Just up the pathway, Melvin sat on the end of a rusty overturned barrel, lit a cigarette. His chest was bare, and he wore a coonskin hat on top of his head. Shook the tail so that it tickled the skin between his shoulders.
“You looks nuts,” Roddie Wall said, and he jumped towards Melvin, tapped the hat from his head, caught it in the air.
Melvin’s shag of hair revealed, and his hand went up, clapped over the stubbly section.
Furry hair balanced atop his own sun-crisped scalp, Roddie leaned in, said, “Man, you looks really nuts. You in a fight with a chainsaw, or something?”
Hand coming down, proud, now. “Nope. Lawnmower.”
“No shit. You done that yourself?”
“Yeah. That part was bugging me. Took it right off. Did two runs over it with the mower, and said fucking A-one.”
“Shit, man. No one said nothing?”
“Nope.”
“Wish the old bag’d let me cut my own hair. I could do something cool with it. Shave it right down the middle. Give myself a set of hair ears.” Tongue wagging. “Arf!”
“That’s why I’m lucky. Got no woman trying to boss me. I don’t go in for that shit.”
“Yeah, but you still looks nuts.”
“That’s cause I is nuts.”
“Yeah, right on.”
Roddie took the hat from his head, jammed it down his trunks, arched his back, strutted with his wings out, displaying a huge faux mound, furry tail escaping, hanging lifelessly out over the elastic waistband. “Here chicky, chicky. Got some feed for you.”
Both boys laughed, and Melvin took a drag on his cigarette, said in a voice an octave up, “You can keep that, now. ’Tis all yours, buddy.”
“Right on!”
“Do you think—” Melvin started, but a girly scream shot up from the water, cut the words from his throat. And Melvin was up, knocked Roddie out of the way, dashed down to the black path, mud sucking at his sneakers. Scanning the water, Melvin located Toby, crouched near the edge, sunlight shining through the greenish pond, showing what appeared to be a full body of flesh, arms angled downwards in a tight V.
“What’re you doing?”
“Scoochin’.”
“What?”
“My trunks, Mellie. Clayton stole my trunks.”
“How do someone steal your trunks?”
“I dunno.”
Melvin shook his head. “Clayton, you says?”
“Mmm-hmm.”
“Fucking drip.” Melvin stomped over to the diving rock. “Get his shorts, fag breath.”
Clayton stood up. “Who’s gonna make me?”
“I’ll bloody make you. You fucking quiff. Trying to see my brother’s dick.”
“Like hell. A fucking wiener’s got more draw.”
Boys guffawed, and two slapped open palms. Five on five.
Melvin took another step forward, spoke in a monotone.
“Get his shorts. Get them now. Or I’ll drown you, Clayton Gibbon.”
“You will, will you?”
“I’ll drown you ’til you’re dead.” Melvin did not blink the single eye not hidden by hair, and even though he was smaller than Clayton, Clayton backed down.
“Fucking whack-job,” Clayton said under his breath, but he turned, dove into the water, swam over to the opposite side of the pond. Cussed loudly as he shimmied up the old tree, scratched his torso on dead sticks. He retrieved the trunks and lobbed them at Toby’s head.
“Got ’em! Thanks,” Toby called out to Clayton, and Melvin looked up at the sky, smacked his stubble spot with his open palm.
On their way home, Melvin said, “You can’t go ’round with a ‘shit here’ stamp on your head, Toad.”
Toby touched his forehead with his fingers, looked for ink on the tips. “What? I don’t got no stamp, Mellie. I didn’t do nothing.”
“Well, sometimes, it’s not nothing you got to do. It’s something. I won’t be around to save you forever.”
Toby sped up to close the gap between them. “Yes, you will.”
“And one last thing.”
“Okay.”
“Would you say thank-you to a dog if it pissed on your boot?”
“No, sir. That I wouldn’t.”
“What if he came back and licked it off. Would you say thank-you then?”
“No sir, Mel. No chance.”
“No sir is right. And don’t you forget it.”
