The Drowning Game

by LS Hawker

  I burst in the door and said, “I need Dad’s bank statements.”

  An old man in overalls sat in the inner office. Mr. Dooley half stood from his desk and said, “I’ll be with you in a minute, Petty.”

  “How much money does Dad have in his checking account?”

  The old farmer turned around in his chair and stared at me.

  Mr. Dooley rose from his chair and walked around the desk. He put his hand on the farmer’s shoulder. “Give me one minute, Ben.”

  The farmer nodded, still staring at me.

  Mr. Dooley’s lips were white and tight over his teeth. He went to a filing cabinet and pulled out a file. He opened it, removed several sheets of paper and slammed them down on the counter in front of me.

  “Here’s your father’s last bank statement.” He pointed at the bottom of the page.

  It said $79.45.

  “No,” I whispered. “There must be another account somewhere.”

  “There’s not,” Mr. Dooley said in a low voice. “This is all there is.”

  “What happened to all my money?” I shrieked.

  “Shh,” Mr. Dooley said. “The fact is, Petty, you were pretty much supporting you and your dad. And paying the premiums on the life insurance policy.”

  “So . . . so all my money is . . . gone.”

  “No. It was invested in the life insurance policy.” He positioned his face in front of mine. “Which you can have as soon as you marry Randy.” He put on a big phony smile and said loudly, “Okay?” as if he were speaking to a particularly slow toddler.

  I felt a stinging in the bridge of my nose. I was going to cry.

  Mr. Dooley scrubbed his hand over his face. “Did you ever stop to think how hard all this is for me? I’m only the messenger, but I’m the one who’s getting all the fallout from what your father did. Think about that for a while.”

  He seemed to expect me to say something. I didn’t.

  Mr. Dooley blew out a sigh. “Fine. I hate to have to put it this way, but marrying Randy is your best option. Deal with it.”

  But it wasn’t my only option. I had my blade with me.

  “Where is your bathroom?”

  “Thatta girl,” Mr. Dooley said, smiling. “Upstairs. Go freshen yourself up. Everything’s going to be fine. You’ll see.” He winked at me, turned and went back to the inner office.

  I climbed the stairs straight up, not sideways with my back to the wall like I normally did, because it didn’t matter anymore. Dad had stolen my money. He had made sure I’d be trapped here forever, that I’d never have a life of my own, ever. He’d died and left me all alone, to be given away to strangers like the rest of his stuff, as if I were a pet goldfish or a tablecloth. I was nothing, and when I was gone, no one would miss me.

  At the top of the stairs was a cramped hallway, piled with boxes and furniture and typewriters and adding machines. I was never going to escape. I couldn’t drive, I had no money, and unless I married Randy I’d lose the house at the end of the month and have nowhere to live. I now saw that no one and nothing could help me. There was no reason for me to go on living. My blade burned against my skin. It was my way out.

  I knew exactly where my jugular and my carotid were. I hoped there was a tub in the bathroom upstairs because cleanup would be a snap, as the commercial says.

  In the upper hall, I picked my way through the towers of boxes, and on the other side of the bathroom door a tower was topped by a box marked M R. The same box Randy had taken out of my house and put in his truck. On top of it was a Mac laptop with an L-­shaped dent in the lid. My dad’s computer.

  I glanced over my shoulder and then back at the box. I might as well take a peek before I killed myself. The box was stamped in several places with the warning PERSONAL & CONFIDENTIAL. I knew this warning was for me. If Dad had wanted me to see what was in this box, he would have shown me.

  I looked behind me again and moved the laptop to the floor, then picked at the packing tape of the box and carefully, slowly pulled. My heartbeat sped up with each breath. I folded back the box sides. File folders. I don’t know what I expected, but my disappointment had sharp edges that cut deep. I was about to the close the box back up when a flash of color between the folders and the side of the box caught my eye. I pulled it free and found it was a photo of . . . me.

