Crooked Roads

by Alec Cizak

  He fixed himself a can of ravioli and took his seat on the opposite side.

  “Is this the way it ends?” she said.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You know damn well.”

  He took a drink of milk and sighed. “I’m the only one working at the station. How many times I got to tell you...”

  Maggie stood, threw the crossword puzzle she was working on at him. “That dump ain’t had any business since you bought it.” Her face turned red.

  “What’s that got to do with anything?”

  She walked around and smacked him in the back of his head. “Who are you sticking it to?”

  He ignored her.

  “Who the hell are you sticking it to!?” She hit him, over and over, with open palms.

  He caught her hands and twisted them enough to stop her. He waited for her to calm down. “When was the last time you and I had us a close encounter of the tender kind?”

  She said nothing.

  “I can’t remember either.”

  She picked her crossword puzzle up, sat back down, and tried to pretend the argument was over.

  He finished his ravioli, stood and walked by Maggie to wash his dishes in the sink.

  “Jesus,” she said.

  “What now?”

  “You bastard.” She put her head down on the table, slammed it a few times until he grabbed her by the hair and stopped her.

  “Quit being so damn showy.”

  “I can smell that whore,” she said. She repeated it, again and again.

  Tom let go of her hair and walked away. “I’m going to bed.”

  * * *

  The alarm clock rang at six in the morning. Tom leaned over and hit the snooze button. His hand brushed across an envelope left on the top of the radio. He turned on the light on his side of the bed. Before opening the letter, he noticed that his wife was not next to him.

  “Maggie!” He looked around, as though maybe she might emerge from thin air. He opened the letter and read it. “Oh Lord,” he said. He picked up the phone next to the radio.

  Sheriff Dale Hopper, probably hungover, spoke on the other end. “This better be good.”

  “Dale, I think Maggie’s gone and done something stupid.”

  “Tom?” said the sheriff.

  “That’s right. Looks like she’s killed herself.”

  “You sure?”

  “Well, she wrote me a letter saying as much.”

  “She hang herself, or something?”

  Tom realized he hadn’t even looked around the house. He put his hand over the receiver and shouted. “Answer me, now, woman!” He went back to the phone:

  “Ain’t making a sound, wherever she is.”

  “Maybe she’s moping somewhere in town.”

  “Could be.”

  “Let’s not panic until we know exactly what she’s up to. I see her, I’ll let you know.”

  “Thank you much, sheriff.”

  He walked into the living room and looked out the front window. The station wagon he’d given Maggie once he he’d bought himself a truck was not in the driveway.

  “Well, shoot,” he said. After deciding to let things reveal themselves on their own, he went about his normal routine of getting ready for a long day of doing nothing at his gas station.

  * * *

  Tom’s father had been killed by one, or many, of the thousands of chemicals floating around Liberty Steel, a mill between Haggard and Gary. Something had gotten into his lungs and planted an unstoppable nugget of cancer. A civil action landed Ted Bolan a small fortune. He died and passed the money on to his only remaining family, his son Tom. Good thing, too.

  Tom Bolan was a lousy student in high school. More interested in beer and girls, he was kicked out for failing classes. He spent some years in the military, fought in the original Gulf conflict, and came home just in time to see his father pass.

  The war had made him paranoid and stupid, so he turned what remained of his father’s fortune into cash and locked it in a safe in his house. Eventually he got bored and purchased a gas station hidden just off of I-65. The Shell right next to the exit ramp saw to it that his business never made a cent.

  He spent his days watching a small black and white TV set until five in the evening. Then, he usually went to Jenna’s, took care of her, then home to hear his wife complain. His life had become a routine. Again.

  He realized he wanted out of Haggard just as much as Jenna.

  Halfway through one talk show or another, the phone rang.

  * * *

  Tom got into his truck and drove to the East Chicago River, near the southern edge of Haggard. As he pulled onto the bridge, he saw Maggie’s station wagon, parked by the side. Dale Hopper’s squad car was next to it.

