprise. Looking to score? I can give you a senior citizen’s discount.”

   I said nothing, just clenched my jaw. Because I couldn’t remember what it was I had planned to say.

   He gave me a greasy smile. “Or are you looking for a different kind of high? Now I’ll be honest, Tess, normally I’d say no, because you’re much too old for my taste. But I’ve always wondered what it’d be like to fuck you. I bet you’re wild.”

   I gripped the gun inside my pocket. My finger was nowhere near the trigger.

   “Does this mean Brian’s finally all done with you? I guess he doesn’t need a mommy around anymore now that his little sister’s back home to take care of him.”

   That was the moment when I knew. That face. Those words. Mingling with Rachel’s words, the ones that had told me all the things he’d done to her. I knew, even through the fog. I would have done it. For real. If not for the other three cars and the people they’d brought here. The witnesses.

   I clenched my toes inside my great, big boots and cleared my throat. Because I finally remembered my Plan B. “I just came here to tell you that Rachel lost her baby.”

   Because he’d see her, not pregnant, and I had to make sure she was safe. She wouldn’t do it herself. She didn’t care, one way or the other. She’d given up months ago and she was still too tired to fight it. To fight him. I knew it, and it was something to work on. But for now...she needed protection.

   His smile fell. “She lost it?”

   “Yeah. Well, you know. Some asshole shoved her and she fell back against her coffee table. It did something to her...I don’t really know what. But it made her lose the baby.”

   He stared at me, blankly at first. And then there was anger. At who? Me? Rachel? Himself? There was no way to know. But what I didn’t see there was concern. Or remorse.

   None.

   I tightened my grip around the gun. It was still in my pocket but it wouldn’t be for long. My finger was on the trigger now, and I could do it. Right now. Blow his stupid, disgusting, fucking head off before he even knew it was coming. Watch the bullet pierce through it, maybe right through his eye, and wouldn’t that be great? Even if his blood and brains and bone got on me, even it covered me, all of it. It made me smile and I kept right on smiling, even though it meant getting something in my mouth; blood or brain or bone. I didn’t care. Whoever was partying inside was probably too stoned and drunk to think or move quickly enough to catch up with me. Whip the scarf over my face to cover it. Big, big boots would leave big, big footprints. My car was far away enough not to be seen and there were lots of tire tracks on this road. Mine would blend right in. Get in the car, sit on the black trash bag, drive away, stop somewhere safe, change the clothes, bloody clothes in the black trash bags, ditch the bloody trash bags. Then I’d bleach my hands and face and any other part of my body that he bled on. Bleach glows in luminol, just like blood does. And what could be more natural than for a cleaning lady to be covered in bleach?

   I looked over Tim’s shoulder. Someone was there. It was a teenaged girl, Little Miss Seventeen. She almost looked like Rachel. Probably the ex-wife did, too.

   It was too late now, so I let go of the trigger. I held onto the gun, though, just in case. But my chest felt hollow and I had to force myself to breath, almost like my heart and lungs had stopped working until she’d come into view. I waited a few more seconds until I felt normal again. Until I felt nothing. Then I looked her right in the eye and said:

   “Do your parents know where you are?”

   She put her cigarette to her lips, inhaled deeply, then exhaled with: “Fuck you, bitch.”

   “Nice.” I turned my attention back to Fuckwad. “Anyway, Brian’s pissed. Worse than he was last time. So you’d better stay away from Rachel.”

   “Why the sudden concern for my well being?”

   “I’m not the slightest bit concerned about your sorry, ugly ass. But if Brian kills you--which he could do, very easily, and wouldn’t that be awesome--then he’d spend the rest of his life in jail. And you’re just not worth it.”

   I clomped back to the car without waiting for his reply. I brushed the dirt off the boots and changed my clothes, then folded the new ones and put them back in the bag with the boots. After all, there was no blood or brain or bone on anything. And I had a receipt. I put the new coat in the other bag, the one with Brian’s movie. Because it would fit Rachel.

   Ho ho ho.

   Then I drove to the end of the road and called Brian.

   “I’m running a bit late. Have you eaten?”

   “Yeah. But I’m still hungry.”

   “I can pick something up at Fran’s.”

   “Sounds good. But don’t bother getting anything for Rach. She woke up about half an hour ago and took another pain pill. It put her right out.”

   Vicodin. Two doses already. I’d need to keep an eye on that.

   I headed back to the Kendall’s. Front door. Alarm code. Got the key from the medicine cabinet. Placed the gun and bullets back in their homes. Put the key back in its home. Just so. Then I grabbed my bucket of cleaning supplies from where I’d left it in the hallway.

