Where Bodies Lie

by D. K. Greene

  Throwing her head back, Jeanne laughs with a fervor Peter’s never heard before. Dark tresses of hair cascade behind her, stroking the back of her chair. Her entire body goes through waves of tension and relaxation, lost in the delight of humor. “It takes a weird person to sit around all day listening to other people’s problems.”

  “No,” he corrects firmly, “just a special one.”

  Twenty

  A blanket of snow covers Portland. It isn’t even Thanksgiving yet, so the serenity of the white morning is unexpected. Deciding to take advantage of the cold and vacant city, Peter dresses, doubling up with a fleece hoodie and a down-filled jacket. The combination is baggy and disfiguring. With the wet snow, the attire is also fitting. Heading out of the apartment, he pulls the hood up, covering even more of his features.

  After a drive across town, Peter knocks snow from his boots at the door of an office supply store. He doesn’t bother removing his hood as the glass doors slide open. Instead, he pulls himself deeper into the fleece’s protection. Generic holiday music playing overhead is the only evidence other people still exist. Everywhere he looks, the store is vacant.

  Strolling the aisles, he finds a rack of glossy stickers. He compares the gold and silver foils, finally pulling two golden packs of a hundred off their hook. He has no idea how many he’ll need, but it’s enough to get started.

  Peter wanders, considering varied packaged products as he decides what else he wants. He picks up double-sided sticky tape, a pair of cheap easels, and several pieces of foam-backed poster board. The bundle of odds and ends is unwieldy. He hauls the awkward lot to the front of the store, only to find the row of registers empty.

  The temptation to leave without paying crosses his mind, but then he’d be an actual criminal, instead of a harmless grifter. A glance behind the counter reveals his fidgeting on the store’s closed-circuit TV.

  He leaves the goods at the register and walks the perimeter of the building. He finds one solitary kid kneeling at the foot of a low shelf, stocking toilet paper. He’s scrawny, pock-faced, and hiding from anyone who might come in the store.

  “Hey there. Can you ring me up?” Peter’s half smile is intended to hide his irritation.

  Nervous, watery eyes look up at him. The teen’s words are incoherent for a moment, but eventually he says something clearly enough for Peter to understand him. “... I mean, they trained me on the register. But I don’t normally work up there.”

  “Is anyone else here?” Peter looks over his shoulder at the empty aisle behind him.

  “They’ll be here soon.” The teen looks away, wiping tears from his eyes. He seems to compose himself and adjusts his gaze back on Peter. “The snow.”

  Clearing his throat, Peter hopes he can push the frustration from his voice before he speaks. “Any chance you can try? I’ve got to get going.” When the teen stops breathing and his staring eyes cease the ability to blink, Peter adds, “Maybe you can get it started and when the register person shows up, they can finish.”

  The kid looks unsure of himself as he moves to his feet. His nametag catches the overhead fluorescent lights, allowing Peter to get a look at it. “Thanks, Carl.”

  He follows the junior employee along what has to be the longest route available to get to the registers. When they round the last corner, Carl weaves from side to side as if he can’t seem to force himself behind the counter.

  Peter places a hand on his shoulder. “It’ll be okay, Carl. I was a cashier at Mervyn’s back in college. We can figure this out.”

  Carl’s pimpled face rises to meet Peter’s. “What’s a Mervyn’s?”

  Shaking his head, Peter says, “It doesn’t matter. They had cash registers. That’s what’s important. Now, how do you log in?”

  He rounds the register kiosk and taps the touchscreen. The register springs to life. Peter leans over the counter and watches Carl’s fingers dance across the screen as he taps in his security code. The system is so simplistic, he can’t figure out why the kid’s trembling like he’s afraid it will eat him.

  Everything comes to a standstill. Peter intervenes again. “Maybe you could pick up that scanner gun and point it at one of the UPC codes?”

  “Like when we do inventory?” Carl’s pouting face makes Peter so angry, his fingers tingle with the desire to strangle him. He wonders if suffocation of a salesclerk is justifiable if they’re useless behind the register.