  The sheriff stared over the side of the bridge. Tom joined him, strained to figure out what he was looking at.

  “That your wife’s, or what?”

  Shredded, white cloth swayed in the wind, caught on several branches of a tree jutting over the water.

  “Lord,” Tom said. He put his hand over his mouth. A dizzying rush of guilt passed through him. I killed my wife…couldn’t say no to a younger, prettier gal, my shallow, selfish… He stopped, remembered the way things really were:

  She started it. She was the one who didn’t know how to be tender with another human being.

  “Well?” Dale Hopper interrupted him.

  He sighed. “We both know it’s hers.” He turned back around and walked over to Maggie’s car. He put his hands on it, doing his best to remain composed. Calm. Rational.

  “Going to need a statement from you.” The sheriff worked on a lip full of chew as he spoke.

  Tom looked at him as though he had just been stabbed. “You surely don’t think...”

  Dale put his hands up, waved off the thought. “’Course not, Tom. It’s all about procedure, paperwork, you know. I’ll need you to reiterate how you was at home and such.”

  They walked back to the side of the bridge. Tom looked at Haggard’s drunken lawman. Even though they were the same age, Dale’s face showed at least ten years more. Both had competed for the same girl in the twelfth grade, a homecoming queen named Lorraine. Once Tom was booted from Haggard High, Dale landed the girl and moved to Chicago with her. They were married for all of a year before a car hit Lorraine and killed her. He came back to Haggard, worked as deputy until Ron Quinn died and left the sheriff’s job vacant.

  Dale’s marriage to Jack Daniels was sealed by that point. Word around town was that he generally passed out before the sun went down every single night. If he seemed cold and unsympathetic about Maggie, maybe he deserved to.

  Tom said, “What next?”

  “She left a letter, right?”

  He nodded.

  “We put her on the books as a suicide.”

  “You going to look for the body?”

  Dale Hopper laughed. “This is Haggard, Indiana, not Chicago.”

  “So?”

  The sheriff leaned back, away from the bridge. “Well, Tom, just how do you propose we go about looking for her body?”

  “Don’t you have a dog, a police dog, like on television?”

  Dale shook his head.

  “Ah, what’s the stuff you use to swim underwater for a long time?”

  “Scuba gear?” When Dale stopped laughing, he said, “Maggie’s probably floating down the Chicago river right now, headed straight for Lake Michigan. If they pull her out, great, we go get her and put her in the ground here in Haggard.”

  Tom covered his mouth, the full weight of the situation sinking in with the sheriff’s words. “And,” he could barely speak, “what if she washes up here?”

  “Same thing. Have old Bob Kulak take a look at her, pretty her up for the burial, then plant her at Pleasant Hill.”

  They looked back down at the white fabric.

  “Dale,” Tom said, “I can’t say I feel a whole lot of sadness.”

  �
��Makes sense to me. You been complaining about your marriage for damn near five years.”

  “Should I feel guilty?”

  “Over what?”

  Tom couldn’t figure out what he was supposed to feel.

  Dale Hopper gave him a slap on his shoulder and walked to his squad car. He radioed for a tow truck for Maggie’s car.

  * * *

  Around eight in the evening, Tom woke from a nap. He looked at the empty spot where Maggie had once slept. He had met Margaret Buell in the service. She was attractive but tough enough to hang with the guys. In Iraq, they watched the Bears on television together. She knew more about football than him. Funny, considering he’d played strong safety for the Haggard Steelers in high school. He came to consider her his best friend and they got married. Immediately, the tender moments all but vanished. She doled out sex once or twice a month, acted like even that was asking too much.

  Eventually, he found Jenna Hunt. She was hurt, seeking a father figure, and Tom was still trying to win the beauty queen from high school he had lost to Dale Hopper and, ultimately, a drunk driver in Chicago.

  A headache threatened the sides of his skull. He massaged his temples.

  The phone rang.

  “I heard the news.” Jenna sounded like a child who’d just been told she would be spending the rest of her life in Disneyland.