  I’d never seen a photo of myself. My dad didn’t own a camera, and when I’d brought one home from the dump, it had disappeared. I’d asked Dad what had happened to it, but he acted like he didn’t know what I was talking about. There were no photos of me as a child. As far as I knew, no pictures of me—­or Dad or Mom—­existed anywhere.

  I brought it close to my face. I’d read the term “cognitive dissonance” and knew that was what I was experiencing right now. Because this photo had to have been taken within the last year or two, but when and where? And why didn’t I know someone had photographed me? A chill stole over me as I realized maybe someone had been stalking me and taking my photo and I’d never known.

  But as I stared at the picture, I realized there was something about it that wasn’t quite right. I flipped the photo over, and scrawled on the back was 987.

  What did that mean?

  I turned it over and studied the image again, especially my face. The heart shape of it. My round hazel eyes. My dimples. But . . . not my hair. Not my eyebrows. The hair was shorter and curly, the eyebrows were thin. The eyes were rimmed with liner, shadow and mascara, which I’d never worn, had never even owned. I only knew about them because of TV commercials.

  I turned back to the box and reached in to search for more photos. Where there was one, there were bound to be more.

  “Petty?”

  Mr. Dooley’s echoing voice made me jump straight up and I dropped the photo, which fell to the floor facedown. As I bent to pick it up, I realized my thumb had covered up part of what was written on the back. It didn’t say 987. It said 1987.

  “You okay up there?”

  “Fine,” I called as I flipped the photo over once more. The photo that wasn’t of me.

  It was a picture of my mom.

  While I knew next to nothing about her, I do actually remember her a little bit. I remember her in flashes and snippets, in three different mental movie clips. The first one is of me sitting on my mom’s lap and Dad sitting next to us. Mom’s telling me to “Look! Look!” And she’s pointing at a little TV to our right. And just as I look, these snow-­topped mountains pop up on that TV like toast, and I’m amazed. How did she do that? And she and my dad are laughing.

  The next clip is of me sitting across from her and we’re gliding. My mom is moving backward, and the sky and clouds and trees are bending around her face. She wears round sunglasses. I can’t move my head because I’m wearing a puffy orange vest. We’re in a rowboat on a lake, and it’s late afternoon. My mom is rowing, and then she stops and pulls the oars into the boat. It’s sunny but cool, and the sun on the water makes me squint. She gives me a peanut butter and mayonnaise sandwich and a box of juice with a straw in it. It’s just my mom and me and our sandwiches on the lake.

  In the last clip, Mom is lowering me into the bathtub. “You want to play the game?” she says, and then the doorbell rings.

  The only images I have of Mom are the ones in my head. Except for the one I now held in my hand.

  Where had it come from? I wanted to dig through that box, but I heard the front door open and the old farmer say, “Thanks a lot, Keith.”

  “That’s all right,” Mr. Dooley said. “See you in church.”

  The front door closed.

  I slid the photo in my bra, sealed the box back up, and put Dad’s Mac on top. I was sweaty and cold, and that picture burned against my skin. I felt like it was glowing through my clothes.

  What else was in that box?

  I came down the stairs, shaki
ng. “I want that box in the upstairs hall,” I blurted.

  Mr. Dooley froze and didn’t answer right away. “I’m sorry?”

  “I want that box.”

  A longer pause. He turned to me but didn’t speak.

  “Did you hear me?”

  “Yes, Petty, I heard you. No need to shout. That box is the property of the trust.”

  “So I can have it and Dad’s laptop if I marry Randy,” I said. “Right?”

  “No,” he said. “The laptop will be stored inside the box, sealed and in my possession.”

  “Does Randy know what’s in it?”

  “I couldn’t say. I just know that your father instructed him to remove the box and his laptop from the home and deliver them to my office for safekeeping.”

  I couldn’t think of anything to say. Why couldn’t I speak? Why couldn’t I be like Detective Deirdre Walsh and demand what I wanted? I grabbed a handful of my hair and pulled.