  “I don’t know, Carl. I’ve never done inventory.”

  A shaky hand pulls an item away from the pile. Peter’s relieved Carl’s picked up a pack of labels since that’s really all he came for. If the pair of them can get this one thing scanned and paid for, the morning won’t be wasted.

  After holding the package at several odd angles, Carl accidentally holds the barcode flat enough for the scanner to see it. The register beeps and the package’s information pops up on the screen. “Good job, Carl. Let’s see if we can get the rest of this to scan.”

  Carl shifts his shoulders in a gesture of compliance and looks longingly at the front doors. Peter’s been in the store a half hour and nobody else has come in. A benefit of Portland, if you want to be alone. When the weather shifts everyone goes into hiding. For someone brave enough to venture outside, there isn’t anyone to take notice.

  Peter leans against the counter as casually as he can. The security camera watches him as Carl scans his purchases with painful slowness. Peter easily looks twenty pounds heavier under the combined fluff of the sweatshirt and coat, and it’s impossible to tell what color his hair is under the hood. Peter smiles at himself on the security screen, but there’s something odd about the way his expression translates to film. His recorded reflection shifts with a sinister sneer.

  Glancing down, he notices Carl has placed each purchase in its own plastic bag. The kid mutters a question, which Peter assumes is the closing, “Anything else I can do for you?” that accompanies every transaction. While Peter is working out an answer, Carl wobbles on his feet and shoves the poster board off the edge of the counter. The corner bends when Peter lunges to save it.

  He cringes at the imperfection, but when Peter takes stock of the five nearly empty plastic bags lining the counter, he decides it’s not worth his time to complain. “Only thing I need now is for you to take my money.” Peter fishes one of the hundred-dollar gift cards out of his wallet and hands it over.

  “I’ve never run a card before...” Carl stares at the offered plastic, looking horrified.

  “It’s okay. We’ve gotten this far, right?” Peter tries for a friendly smile, then leans across the counter and looks at the screen.

  A giant yellow button screams SUBTOTAL. Peter gestures at it.

  Carl seems to have lost the ability to move his arms. Peter’s tired of waiting, so he reaches over the terrified teen and taps the button with the back of his knuckle. The register beeps and his total flashes across the screen. He owes just over seventy-five dollars.

  Stickers and foam board are more expensive than he thought.

  While the employee pretends he’s trapped in a salt pillar, Peter carefully taps the buttons for payment source and swipes the gift card through the reader. The system completes the transaction and spits out a receipt. Peter signs it with the name Rayanne Higgins and hands it to Carl. The kid doesn’t even look at the signature. He snatches the thin paper from Peter and mashes it through a slot on the front of the machine.

  Peter gathers his purchases and walks away, glad to escape the torture of the transaction with his bundle of plastic bags and slightly warped foam boards. The employee yelps, and Peter spins around.

  “You forgot your card!” Carl doesn’t rush after him, just stands there waving the plastic payment in the air.

  “It’s a gift card. Keep it. You earned it.”

  Twenty-One

  A thick sheet of ice enveloped the world overnight, but by mid-morning, it’s thawed and soggy again. Peter gazes across the coffee shop, trying to keep his eye out
for Valorie without making all the people between himself and the door nervous.

  Valorie is late.

  At least, he hopes she’s late and hasn’t run off with his fifteen-thousand-dollars. Peter pounds three coffees in the hour he waits, quickly regretting the decision. He lets his gaze break from the door in search of a bathroom. He rises to abandon his post, and she sneaks in. The light from the door’s reflection moves along the wall and Peter turns to find her pulling the handle so gingerly that the bell above her hardly utters a tinkle.

  Peter extends his hand to greet her. When she reaches toward him, it isn’t to clasp his palm the way he expects. Instead, she twists his wrist and slaps a cold steel cuff on him.

  “What the hell?” Peter tries to back away. His breath quickens, and he searches the faces around them for Dougy or Mac. They’ve figured him out. It’s all over.

  The short, thin chain of the handcuff glints at him merrily as it prevents his escape. Valorie leans in and whispers, “I couldn’t walk around with all that money in an envelope. Had to add a little flair.”