  “Yeah, it’s terrible.”

  “It’s great.” She affected the voice everyone did when they were convinced Tom was a small child who needed to be lectured. “That woman has abused you, physically, emotionally, shoot, financially, for just about as long as I’ve been alive. She deserved unhappiness. You, the opposite. Now come over and see me so we can mourn her passing properly.”

  “We got to be careful.”

  “It’s after dark. No one will see you.”

  He held his forehead with one hand. “I don’t know...”

  She shifted to a coy tone. “I’m cold.”

  “Trust me,” he said, “nothing’s creepier than being here all alone.”

  “Then get in your car and drive over.”

  “What if the sheriff’s lurking around?”

  “Dale hits the whiskey at six on the dot. If he ain’t passed out yet, he’s on his way.”

  “How do you know?”

  She stuttered. She said, “‘Because I was arrested my senior year and I spent the night in lock-up and I saw it with my own damn eyes.”

  Tom sighed. “Look, cookie...”

  “Take the road behind the Wojowski farm,” she said, “through the woods, no one will see you. I’m warming up right now. You don’t get here within the next hour, I’ll buy a machine and forget all about you.”

  She hung up.

  “Damn women,” Tom said. The last thing he wanted was to lose his wife and his girlfriend in the same day. He put on his pants, draped a button-down shirt over his shoulders, and headed out.

  * * *

  The stores were already closed. Even the Dairy Queen, the only national franchise in town. Nobody was on the streets. Tom considered whether it really was Maggie who was boring or just the place they lived. The more he thought about it, the happier he was that he would soon be in Chicago with Jenna. Taking a new stab at life, as it were.

  He turned onto Seventh, the street running alongside Highway 65. The major and minor roads were separated by a clump of forest. Once he passed the Wojowski farm, the trees arched over the road. The only light came from his car. The stars above couldn’t compete with the pollution spilling over from Gary and Chicago.

  In the distance, he saw something standing in the middle of the road. Knocking the horn a few times, he assumed the object, probably an animal, would move by the time he got closer.

  It was a person. A woman. A light shined on her from behind. She wore a white gown that flowed in the night wind.

  And she refused to get out of the way.

  He smashed his hand into the horn.

  His foot inched over to the brake. Then he saw who it was:

  Maggie.

  He hit the brakes and turned the wheel at the same time. His car screeched around and spun three times into the forest before slamming into a tree. He blinked, made sure he was still conscious. His neck snapping around caused sharp stabs of pain all over his body.

  The glass in the driver’s side window had broken out. Maggie leaned in, careful not to scrape herself on any shards along the border. “You’re hurt very bad,” she said. “You need an ambulance.”

  He couldn’t take his eyes off of Jenna, standing right behind her with a large flashlight.

  “You didn’t think I’d kill myself over you, did you?” Maggie said.

  “I’m, I’m sorry.” Jenna looked at her feet.

  Maggie said, “Give me the combination to the safe. I’ll send Jenna back to try it out. If you tell me the right numbers, she’ll call me on my cell and I’ll fetch you an ambulance.”

  He stared past her.

  “Come on,” Jenna said. “I don’t want you to hurt anymore.”

  “Hush, girl.” Maggie swatted her on her thigh. She leaned in closer to Tom. “Give me the numbers. All we want is the stash.”

  Jenna stepped forward. She had a small pad of paper and a pen in her hands. She held them out for Tom to see.

  “Just get me to a hospital,” Tom said. His breath came in quick rushes, as though he had climbed twelve flights of stairs.

  “I can’t do that.” Maggie put her arm around Jenna’s waist. “We’re leaving this town. You can die here, alone, in the forest, or do as I tell you.”

  At that moment, Tom resented having been born an exceptionally stupid human being. Maggie had never been responsive in bed. She always made excuses for it.

  “You have no choice.”

  It sounded as if one of the women had said it, though he was certain the voice came from his own mind. He gave them the numbers.

  Jenna backed away. She refused to look at him.

