Dig Two Graves

by Kim Powers

  “Did I just hear my name?”

  Talk about wrong time, wrong place. Wendy. Dr. Wendy Borden, my new girlfriend of the last five or six months. It wasn’t her fault she was just getting to the party late, but she paid the price. Skip hadn’t expected to see Wendy there, because she hadn’t invited her. I had—to the surprise party that wasn’t really a surprise.

  “And who the hell invited Dr. Doolittle?” Skip said, storming off to the kitchen, withering Wendy with a glare, as only a displaced thirteen-year-old could.

  “C’mon now, Skippy . . . ” I said.

  “And why did you and Mom have to name me after peanut butter?” Her parting shot.

  Great; now I was guilty about her nickname, too.

  “She’s usually the greatest daughter in the world,” I said, a weak apology to Wendy, “and then . . . ”

  “She’s a teenager?” asked Wendy. “I was one too, remember? She’s afraid I’m going to take you away from her. All teenage girls are in love with their fathers. Or their horses. Why’d you think I became a vet?”

  Wendy was a vet in the zoology department, where I’d never ventured before I met her. Some of the other teachers had fixed us up on a blind date—truly blind; they wouldn’t tell me anything about her except that they thought I’d like her. On our first date, she made me guess what she did. I could tell she liked the outdoors—she smelled like it, in a good way; she didn’t have fancy fingernails—but after a few guesses, I still hadn’t figured out that she was a vet and worked at the zoo here. Afterwards, I started calling her the pet whisperer, because she could make any animal better. And me, I’ll be honest: the Prof whisperer. She made a too-young widower feel better too. She ran laps around the track with me late at night. She signed us up for couple’s mud races. She didn’t talk down to Skip. She took us around on her little go-cart at the zoo, which Skip liked, until she decided she didn’t like anybody who liked her father back.

  I was giving Wendy a little kiss—a peck, an innocent little peck, to make up to her—when Skip came back out of the kitchen and saw us. She marched straight to the DVD player and punched the eject button.

  Forever after, I’ll remember that whooshing sound the DVD tray made as it slid out; it seemed to take forever. And then I’ll remember Skip grabbing the shiny silver disk, practically a mirror, which she’d worked so hard on, and breaking it in two.

  That seemed to take no time at all.

  No, this is the last thing I’ll remember from that night: Skip—my baby—turning to me and saying, across a room full of people, fighting so hard for those tears to not spill out of her eyes, “I wish it was you who was dead instead of Mom.”

  Forever after, that’s what I’ll remember.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The man with a plan watched from his hiding place in the trees, across the street. Something untoward had happened near the end of the party; he could tell, just from the change in movement behind the living room curtain. Fast, then frozen, then everybody leaving.

  He would have enjoyed watching a bit more of the festivities, even if he was the uninvited guest. Actually, could he be both uninvited and a guest? Not really. He could be the uninvited gatecrasher, but even that indicated he’d actually gone through a gate; that he’d actually entered the room in some way. And he hadn’t. But what was left? Peeping Tom? Voyeur? Lookie loo? Those all sounded so . . . negative, when he was really no more than a little boy with his nose pressed against the frost-covered candy store window, wanting to eat what was inside. Like that German chocolate cake that Skip had made, all by herself.

  Now, guests—invited guests—were coming out of the house, so he hid even deeper inside the copse of tall conifers. They didn’t lose their leaves like other trees in the fall, so there was no telltale crunch to give him away as he backed up, deep inside, the watcher in the woods. And what he watched: on the porch of their Victorian house, in the glow of two sconces that flanked either side of the red front door—red, the classic color of welcome!—Skip and Ethan took their positions and said their goodbyes, a receiving line in reverse. Ethan kissed the women and hugged the men, except for the students; Skip’s hair got tousled a lot, and some of the women bent down to hug her. Somebody must have smudged her glasses, because Skip took them off and rubbed the lens with the hem of her pretty little dress.

  He’d never seen her wear a dress before.

  The night air was clear and chilly, a perfect conduit for sound, with the tall trees of the neighborhood keeping it reined in, so all the goodbyes on the porch carried across the street: congratulations and thank you and, to Skip, I want to hire you for MY next party.

  But what the watcher didn’t hear, when all the guests were gone, and only two people were left, was, “What a great party, my darling daughter! Thank you so much! It was the bestest party ever! And you’re my bestest girl!”

  Isn’t that what fathers and daughters left standing on porches said to each other, as they waved goodbye to friends, getting in their cars? The man in the woods had never seen two people work so hard at smiling to their friends but not talking to each other. And when everyone had finally left, except for the old man with the cane, they still didn’t talk.

