by John Brandon
One day she sought out the actual manager, a fairly young guy named Toby who spent his days in a cluster of small, carpeted rooms that served as the warehouse offices. These rooms were dim and empty. Toby had desks back there, some plastic file trays, copy and fax machines. Several times a day, Johnna would get a creepy feeling on the back of her neck and turn to see Toby spying on her from the shadows of the office area, and he would scurry back in.
When Johnna sought him out, in the deepest, best-hidden of the office rooms, he seemed as though he’d been expecting her. He sat squarely behind his desk, feet flat on the floor. The office was tidy, a bunch of brand-new pens in a cup. Toby’s diploma, from the University of Central Florida, was prominently displayed.
“I know why you’re here,” he said.
“You do?” There wasn’t a chair on Johnna’s side of the desk, so she came to the center of the room and stood there. Toby looked at her warily, like he’d just woken up and had been pushed in front of a searchlight. Johnna knew all too well what was wrong with him. He was bewitched, smitten, whatever you wanted to call it. Instead of simply asking her on a date the first day she’d showed up at the warehouse, he’d let himself become ruined with obsession. He was a fairly successful guy, fairly good-looking.
“Toby,” Johnna said.
Toby coughed, a fake cough to help him recover himself. “You’re too good for this place, probably too good to even manage this place. Corporate will only allow one boss here. For everybody else, fifteen an hour’s the roof.”
“I don’t want a raise,” Johnna said. “I want a responsibility reduction.”
Toby straightened even more, stretching his neck. He wanted to see Johnna’s feet, to see every bit of her at once. “That’s not really a bell you can unring. You can try to hold yourself down, but you’ll keep popping up to the top, like a...”
“Like a football in a pool?”
“Sure. Any air-filled object in any body of water.”
“It sounds like you’re firing me,” Johnna said.
“I couldn’t bring myself to do such a thing. I’m suggesting, for your own good, that you resign.”
“When you make eleven dollars an hour, it’s called quitting.”
Toby nodded. There was a little panic in him now. He knew Johnna was about to leave and that he might never see her again.
Soon Johnna figured out that she needed to go to nursing school. In nursing, there wasn’t much in the way of a chain of command, your coworkers were mostly women, and the pay was excellent. Johnna financed her education by doing the books at a car lot. She had no set hours at the lot, which allowed her to take extra classes and finish in just under two years. A couple clinics near the school offered to hire her, but Johnna, not sure why, turned them down. She took a couple weeks off and drove around on country roads, lost, which led to yet another discouraging encounter with a guy, a kid Johnna’s age who was a guide at an underground lake. He took Johnna out on the calm water in a canoe and started crying, blubbering about his ex-girlfriends and the various musicians they’d run off with. He had one of his most recent girlfriend’s fuzzy pink socks in his jacket pocket, and he threw them into the water, an act meant to prove that he was over this girl. The guide then lunged at Johnna, trying to grope her, and the canoe nearly capsized.
Johnna sat at home and went through stacks of papers she’d accumulated during her time at the nursing school—flyers for seminars, classroom handouts, magazine order forms. She came across a sheet that explained reciprocity. With her Texas nursing license, Johnna could work in a number of states, one of which was Arkansas, a state that was only forty miles away and that had always exerted a faint pull on her. To Johnna, Arkansas had a cozy, tucked-away quality. Also an underdoggish quality. It seemed a place for common sense and minding one’s own business. The next day, Johnna’s last free issue of Advanced Nursing arrived in the mail, and in it was a want ad for an energetic, team-oriented nurse. “Come to the Natural State,” the ad read. “Laidback living in the Ozark foothills. Sign-on bonus.” Johnna imagined nurses from all over the country racing toward southern Arkansas. They were coming by train, jet, automobile, however they could, packing the local hotels, clogging the dusty roads. Johnna called the phone number and was relieved to find that the position had not been filled. She showered, packed enough for a night or two, and got on the road. In an hour and a half she was approaching the clinic. The dirt roads were not clogged with eager nurses. The hotel—well, she didn’t see a hotel. At the clinic she was sent straight to the director of nursing, who shot the shit with her for ten minutes and then hired her. No pressure-packed interview. No selection process. The director sent her to a small apartment complex where she signed a lease. She brought her bag into her new apartment and sat in the middle of the carpet. She’d made a new life for herself in one day. Her head was in a slow spin. Arkansas. She would stay here as long as she wanted to, and then she would leave. Johnna thought about the fact that she had never felt like Texas understood her. She had often felt at odds with the windy, hot weather, with the widened Southern accent, with the vastness, that famous size that Texans took as some kind of accomplishment. Johnna had always thought of Texas as a bully.