  “I’m certain your dad had a good reason for not giving you access to these things. Best not to think about it.”

  My dad was still controlling everything from beyond the grave.

  “But—­”

  “You always trusted his judgment in the past, didn’t you?” Mr. Dooley’s sharp tone startled me. Then he softened it again, but I didn’t believe anything he said anymore. “There’s no question in my mind that marrying Randy is the right thing. I was reading the other day that arranged marriages are actually some of the most successful. In the old days, they happened all the—­”

  I turned and ran out the door. Randy was sitting in his truck and saw me come out. He got out of the truck and opened the passenger-­side door for me. I got in and buckled up. I was light-­headed and almost giddy as I sat staring out the window, marveling at how often and how quickly I’d gone from excitement to total despair and back again over these last two days. How I’d been committed to killing myself. Until I saw my mother’s face.

  “Everything all right, gal?” Randy said.

  “Yes.”

  Randy kept the country music turned up on the drive back, for which I was grateful. All I could think about was my mother’s face against my skin, and how I wanted to be home alone to think about it.

  Before I knew it, we were in front of my house. Randy put the truck in park.

  “I’m gonna be coming by every day to make sure you’re okay,” he said.

  “You don’t need to do that.”

  “Dooley and me, we discussed it and we decided I do. Now that your daddy’s gone and you’re all alone in this house, you need someone to protect you.”

  “I got the dogs.”

  “You can’t be too careful.” I wasn’t sure whether this was a helpful warning or a threat. “What with your grief and all, you probably aren’t thinking too straight. Just let me and Dooley figure out what’s best for you.”

  Figure out what’s best for you. Because that’s what men did. What lawyers and dads and husbands did for girls. Decided what was best for us. Because we can’t think straight. Because we’re confused. Because we don’t understand.

  “So I’ll be by later. Maybe you’ll ask me inside for a beer.”

  This time he didn’t pretend to lock me in. He let me go, because he’d be back later.

  I shut the door of the truck and squatted down to hug the dogs, who licked my face and danced around me. They were overjoyed I was giving them affection, which I’d never done when Dad was alive. But these guys kept me safe. I went inside the house and let them in before dead-­bolting the door.

  I reached inside my bra and peeled the photo off my chest. My sweat had leeched some of the color off the print and my mom’s face was now imprinted on my skin, which gave me an inexplicable rush of gladness. Mom’s picture didn’t seem to be damaged. I stood staring at it, scouring the image for clues. Her ears were double-­pierced. There was a tiny scar on her left cheek. She wore a silver chain with a tiny square silver box around her neck. Staring at her, I was suddenly overcome with the feeling—­the certainty—­that my mother was still alive.

  I set the picture on the kitchen table to dry out.

  The only thing in life that mattered now was to get that box, the laptop, and the envelope from Dooley’s office and then get the hell out of Saw Pole.

  I DON'T REMEMBER when I realized I wasn’t supposed to ask Dad about Mom. I was pretty little though. We were in Kansas and I asked him if he knew the words to a song she used to sing called—­I think—­“Dig Down Deep.” He acted as if I’d said an obscene word or something. He was completely surprised and a little offended. It was like he’d forgotten all about her and figured I had too.

  “No.”

  He said it in a tone that let me know I’d better not ask anymore, or I was going to get a paddling. I kind of wondered if maybe I’d made her up, if I’d imagined a beautiful, happy, laughing, smiling mother to balance out this stern, irritable, paranoid dad I was left with.

  Why had Dad hogged this picture of Mom all to himself? Why had he told me there were no photos of her, and why had he never told me how much I resembled her?

  I was restless, and I realized I hadn’t worked out at all since Dad had passed, other than the quick mile on the treadmill. Although he’d been a slave driver when it came to training, I was glad because being in good shape made me feel easier. Since I was little, he’d tell me he wanted me to be like Sarah Connor in Terminator II, “except without the crazy,” he’d say. Because you’ve got that part covered for both of us. I’d always thought it but never said it.