  Peter traces the length of chain, surprised when it ends in a silver briefcase. The banker places the case on the small table and turns it so the combination locks are visible. Her breath fills his ear as she whispers, “Five-nine-three.”

  The chair skips across the floor when Peter pushes it against the wall. He perches on its edge, his panic transforming into excitement. He glances around to make sure no one is watching. His fingers scroll the combination into the lock. Valorie drags a chair to his side and they peer at the silver case together.

  Springing open, two clasps let out a loud Snap-Snap! It’s easily the most electrifying sound Peter’s ever heard. He inches the lid up until he sees the front edge of a row of bills. His glee escapes in a quick laugh as he opens the case to expose stack after stack of five-dollar bills. It’s filled from base to brim with cash. His hands tremble as he wrestles with the urge to pull it all out and throw it overhead like confetti.

  It’s his money. It came from his account. But, just as Valorie said the last time he saw her, it feels a little like they’ve pulled off an epic robbery.

  “Ten strapped bundles per layer, three layers deep.” Valorie’s breath is sweet like wine and Peter notices her rosy cheeks for the first time. She rests a hand on his arm just above the handcuff and leans in to kiss him. Peter feels trapped in a moment he doesn’t want to end.

  He’s pulled from the revelry by the sound of a man clearing his throat impatiently. Peter slaps the lid closed and looks across the table. He hopes the waiter hasn’t seen inside the case.

  “Can I get the lady a coffee?” The waiter has such a grating tone that his disgust at their brazen affection is palatable.

  Valorie’s once pink cheeks burn a deep crimson. She appears to push any embarrassment aside and commands, “Blueberry scone, heated. Two cake pops. One vanilla, one chocolate. Also, a large soy vanilla double-short espresso latte. Add whipped cream, sprinkles and a dash of nutmeg.”

  “Anything else?” The waiter rolls his eyes.

  “Depends. What’s my total?” Valorie grins.

  He pulls a calculator from the apron around his waist and adds her order together. “Twelve dollars and thirty-six cents.”

  “Well, I’m allowed a fifteen-dollar tab. So...” Valorie steals a glance around the disgruntled barista to read the daily specials. “Add one of those two-dollar croissant rolls.”

  Peter hands the waiter a twenty. The server starts back across the café. Valorie shouts, “Thank you, Love. Keep the change!”

  Valorie and Peter lean their heads together, snickering over the briefcase. She strokes his arm and her intoxicating breath is once again in his ear. “I’ve always wanted to do that.”

  “Do what? Order half the menu, or piss off the person bringing you your food?”

  “Both.” Valorie presses her body against Peter and kisses the nape of his neck. Her hand strokes his thigh in much the same way that his palm caresses the briefcase.

  Peter takes in a sharp breath, realizing two truths. One, he’s feeling bold enough to invite Valorie to go home with him. Two, he’s got a briefcase locked on his arm, and he still has to pee.

  Twenty-Two

  Thanksgiving is only enjoyed by those lucky enough to have family and friends. The highways are likely packed with Portlandians traveling the countryside, on their way to cook organic free-range turkeys in log cabins built from sustainable lumber. They’ll stuff their faces with cage-free deviled eggs, raw-sugar candied bacon, and finish the evening with locally sourced pumpkin pie and eggnog made with unpasteurized milk.

  Peter isn’t like those people. He sits in his spotless apartment, snacking on a preservative-filled microwave lasagna, housed in a carcinogen infused plastic tray. He watches the Macy’s Day Parade on mute. The silence is comforting. It reminds him of when he was a kid. One of his foster moms got him a giant boombox for Christmas in high school. She insisted a life without music wasn’t a life worth living. He decided they’d have to agree to disagree, but she wouldn’t stop hounding him about the radio.

  He’d done extra chores and saved enough money for noise cancelling headphones. He spent months bobbing his head with them on, so no one would know he’d turned the volume to zero. It kept her off his back until one day she found out what he was listening to. She’d plucked the headphones from his ears and pressed them to her own.