Toby scratched his head, wiggled his toes. Yes, he was wearing sandals, not boots, and a quick scan of the brush revealed no dog in sight. But he said, “Okay, Mel. I won’t talk to dogs.
Word of honor.”
“Good boy.”
Before they cut through the trail in the bushes, Toby paused once to look back. Down by the pond, Angie Fagan was still standing there, in the shade, lifting one foot, then the other. Squelching sound lost amongst the screaming and splashing, but Toby could imagine the boggy black mess between her toes, up over her ankles, staining her shins. Claw-shaped streaks of muck on her hand-me-down swimsuit, the loose bands yanked and tied between her shoulder blades. It was her scream that’d brought Melvin to the water, her call of distress. But she was fine, in no danger, and Toby knew she was calling out to help him. He didn’t understand why, because he knew the Fagans were rotten through and through. And not just the old farmer, but those sisters, too. No reason given, they just were. He watched her for a moment, until a branch whipped his face and he turned, put his arm up, followed behind his brother.
LEWIS PULLED UP NEXT to the front door, turned off his car. Sat for just a split second before getting out. How many years had it been since he had come through the woods, bursting out into that very backyard? So calm now, a pair of birds hopping, rusting but functional swing set plunked down only yards from the barrel. In the breeze, a plastic swing swayed, and he could see a length of tatty ribbon tied to the iron chain. For a moment he wondered if it had been like that when he and Roy tumbled over the grass, full of drunken joy. He had tried to replay it a million times, but those hazy patches of memory refused to clink together.
One deep breath. Two. Today, more than most days, he kept telling himself to breathe.
Lewis turned to the left, identified the reason for his visit. He saw Eli Fagan’s truck parked just a few feet away from a newly constructed cement wall, a retaining wall, perhaps. About four feet high. Someone had stuck a dozen lengths of wooden doweling in front of the wall, coaxed leafy wax beans up the sticks. But it was clear to Lewis that a fine harvest had been spoiled. Leaves and beans were now smears of vegetation over the cement, a number of black contact marks, scrapes of chocolate-colored paint amongst them. As he always did, Lewis surveyed the scene rapidly and meticulously. No immediate danger. He took in everything there was to see, before eyeing the obvious. A tiny smashed car, busted windows, flattened sides.
He opened his car door and took wide strides to reach the destruction. Peered in through the open hole on the driver’s side, no sign of anyone injured or hiding amongst the crumpled metal, folded steering wheel, a million sparkling shards of glass. The front of the truck was damaged as well, and it was immediately clear to Lewis that whoever was operating the truck had set about to destroy the little car by slamming it repeatedly into the cement wall. Into the pretty lineup of tender leaves and sweet wax beans.
Lewis went to the side door, rapped. “Constable Trench, here.” There was no response, and he eased open the screen door, repeated himself. “Mrs. Fagan. Is you in?” he called. One step into the porch and he could see the hefty figure of Eli Fagan, seated in a rocker. Silence, except for the quiet squeaking of the chair’s runner massaging the wood floor. Standing in a patch of sunlight, Lewis began to sweat instantly. He was slightly blinded, resisted putting a hand to his forehead.
Cleared his throat, said, “Mrs. Fagan about?”
“Nope. No, she idn’t about. No more.”
“I got a call,” Lewis said.
“You did, did you?”
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“From Mrs. Fagan.”
“Well, now.”
Eyes adjusted, and Lewis could see Eli Fagan’s long face, thick jowls, gray skin. Lewis closed his eyes, breathed through his nose. This was the first time he’d been this close to Eli since, since that day in court. He didn’t look quite as Lewis had conjured. There was no sneer, no show of small teeth. No slit eyes, and satisfaction sitting on the crinkled bridge of his nose. Lewis couldn’t look at him for more than a few seconds, couldn’t see someone who was deflated. Last thing Lewis could imagine was that Eli Fagan was a weak man.
“I need to speak with her direct, sir.” Assessing the porch, instead. Piles of shoes and coats. Peeling wallpaper. A damp pink swimsuit balled in the corner. A mess, but nothing unusual.
“That’d be a trick.”
“Why might that be?”