Swin had been working for hours in one of Bright’s yellow rooms, turning it into a nursery. He’d painted the ceiling like a dusky sky and adorned the walls with geometric shapes. Swin was more unsure than ever about his and Kyle’s predicament, about the scope and urgency of their problems, about how their lives were coming together. Swin, lately, felt oppressed by a diffuse tension born of the fact that with each day that passed he felt more placid and more like he belonged in this Arkansas life, but at the same time he felt less certain about anything having to do with Frog or the Parks Department. Anything was possible. Swin found himself trying to convince Kyle that Frog didn’t exist, that “Frog” was a company name, or that if there had been a real Frog at one time, by now he’d fled the country or something. Swin found himself asking the same questions over and over. Why had no one come for the money? Where did Her’s packets come from? He found himself believing Her could be the boss of the whole thing. And what about the boss in pink? They had no proof that she worked for the Parks Department. Maybe she’d had something on Bright. Or perhaps they all worked for an enormous foreign cartel. It took operations like that a long time to notice they were being stolen from. Swin could think himself silly with these kinds of thoughts, but he knew the important thing wasn’t figuring it all out. What mattered was remaining vigilant, keeping the guard up. Things had gone okay to this point and they would continue to go okay.
Swin had hung a mobile of the solar system, stood some of the baby books on an antique postman’s desk, and found a wooden trunk that would hold a couple toys. Swin didn’t know how long he would live in this house, didn’t know if one day soon he’d have to grab Johnna and flee, but it appeared likely that they’d at least be around for Johnna to have the baby, and Swin wanted each day his child had to spend in this backward place to be the least bad day it could be. If his child got to enjoy Swin’s nursery for one hour, the work would be justified.
Swin took a break and joined Johnna in the living room. She was straightening up, her attention on a talk-show host who was explaining the psychological need for curse words. Johnna had placed a doily on the television and hung lace around the windows. In the kitchen she was bringing along a citrus theme, anchored by a huge bowl of browning lemons.
“Know what Jews do?” Swin said. “Not American Jews but the real ones. They give babies a book with honey soaked into it, to suck on.”
“Books are dirty.”
“That’s the attitude the Jews are trying to avoid.”
“Ought to avoid germs.” Johnna plucked a cereal bowl off the end table.
“So I need to borrow your car, whenever your next weekend is.”
“Why my car?”
“It’s not a trip,” Swin said. “It’s not work. It’s just... something
.”
Swin wasn’t about to take the van and have Kyle bitching and asking a thousand questions. As for Johnna, though she was about as trustworthy as they came, she was still of the genus Woman, and could still fall prey to feminine desires for family connection. Swin didn’t want her to know that he was going to check on his sisters, didn’t want her to know where they lived, because he didn’t want her trying to contact them behind his back, trying to fix things for him.
“Old girlfriend?” Johnna asked.
“Not quite.”
Johnna stepped into the kitchen and ran the water.
“I wouldn’t mind you knowing every single thing I do,” Swin said. “It’s just better for you if you don’t.”
“You sound stupid when you say stuff like that.”
“Don’t you think it’s sexy?”