  “Go get it.” Maggie snapped her fingers in her face.

  Tom wanted to tell her to hurry up as well. He was under the impression they were speaking of the money he’d left in his safe.

  “He’s going to die anyway.” Jenna looked as though she might break into tears.

  “We can’t take any risks,” said Maggie. “Now, go get the stuff.”

  The stuff, Tom learned, consisted of two large canisters of gasoline and some matches.

  The women doused his car and him. Then they lit him up.

  Maggie kissed Jenna’s forehead and led her away, into the darkness.

  * * *

  Maggie entered the house first. Jenna still held the combination in her hand. Tom had hidden the safe under the floorboards in the living room. Maggie knelt down and removed the planks of wood concealing it.

  “I’m going to need some help getting this above ground,” she said. She snapped her fingers at Jenna, then realized her young lover had let someone else in the house.

  Sheriff Hopper stood behind Jenna with an arm around her shoulders.

  “Whore,” Maggie said.

  The sheriff motioned for her to stand. “Let’s go to the dining room and discuss business.”

  “You have no choice,” Jenna said. “Sorry.”

  Hopper pulled out a chair at the end of the table, the one Tom normally occupied, and gestured for Maggie to sit.

  “How long has this been going on?” she asked Jenna.

  Before any further conversation between the women could take place, the sheriff produced a .22, forced it between Maggie’s teeth, and pulled the trigger.

  Jenna screamed and jumped back.

  Dale wiped the gun clean and placed it in Maggie’s right hand. “Now, let’s see to that money.”

  They hoisted the safe onto the floor. Jenna wept. Dale grabbed her chin. He said, “Just what part of this did you think was going to be pleasant?”

  “I know,” she said.

  “Now give me the numbers.”
r />   She didn’t move.

  Dale forced his hand into her pockets until he found the pad she had written them down on.

  “What if Tom lied?”

  “We’ll crack this sonofabitch,” said Dale. “One way or another.”

  The safe opened without any hassle.

  Jenna’s mouth dropped.

  Hopper laughed, loud and hearty, shaking his head. “That idiot.” He picked up the few bills remaining in the safe. No more than four or five thousand dollars. “That idiot,” he said again. “I knew his damn station was bleeding money, but, sweet Mother Mary...”

  “You told me he landed a fortune from his daddy’s lawsuit.”

  “He did, numbskull. And he sunk it all into that worthless gas station. Just to get away from his wife.”

  “That won’t last us a month in Chicago.” Jenna pointed at the money in his hand.

  “Ain’t nobody going to Chicago.” He walked back into the dining room and took the gun from Maggie’s hand. He pointed the .22 at Jenna and pulled the trigger. He shot her three times in the head and once in the heart. Her body collapsed, convulsed, then came still like a tire losing its last air.

  He wiped down the gun once more and returned it to Maggie’s hand. He put the money back in the safe and the safe back in the ground and covered it up.

  “Looks like we’re all stuck here,” he said.

  He drove to the police station to drink and sleep and wait for the dead bodies in Haggard to attract someone else’s attention. Then he would be able to come along and do his job and nobody would be the wiser. “Can’t get peace of mind like that anywhere else,” he thought. “Not even in Chicago.”

  A MATTER OF TIME

  He followed him past the twenty-four hour tofu house at Kingsley and Wilshire. Inside the orange and green neon-coated temple, Koreans and yuppies from the west side slurped down healthy food served McDonald’s-style. They laughed and howled between bites, unaware of any nastiness beyond the walls of the restaurant.

  The man looked like he might be Salvadoran, or maybe from Chile. He had long, black hair, tied in a ponytail. He wore jeans and a jeans jacket. Enrique Paz wondered what he carried in the backpack slung over his shoulder. It was covered with buttons bearing political slogans. The guy was built like he could probably hold his own in a fair fight. He walked, in fact, like he prided himself on that very point. It didn’t matter. Neither did it make a difference when he climbed the steps leading to the Our Lady of the Angels cathedral.