“She’s done here.”
“Done?”
“Yeah, she’s done.”
“Done how?”
“Gone off.”
“When might your wife return?”
“She’s gone off for good.”
“Has your wife been injured, Mr. Fagan? I did notice the damage to the car before I came in.”
“Not that one would see, sir.”
“Would you like to tell me what happened? I got a call.”
“She was leaving. And she left. Car or no car.”
“Yes.”
Eli Fagan was quiet for several minutes.
“Yes, Mr. Fagan. Where is she gone to?” A little louder.
“I do believe I killed her.”
Lewis’s heart began to beat double-time, and he stepped out of the sunshine, deeper into the stale air of Eli Fagan’s kitchen. Overturned radio, children’s clothes in an unfolded pile, frying pan sitting in the sink with a peeling ring of yellow egg. A stained pair of rubber gloves bunched on the linoleum.
An unopened bottle of whiskey sat on the cluttered table beside Eli, and he held a dry glass in his oversized hand. He began to turn the bottom of the glass around and around the flat arm of the rocker, making a tinkling sound that pecked Lewis’s ears.
“Is Garrett here? Your daughters?”
“Nope. Not a soul.”
“How much have you had to drink, Mr. Fagan.”
“Not a single drop.”
Lewis reached to touch a chair pulled out from the table.
Glue on the joints loosened, and the chair wobbled when he leaned on it. He spoke slowly, clearly. “I need you to tell me what happened, sir.”
“I don’t need to tell you nothing. Not one word.”
“I believe you do, Mr. Fagan. You gone and told me your wife is dead.”
“Did I now?” Soft chuckle.
“Yes, sir. You did.”
“Well, then, you needs to be working on your listening, my son. I said nothing of the sort.”
“Did you kill your wife, Mr. Fagan?”
“Killing someone don’t got nothing to do with they being dead.”
Lewis felt his hands turning into fists. Second time today.
“You playing games with me, sir? There’s no humor in it, let me tell you.”
“Go on,” Eli Fagan growled. “Leave me be. Leave me down where I is. Down like an old dog on the floor.”
“Your wife, Mr. Fagan. Tell me where she is, or we’ll take our conversation to someplace else.”
“Well, I don’t rightly know, now, Constable Trench, her exact location. If I got no car, and I’m right set on leaving, where might I be?” He leaned forward, boots planted squarely on the floor. One workhorse hand gripping a thick knee. His words an auger drilling through black ice. “How did your wife do it, Constable Trench? Just how did your wife do it when she left you?”
Slaps to his cheeks. Lewis stepped back, back through the kitchen, back through the shaft of sunlight, back through the porch and into the backyard, passed the squished little car and the beat-up truck, back into his still-warm seat, down the driveway, unswallowed and suddenly, back out onto the dirt road. He pressed down on the gas, a cloud of rolling dirt behind him. Took a sharp left when he reached pavement, headed straight towards the bus station.
LEWIS FOUND MRS. FAGAN, hunched and scrawny, wearing a long beige coat and a navy scarf tied over her head. Seated on a forest green bench, she was waiting for the four-thirty bus to take her to the ferry. From there, she told Lewis, she was going to head across to Sydney where she would meet her sister. She had thought to drive, but well, that was that. Still, it’d been years since she saw her sister, and it was well within her rights to make a little trip. “You better believe it.” Eli and the rest of them be damned. “Going for as long as I wants.” Sample a perfect life. Feel a store-bought rug beneath her feet. Did she want to talk about what happened to her car? No, she said. She hadn’t meant to call, but she couldn’t stop her fingers. Hoped Eli would leave it right where it was, think about what he done. “Eli does on a Monday. Don’t think until Friday.” If then. “What’re you saying, Mrs. Fagan?” “Nothing,” she’d snapped. “I idn’t saying nothing more than I already said. And I already said too much.”