“I never thought anything was sexy in my life. You can take the car, but I need to change the oil if you’re headed out of state.”
“I am.”
“Want to learn how to change oil? I could show you.”
They heard footsteps on the porch and Swin told Johnna not to mention his trip to Kyle, who bumbled in with his hands full and handed Johnna a clock. Instead of numbers, it had different fruits. Johnna thanked Kyle warmly but said she couldn’t use it. She was going strictly citrus, not apples and grapes and any old thing.
“Why’d you get a soda?” she asked. “We got that here.”
“Value meal.”
Kyle’s yellow bowl and numerous small cups were from the Japanese fast-food place. It took him several minutes to parcel out his sauces and seasonings and ginger strips.
“California rolls, fried rice, and chicken satay.” Swin grunted. “They’re threatening Japan—not exactly hitting it.”
“These lemons are about done for,” Johnna said. “Y’all got any mint?”
“Think so,” said Kyle, mouth full. “The cabinet right there.”
Kyle heard a car and stopped chewing. He swallowed the whole lump in his mouth and peered out the window.
“The elderly frat boy came back.”
“The who?” Johnna brought her attention out of the cabinet and sneezed at the dried mint in her hand.
“Determined,” said Kyle. He walked down the hall and into the bathroom.
Swin hurried to the door and opened it before the guy could knock, then sat at the kitchen table and waited for a head to pop in, which it soon did, in a ski cap, followed by the rest of the guy. Cap’n Crunch T-shirt. Sweatpants.
“Oh,” Johnna said. “You never called.”
“I was far away. I didn’t want to torture you.”
“I believe I remember this,” said Swin. “Your daddy the rich tree remover was buddies with Bright, and since Papa croaked, you want to annoy all his friends.”
“Why don’t you fetch him for me. I’ll keep the lady company.”
“Sour timing. He got transferred to Oklahoma.”
“What for?”
“They needed him.”
“Where in Oklahoma?”
“A new park near Stillwater.”
“Come on, where is he?”
“Why don’t you leave your number again?”
“When I find out he’s not in Stillwater, I’ll just come back here.”
“Why would I care if you spoke to Bright or not?”
“Who’s thirsty?” Johnna had water and ice and mint in a pitcher and was pressing a lemon against the table, rolling it around under her palm. She reached back and grabbed a knife out of the dish drainer.
“You must have her drugged,” the guy said. “Lady like that settling for a junior ranger.”
“You dress like you’re on the JV snowboarding team.”
The guy stepped farther into the room and shut the door behind him. “Found out where Copernicus is from. Also found out that the rest of the Latin world hates Ricans because they butcher the language.”
“I’m thinking it might be best if you take your lemonade and go.”
“Believe I will. Why bother myself when I can have someone else figure all this out? A professional. The best private investigator in Baton Rouge owes me a favor and I’ve already talked to him about you all.”
“Good,” Swin said. “It’s been a long time since we’ve had a professional anything around here.”
“I’m a professional,” Johnna said.
“You must know where Bright is,” the guy said to her. “Huh, darling? Every time I come over, you guys are hanging out in here, nothing to do, acting suspicious.”
Kyle emerged from the hallway with a crowbar. As the guy began to turn, Kyle clubbed him in the back of the head. He raised the crowbar again, but there was no need. The guy slumped, then gently toppled onto the ceramic tile. Johnna dropped the thermos and lemonade glugged over the floor. Kyle knelt and removed the guy’s ski cap. He wasn’t bleeding but he was dead. The crowbar had struck him at the base of his skull and broken his neck. Swin picked up the thermos and sat Johnna down. She was shaking, staring at the guy’s face, which looked like a distorted modern sculpture, pinkish liquid escaping the mouth and nose.
“What the fuck?” said Swin.
“I got to do CPR,” Johnna said.
“Not this time.” Kyle spoke to her softly. “We have too many chores to do.”