  When she realized he’d spent all that time ignoring her while listening to dead air, the fancy stereo became another bullet point on a lengthy list of reasons she wanted him out.

  The memory breaks when the phone rings. An automated voice announces he’s received a collect call from an inmate. Would he like to accept the charges?

  Peter freezes, the phone pressed against his ear. He tries to decide if he should hang up. The female voice repeats its message. Behind it, he hears Oliver shouting at him.

  “You’ve already picked up the phone, Hen. If I’d gotten your answering machine, it would have beeped by now. Accept the charges!”

  Peter presses the star button. The automated woman reminds him their call will be monitored, and then the voice disappears from the line. “Hey, Dad. Happy Thanksgiving.”

  “Same to you, Hen.” Ollie’s voice sounds off. Peter can tell he’s trying to sound festive, but the effect is lost under the hum and static of the prison phone line.

  “What are you up to?” Peter feels stupid as the question escapes his lips. It’s doubtful the guards are itching to throw a holiday party for the rapists, murderers and drug traffickers that call the penitentiary home.

  “Watching the parade. I’m sure we’ll have something resembling turkey later, though it usually tastes like sardines.”

  Peter cringes as he imagines floppy gray goop pressed into a hockey puck shaped patty. Ollie hocks a loogie, the wet sound coming through with an obnoxious burst from his end of the line. Peter wonders how that works in prison. Does someone have to clean it up? The detention center is about as close to the “wild west” as a person can get. Maybe they have prison spittoons.

  “What’re you doing?” Ollie asks.

  Peter takes in the apartment. The thirty-two-inch TV he got in college shows the same parade his father watches in prison. His watery lasagna squats in its plastic tray, the noodles both wilted from being overheated in the microwave, and cold from sitting unattended for over five minutes. It occurs to him that once again, his dad was right about him. They’re living the same closed-off life. The only difference is, Peter doesn’t have the convenience of someone bringing him food or a crew to wash his laundry.

  “I was just about to step out.” He’s sure Ollie can tell he’s lying. He always knows. A vision of Ted resting in the bottom of his dad’s truck flashes through his mind. He wonders absently what happened to him after they arrested Ollie. Had someone claimed and buried him? Or is his preserved husk collecting dust in some macabre evidence locker? “Some friends and I are d
riving up the mountain for the long weekend.”

  “Taking advantage of the early snow? I don’t blame you.” Oliver’s tone is dry and sarcastic. He clears his throat and adds, “Hey, I was wondering if you’d be interested in ditching out on your friends and coming to see your old Dad instead? There’s nothing more cheerful than a prison Thanksgiving.”

  The TV catches Peter’s eye. Lights flash across the screen. A trio of paramedics race around an ambulance parked in the middle of the parade route. The camera zooms in on a rail-thin hipster dangling from a cable attached to a giant action figure shaped balloon. His arm is caught in the line. Tears stream down his face, getting caught in the fluff of his meticulously groomed beard. One of the EMTs struggles to help the guy down by pulling on his legs, but ends up dropping his skinny jeans to his ankles.

  Oliver and Peter exchange quiet, synchronized snorts.

  “What a jackass.” Peter nods toward the TV as if they’re sitting in the same room.

  “This is exactly what I was talking about a couple weeks ago. That guy is worthless,” Ollie insists.

  Peter rolls his eyes. “Stupid? Yes. But worthless?”

  His father’s voice rises in exasperation. “What kind of idiot doesn’t wear a belt when he’s walking in the biggest parade in the nation, on the one day every household is watching TV?”

  “I hardly think a fashion faux pas makes a person useless, Dad.” Peter watches the hipster’s cheeks turn crimson above the horizon of his mustache.

  The man flails wildly. People grab at the lines as they try to lower his corner of the helium-filled balloon. Their effort only gets him tangled in the slack of neighboring lines. The cable winds around him like a pissed off anaconda. His cheeks take on a blue tinge.

  “Let me reframe my statement. What kind of asshole doesn’t think to let go of the thing that’s killing him?” Oliver exhales into the handset, forcing static to fill Peter’s ear.