  Ethan tried to; he bent down to Skip, he tried to kiss her on top of her head, but she shook him off and helped the old man down the steps instead. They crossed to the watcher’s side of the street; he was a mere five feet away from them when she finally started crying, just the tiniest little bit.

  “I thought he’d like seeing the past. Isn’t that what he teaches?”

  “Don’t worry. He survived it then, he’ll survive it now. And I was the asshole who dug up all those tapes for you, so tell him to blame me.”

  “But it was my idea, so that makes me the original asshole.”

  “He overreacted. Too many bad memories.”

  “How bad could they be? He won the medal. I wish I could win a medal. At anything. You want me to walk you home?”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  “You sure? I don’t mind. I don’t wanna go back in there.”

  “I’m sure.” He tipped his cane upward, pointing toward the house. “That’s the old man who needs some help.”

  “Love you, Uncle Sig.”

  “Love you too, Peanut Butter.”

  Now that was a conversation, thought the watcher in the woods. That was how a family was supposed to talk. Give. And take.

  Skip stood there until the old man got to the end of the block; he turned around and waved at her with his cane. She waved back, her hand outlined by the street light that shone down through the yellow and gold autumn leaves.

  He loved this time of night.

  He loved this time of year, late fall in New England.

  He loved just being here, watching.

  Skip trudged back to the house and began dragging out party trash, big bulging white plastic bags in both hands and more stuff tucked under her elbows, to the curbside garbage can. She pulled the drawstrings tight, then pushed the bags in; some tendrils of crepe paper snaked out. She stuffed them in, then unfurled the roll of paper she’d been clutching to her side: a homemade banner that said “Happy Birthday,” decorated with glittery stars.

  He might have stored it in the attic until the next birthday party rolled around, but Skip ripped it up and stuffed the bits and pieces inside the trash can.

  Such anger, such . . . disappointment. Such good decorations, gone to waste.

  He thought of the decorations he had waiting, back at home. They wouldn’t go to waste. He’d use them all to decorate; every inch of every wall would be covered, telling a story.

  His story. Well, their story.

  He could wait to tell it.

  After all, he’d been waiting for most of his life.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Skip hunched down on the cold wood floor outside her father’s bedroom, her pajama T-shirt stretched over her knees. She usually did that to pretend she had breasts; now she did it to keep h
erself from shivering. From the cold and anger. She put her ear to the closed door and tried to listen, to see if he was really asleep. To see if she could hear the bed creaking, as he settled in for the night.

  Nothing. She tried to imagine if he had the expression on his face, the one she’d seen a million times before, when he knew he’d fucked up; if he was wondering if his daughter was still awake, so he could go apologize to her about inviting Dr. Doolittle to the party, and about making such a fuss over the DVD.

  She’d worked so hard on it, and then he’d ruined it.

  She’d ruined it. Dr. Doolittle. Outside, on the porch, when they were saying goodbye to everybody, she’d whispered to Skip, like it could make everything better, “I loved your present. All I got him was a stupid book about a safari.”

  That had almost made Skip like her again, until she heard Dr. Doolittle then whisper to her father, “You did look cute in your little shorts, even if you were getting beat up.” She pinched him on the butt, when she thought no one was looking.

  Skip was looking, even though she pretended not to.

  Nope. Skip hated her all over again. And him. She’d show him.

  She went to the attic, where she always went when she couldn’t sleep or when she had a new art project to start. This time, it was to paint her fingernails. Paint the memory of this night onto them, so she’d never forget. She didn’t think she would anyway, but she wanted to show him how much it had hurt. He taught words, so she’d use some of her own to teach him: paint each fingernail black, for the background, then paint in a tiny white letter on top. Ten separate, carefully chosen letters that would add up to three separate, carefully chosen words that would hurt him the most, just like he’d hurt her.

  Her fingernails were so short that it took a lot of patience to finish the job, make sure the letters were clear. She didn’t want to turn on the light or he’d know she was up there, so she did it with just the light coming in through the one window. A little streetlamp and some light from the moon—thankfully, it was a full one. Skip’s left hand wasn’t as steady holding the tiny fingernail brush as her right hand was, and the ether-like smell from the polish made her a little dizzy, but she finally got the effect she wanted, to show her dad in the morning. Orange juice, cereal, maybe a little slice of leftover birthday cake that she’d sneak when he left the room, and then BAM!

  She’d ruin his day, just like he’d ruined her night. Their night.

  All she’d wanted to do was make him proud of her, just like she was proud of him. Winning the Olympics. On TV. Getting tenure. She didn’t exactly know what it was, but she knew it was important. She’d saved her allowance to get the decorations and cake ingredients and get all the VHSs from Sig transferred so she could edit them on her computer, and then . . .

  He invited her.

  He told Skip he didn’t like her present in front of everybody.