   I trudged out to the car. It was well below freezing and I’d left my coat--my real coat--in the back seat. I stood outside anyway and looked up at the sky. It was dark. Spooky. No moon and no stars. Nothing but tall, naked trees.

   I whipped off my sweater, let the frigid wind bite at my bare skin. My stomach, my arms, my chest, my back. I needed to feel something and I didn’t care what it was. Sharp, bitter, cold wind. And that was better than nothingness. I stood there forever, half undressed, shivering. Thought, for just a moment, about praying, but my heart was empty and I didn’t know what to pray for. Help? Forgiveness? Punishment?

   That was bullshit. I’d sinned, worse than Rachel, for much longer, too. And what consequences had I ever suffered? A mother who hated me. A broken marriage. Exile. Those weren’t consequences. God had taken away family and love and home, but he’d given me back all those things--all the things I didn’t deserve--and he’d never given me the things I did. I’d never been beaten by a boyfriend. Or raped. Never got knocked up. I’d never got the clap or crabs or AIDS. Not so much as a yeast infection. No punishment. No consequences. Nothing. But Rachel had and it wasn’t fair.

   “It’s not fucking fair!”

   The words came from somewhere deeper than my heart, from somewhere even deeper than my gut. They bounced off the trees and the camp and my car, and the echoes told me again and again how un-fucking-fair it really was. God had taken away Rachel’s mom. Taken her away so early that Rachel could barely remember her. All she had was an image of a sick, dying woman, surrounded by nice nurses. And Brian’s memories.

   But He had done worse than that. He had given her a useless father. He’d given her nothing to protect her from all the evils of the world except a well meaning brother who was in over his head. Then He’d heaped Consequences on her. A whole shitload of them. He’d given her heartbreak and emptiness and loneliness and guilt. And she didn’t deserve them. Or if she did then I deserved them, too.

   “Tell You what. How about a deal? You leave her alone and You come after me. Doesn’t that sound fair?”

   And there was nothing. No lightning bolt. No booming, threatening thunder. The cold breeze didn’t get any colder. It didn’t turn into sudden, fiery gusts from hell. It didn’t stop and it didn’t pick up any speed.

   Nothing.

   I threw my sweater to the ground, climbed on top of the hood of my car, then onto the roof. As close to heaven as I could get.

   “I said come after me! Come on! Can’t you fucking hear me?”

   And still there was nothing. Except for the wind, which still hadn’t changed. I closed my eyes and listened carefully. Because sometimes you can hear something there. Sometimes you can hear it on the wind. A whisper. A message. And after a few minutes I did. Through my shivering. Through my chattering teeth. Even through the fog.

   I heard it. A message from God.

   And so I hopped down off my car and dusted off my sweater. Because a person looks odd walking into a diner with a dirt covered sweater. And she looks even odder to the all-seeing eyes of her boyfriend. Then I got into the car and drove back into town.

   Donny was standing behind the counter in Rachel’s absence. Was that a promotion? Better than a greasy kitchen. Because out here he could do a little flirting with a curly, blonde girl. Ashley. She gave me a quick, embarrassed glance, our first eye to eye since her drunken outburst, then looked away. Donny gave me a big, friendly smile. Two LaChance throwaways, together. Was it a rebound or something real?

   It didn’t matter.

   “Hey Tess. Here for your usual?”

   If only that meant the same thing in New Mills as it did in Brookfield. “Yep. To go.” Then I considered. “On second thought, Donny, make mine...a meatball sandwich.”

   He raised his eyebrows. “Red meat?”

   “I’m feeling a little carnivorous today.”

   “Then I’m glad I’ve got this counter to protect me.”

   I managed a chuckle, even though it wasn’t all that funny, because he seemed like such a nice guy. Cute, too. Where would Rachel be, right now, if she’d kept him?

   When I got home Brian was reading the newspaper, and he rambled on all through supper about The Economy. Blah blah blah, stock market, blah blah, too much money in the hands of the powerful, another few blahs, recession’s coming--mark my words--blah-ty blah blah blah.

   I nodded and muttered a few appropriate remarks, but it was hard to pay attention, especially through the fog. I wanted to be interested in the things he was passionate about, because I loved him. I especially loved that he was so passionate about the things that interested him. But economics was not my thing, and it wouldn’t have been even if I’d had a normal day. A day in which I hadn’t driven a twenty-year-old girl to have her insides and an embryo vacuumed out. Or seriously contemplated and almost executed a brutal murder in New Mills. Or been soundly defeated in a futile pissing match against the Almighty. Even then I would’ve had a hard time following the drift of the conversation. Because, honestly, even on a good day, I didn’t really care about the U.S. economy. As long as I could afford rent and music and beer and food and jeans then the economy could sink into a shithole. And I wouldn’t care.