“What the fuck?” Swin repeated.
Kyle ignored him. He stayed composed. He explained that he and Swin would get rid of the body and the 4Runner, and Johnna had to disinfect the whole area by the door and clean the carpet. Then she had to retrace their steps where they’d carried the wrapped body to the car, to get any hair or fluid that might’ve fallen.
“Fluid?” she repeated.
“We have to do these things without thinking about them.”
Kyle thumbed through the guy’s wallet, looking for the number of the PI the frat boy had threatened them with. Lots of plastic. Beachy photos with too many people in them. AAA. Hyatt rewards. Insurance. Video store. Between a couple ten-dollar bills was an unlabeled number on a slip of white paper. Kyle didn’t recognize the area code.
He dialed. He dreaded hearing a raspy voice, trained to sound jaded. This voice would ask for a short description of the case, giving the impression that no matter what it was, it happened a hundred times a week in every neighborhood. Go ahead and put me to sleep; that would be the voice’s meaning. Or else the voice would be flat, not unkind, the voice of an ex-cop who’d found religion, who said his name and then said, “What can I do you for?” After a few rings, Kyle was clicked over to an automated system which listed many regional headquarters in the voice of a classy woman who’d gone wild. Kyle chose Tampa for no reason, becoming sure that the number he’d dialed wasn’t a PI. They wanted Kyle’s age and he gave it. They wanted to know if he was male or female, if he was gay or straight. They wanted him to rate how active he was. The woman’s voice said a computer would choose the best vacation for Kyle and he’d be transferred to customer service. He hung up.
To Swin, the rest of the day went in fast-forward. It was strange that he and Kyle knew what to do, strange to be digging another grave. Swin felt sorry for the aged frat boy. One was supposed to be allowed some verbal jousting, some threatening and bluffing, without having to die over it. Swin had drawn him in, had goaded the frat boy. And Swin had had the situation under control. Kyle had overreacted. Kyle couldn’t read people like Swin could. In Kyle’s world, consequences were too prescribed. He was paranoid; that was the only way to put it. Of course, Swin couldn’t tell Kyle he was paranoid without making himself seem the opposite of paranoid, which was... well, feeling a false sense of security. Swin certainly didn’t feel that. He didn’t feel secure.
They didn’t bury the frat boy near Bright. They took him to a muddy hollow on the other side of the pond. This time they did not go the full six feet deep. They flipped the dirt back in at an almost frantic pace, then rolled a couple rotting tree trunks onto the spot. Then they drove up and sank the
4Runner in the swamp near Little Rock. The whole business was over by two in the morning and Swin and Kyle were in the van, barreling back into the hills.
“Who needs a gun?” Swin said. “Shit.”
“That guy would’ve sunk us.”
“Maybe not.”
“Maybe’s enough.”
“It’s our ship now? We have the title?”
“It’s keeping us afloat. If it sinks, we drown.”
“Okay,” said Swin. “I still don’t think you had to do that.”
“If you haven’t noticed, we’re in pretty deep. Getting in a little deeper doesn’t make much difference. Going to jail would, though. That would make a difference.”
“Well, you shouldn’t scare Johnna like that. Not while she’s pregnant.”
“I hope not to have to do it again.”
“Let’s not kid ourselves and say you had to do that.”
“How was I supposed to know if he was bluffing about the PI? My gut told me I had to do it, so I had to do it.”
“Your gut again,” exclaimed Swin.
“If you get a feeling like it’s him or you, you better trust that feeling. You better not say, ’Him? Really?’ That’s probably how we’ll die. Someone will feel that way about us.” Kyle leaned forward and squashed a bug against the windshield. “This wasn’t a bad thing that happened.”
Swin dug his tongue into his cheek.
“It was good for us and it was good for Johnna,” Kyle said. “It was only bad for old... Barry?”
“Good for Johnna?”
“Now she’s one of us.”