  I ran on the treadmill for an hour and then lifted weights while the dogs lay on the floor watching me. I did my best thinking during workouts, and I needed a plan. No one could help me. I had to do it myself, even if it meant what I did wasn’t exactly legal.

  I didn’t want to break the law, but the law sure wasn’t doing me any favors. I needed to see what was in that box and on that laptop and in the envelope, and the only way to do that was to go to Mr. Dooley’s office when he wasn’t in and take them. But how was I going to get there when I couldn’t drive? It was thirteen miles to Saw Pole. I had to find someone other than Randy to take me there.

  Sarx cocked an ear and jumped to his feet, followed quickly by Tesla. They both growled and then galloped up the stairs. I toweled off and followed them, on alert. They stood at the front door barking.

  I looked through the bars on our bulletproof windows, and there was Randy’s pickup truck sitting in the road, idling, with only the parking lights on.

  Randy stayed in front of the house for a little over an hour. I knew that most regular ­people would call the police, but those ­people didn’t have a father who told them endlessly that cops were never to be trusted. While Deirdre Walsh was my hero, she was just a character in a TV show. Real cops weren’t straight arrows like she was, according to my dad.

  Should I send the dogs out? Should I go out there to talk to Randy myself? Talk about what? I didn’t have anything to say to him.

  What could he be thinking? Sitting out in the truck with the engine running did not say “protection” to me. It whispered something entirely different.

  In the end, I turned on the TV, but the dogs whined and barked, paced and jumped at the door, until Randy finally moved on, long past midnight.

  Chapter 9

  Sunday

  I WAS ALMOST ready to execute my plan. The preparations included a lot of walking, which took me two miles down the road I had never walked, and I was assaulted by the smells of the greening hay and thistles. The sky felt so huge overhead, so limitless, with its high, wispy spiderweb clouds. The dogs came with me, following along vigilantly, barking occasionally. While we were out, the iPhone buzzed in my pocket and I pulled it out. King, Randy, it said. I let it ring and go to voice mail. A few minutes later it buzzed again, and again I let it go. This happened
twice more, and I thought about turning it off, but instead I answered after the fifth buzz.

  “Hello,” I said.

  “Petty, I’d like to take you out on a real date. Maybe go into Salina for dinner, spend some money on you.”

  “No.”

  There was a pause. “No?”

  “No.”

  “Do you think you’ll start talking to me after we get married?”

  I didn’t say anything.

  “Hey,” he shouted. “I’m talking to you.”

  “I’m not going to marry you,” I said, and clicked end. Then I turned off the phone.

  Detective Deirdre Walsh had a suitor who wanted to control her. She thought it was the right thing for a while, but then she realized she didn’t want some man telling her what to do and how to dress, so she pulled the engagement ring off her finger, dropped it into his Chinese food, and walked out of the restaurant.

  Back at the house, everything was ready for tomorrow, and I was excited as I went downstairs for my workout. I ran on the treadmill longer than I normally did to burn off some of the nervous energy, even though I’d already walked four miles earlier in the day. I got in the shower and took my time about it since I didn’t know when my next shower would be. After drying off, I put on some sweat pants and a T-­shirt, and sat down in front of the television. The long run had paid off, because I was sleepy as well as tired. I was about to turn on the TV when I heard one of the dogs give a sharp cry of pain out in front of the house. Then I heard another yelp and I jumped up and ran to the door. As soon as I unlocked the last dead bolt, I was knocked backward by it swinging open.

  “Hi, Petty,” said Randy. “Did you miss me?” His face was shiny and red, and I smelled whiskey.

  I reached for my blade just as I realized I hadn’t put on my bra.

  He pulled a hand cannon out of the back of his jeans and pointed it at the screen door, which poor Tesla was hurling himself at frantically. The dog’s eyes were red, puffy and running.

  “You pull anything, I shoot the dog,” Randy said, his words slurred.