   After supper we snuggled on the couch and settled in to watch the television, yet another cop show. Before this week’s episode began the writers let us know that it was based on actual events by claiming not to be. Fortune 500 company executive murdered. Embezzlement and blackmail. Rich and powerful people with powerful, sleazy lawyers. A surprise ending with a last minute confession. The real murderer is caught…but was justice really served? Cue dramatic music. Roll credits.

   Brian stretched and said, “I saw that coming.”

   “Everyone saw that coming.”

   He nodded and looked at me. He had to look down because my head was resting on his lap. His face was sideways. And still he was beautiful. “I know you’re not alright, so I’m not gonna ask.”

   “No. I’m not. But I don’t think I’m up to talking about it right now.”

   “Okay.”

   “I should go check on Rachel. Then I’m gonna take a shower.”

   Up the stairs. Fourteen of them. Rachel was snoring in my bed, covered up with my winter quilt. Alice had made it for me, years ago, even before there was a Jason-and-Tess. It was a log cabin pattern with brightly colored calicos. At least they’d been brightly colored at one time. Now they were faded and worn. It was still a lovely quilt and seeing Rachel wrapped up in it made me feel safer about leaving her upstairs. Almost like I’d be with her. Like Alice would be, too.

   Then I peeked at the pill containers on the kitchen counter, opened up the Vicodin and counted them. Only two doses missing. Just right.

   Down the stairs. Fourteen of them…

   I stayed in the shower much longer than usual, long after the sweat and shampoo and soap were gone. But I still didn’t feel clean. Brian hadn’t asked me any questions like I had expected, like I’d been waiting for. Three full days now and nothing direct at all. But I had still lied to him. I had stood by and let Rachel lie to him. And he didn’t suspect anything. Why should he?

   No, Brian, I’m not. I’m a terrible person, a liar, a gullible idiot who left your sister with an abusive asshole, even after I knew better. I just closed my eyes so I could pretend it didn’t exist. And it wasn’t me who got bit in the ass this time. Then I chickened out when I could have done something real to help. To make sure he wouldn’t hurt her again. Ever.

   She’s hurting still, Brian, more than you know. She’s still hurting even though she’s safe now. And she’s still gonna be hurting a year from now. Ten years from now. Maybe forever. I know it, Brian. I know it. I can feel it.

   And the other thing. That was there, too, and I didn’t push it away this time. I let myself wonder if there had been pain for the baby who wasn’t really a baby. The mass of cells that hadn’t had yet formed any nerve centers that registered pain, and so couldn’t possibly have felt anything. Even though--probably--it had felt everything. So I made myself imagine how it had been inside there, forced myself to think about it; about how close I’d come, once, to finding out. Back when it wouldn’t have mattered. When I didn’t really exist. When I really wasn’t worth it.

   I turned the cold water off, let the hot water burn me, scald me; my shoulders and back. I gritted my teeth and didn’t cry out. Not even a whimper. Rachel had cried out when Tim hurt her, hurt her just like this, hurt her even worse. But not for help. She couldn’t. And even if she had no one would have heard her. Just like no one heard her baby scream. I stood up straighter, let the water hit my breasts and stomach and it hurt, fucking burned like hell, like hell would certainly burn me someday, and I took it; let it hurt, let it burn, because I deserved it. And even though it hurt that was better than not feeling anything at all.

   Finally I couldn’t take it another second. I reached down, adjusted it again, this time icy cold. Then I dropped to my knees and covered my face with the washcloth, bit it hard, tasted cotton and water and leftover soap. I clenched my teeth even harder to stop the chattering. Fought it back, everything that wanted to come up. The tears and the shouting and the shrieking and it stayed down. Even though I had thought I couldn’t hold down anything else. Even though I thought I’d reached my limit a month ago. A year ago. Twenty years ago…

   I turned off the shower, dried off, and waited for the rest. The eruption. The one that would surely come and it did. Ground beef and tomato sauce and beer. Then I brushed my teeth. And when I slipped into bed beside Brian he asked me--this time--if I was alright. And I told him no, but that will teach me for eating red meat. And he said yep I guess it will. Then I fucked him. Even though I’d just taken a painful shower and vomited out what was left of my soul; even though I was so completely exhausted that I couldn’t think of any profanity that was harsh enough to qualify it; even though I wasn’t horny at all, and neither was he. I fucked him anyway. I even managed to come. A vague reflex, a purely physical reaction; the same way your stomach will begin to digest your supper once you’ve eaten it. Even when you’re not hungry.

   And when he was finished, too, he pulled me to him, so close that I could feel his heart beating on my back. And I knew that it was trying to tell me that it was all gonna be alright.

   Someday.

Chapter 26

Chapter 28

Table of Contents

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