His hands were tied. He returned to his car, sat in the sticky space, windows only cracked. He waited, for a good while, watching her, and she glared back at him. Eyes hard and small. Distrustful, like a bird’s. She kept reaching up, sticking her fingers underneath her scarf, tugging it down lower on her forehead. He wondered if she might be bleeding, if he should get out of his car, move closer. But he didn’t like the way she looked at him, as though he had done something wrong. As though he had somehow damaged her. When it was her family who had stolen from him. Destroyed something irreplaceable. Here he was trying to help, and Lewis could tell from her tight mouth, narrow eyes, that she begrudged him. Hated him. But he would not leave, would not let her win. He watched her, until the bus pulled up to the bench and stopped. People coming off, going on, and it sputtered black exhaust, chugged away. Lewis looked at the bench, and Mrs. Fagan was still there, right hand holding the edge of her headscarf.
He smirked inside. Feeble woman. Couldn’t even muster the strength to climb the three steps to freedom. He drove off, churning up dust behind him. Because he could.
ELBOWS ON THE table, Melvin kept his fork locked in his fist, chewed slowly with his mouth open. Even though he thought his father was waiting to catch his eye, Melvin would not look at him. Partly because he was angry at his father, and partly because Melvin felt guilty.
For months on end, he had dreamt of his mother. Dreamt of her moving around the house, a maze of rooms riddled with shadows and empty spaces, her eyes drained of color. His father was there, too, hidden in different places, behind doors, pressed against the corner of a bookshelf. She jumped every time Lewis revealed his face, no longer handsome, now foreign, frightening, having transformed into a bull, red-eyed, curls of steam shooting from flared nostrils. Melvin was between them, but they would still fight, her matador movements never enough to save her from the being speared by the animal man, dragging her about the bloodied rooms, then tossing her outside, barefoot into drifting snow spattered in red. She lay down, pleading, Melvin pleading, but an eroding wind skimmed away at her crumpled form, until nothing was left.
He saw these scenes so often in his head, with such clarity, night after night, and he had difficulty erasing them when he awoke. Even though he knew nothing of the sort had ever happened.
A second type of dream. Tucked into the intermission of the first. Starless night, and it was him now creeping through the house in pitch blackness, feeling his way along with outstretched hands, moving fingers. Melvin reached the porch, saw her blue coat, glowing ever so slightly in the closet. The flap on her pocket lifted, hovered, an invitation. And in his own bathrobe pocket, he felt the crumbs, and reached in. He was Hansel. She was Gretel. And he would fill her pockets with small morsels of cake. He had promised her that. But as he was making the transfer, his stomach growled—it was in the middle of the night—and he
relented. Ate every sweet crumb. Licked his fingers. Cake gone, she tottered past him, tugged on her coat, wandered out into a grayish nowhere land, a distant place with undefined edges, an empty television channel. She turned, her shape fading in and out, voice carrying. Telling him she wanted nothing more than to return home, but she was unable to find her way. My darling dear, her reedy voice quivered, my pockets are empty.
She finally left him. Left his nighttime thoughts. And his dreams drifted over into other adventures, riding an invisible bicycle up into blue skies, swimming through a tangle of seaweed and nipping crabs, kissing Barbie Maloney full on her open mouth. But even now, underneath his skin, an awareness lingered. And Melvin looked down into his chipped bowl, slid a lumpy vegetable over another lumpy vegetable. Chewed and chewed without swallowing. He wouldn’t look up at his father, as Melvin understood that his father was not alone in his responsibility for the loss of Wilda Trench. Clearly, he was also to blame.
LEWIS COULD SEE Melvin in his peripheral vision, refused to peer at him straight on. And he knew Melvin was doing the same. Melvin did not go to see Terry at Barber Barber’s. Left his hair as it was. Two jagged streaks of baldness rising up on the right side of his scalp. Pink bandage covering his ear, pressed neatly into the grooves by Mrs. Verge earlier that afternoon. Melvin had stolen the fly Lewis had made from the metal box, poked the hook through the bottom edge of the bandage. Making it appear as though he was wearing an insect earring. At the dinner table, Toby roared, “I wants one too. I wants one too.” Lewis said nothing. Offered Melvin no reaction whatsoever, simply stared down into his bowl, repositioned hot chunks of potato, turnip.
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