  He’d made her embarrass herself by breaking it, in front of everybody.

  It wasn’t fair.

  It wasn’t fair that she’d told him she wished he was dead, because she didn’t. Not really. Then she wouldn’t have anybody.

  She never showed her dad anything she made up in the attic; it was her secret place. When they first moved in, she’d found all sorts of junk up there: a concrete lion, the kind an old mansion would have had guarding the front door; an old rocking horse; a trunk; an old doll. For some reason, she started covering everything with tiny little pieces of glass; she liked the way light reflected off them. She’d keep the lights off and light candles, to see if that was enough to see by in the room. And it was. Millions of candles, it seemed like, reflected back to her in little circles. When she ran out of old stuff that was already up there, she started making snowballs, from baseballs that she’d buy new, then cover over with little mirrored, glass beads that she’d buy at the craft store. Even in the dark, she could look in them and see her reflection, dozens of times over, and wonder if she’d look like her mother one day.

  Her mother was beautiful. Had been beautiful.

  Her mother was prettier than Skip thought she’d ever be, much prettier than Dr. Doolittle. She looked like a mother on TV. That pretty. Dark hair, blue eyes, and in Skip’s memory at least, cheeks that were always flushed. But Skip knew that was just from being out in the cold that last time, not always. Skip had so many freckles she didn’t think anybody would ever get to see if she had rosy cheeks or not, and with her glasses, they’d never be able to tell if her eyes were pretty like her mother’s. Everything her mother had, Skip didn’t. She was too tall, for just thirteen. Her arms hung down too far. Her legs were too long. Her hair wasn’t thick enough. And she had braces. That’s why she liked going up to the attic in the dark; so she didn’t have to see herself in anything except her tiny little mirrors, where she couldn’t see all the details of what she really looked like.

  They were playing with snowballs, real ones, the day her mother died.

  Skip wasn’t dumb; she knew that’s why she made them, to remind her of that last day. She didn’t know why she covered all the other stuff, but she knew why she made the fake snowballs.

  “Gotcha!” Skip and her mother bombarded her dad from their hiding place behind the snowman they’d made in the front yard that afternoon. It was the first year they’d moved to the big old house in Mt. Gresh, the first year her father had taught at Canaan. He’d run to school that morning—he always did, that’s how he kept in shape—not knowing how much it would snow during the day; it seemed too early in the season for that. When he got home, he was greeted by a snowman wearing his grad school mortarboard and his decathlon medal. And snowballs that Skip and her mother threw at him, for fun. As soon as the first one hit, he raced at them and grabbed his mortarboard, knocking the snowballs back like ping-pong balls.

  “Hey! They expect me to wear this thing at graduation.”

  “Then you’ll have to get you a new one,” Skip’s mom said, “because I am about to ruin this one!”

  She scored a direct hit, smack in the middle of its flat top. The powdery snowball disintegrated, its crystals sliding down the gold and maroon tassel, and her father and mother slid down too, attacking each other with snow down their jackets.

  “Man down! Man down!” her father barked out; that was Skip’s invitation to climb on him too, as he flapped his arms in the snow and made snow angels.

  “Help! I give! I give! Uncle!”

  They went at him even harder.

  “Aunt! Grandmother! Second cousin once removed . . . ”

  They finally rolled off him, her mom sneaking in an extra hug and kiss. Skip stayed on the ground by herself to make snow angels, like her father had made; she closed her eyes in that first snow of their new lives. Her back was cold and wet, even through the nylon of her jacket, but she didn’t mind. She liked feeling the crunch of snow under her head, and her hair crinkling up inside her knit cap.

  In Skip’s seventh-grade acting class, her teacher Miss Davenport called that a “sense memory.” There was one for each of the five senses. Feeling the cold at her back and the pellets of snow against her cap; those were for touch. The way Miss Davenport described it, you just had to remember them, but not do anything about them. You didn’t have to pretend to feel anything. If you were doing it right, the feeling just came, whether you wanted it to or not.

  Skip thought she must have been doing it right, because she always ended up crying remembering all of that stuff, from the day her mother died.

  Outside their house, her father looked at his watch, wet droplets from the melting snow magnifying the hands of the watch, so it took him a second to see what time it was.

  “Shit . . . gotta get to FedEx before it closes,” he said.

  “S-word! S-word!” Skip said. (That was the embarrassing memory, acting so goony about a dirty word; Miss Davenport hadn’t said anything about that.)

  What her mother said next changed everything about the rest of her life. “I’ll go. I gotta pick u
p some stuff at the store anyway.”

  “You sure? It’s slippery.”

  “So are you. That’s why I like you.”

  That’s where Skip always wanted to stop the memory, because the rest got too sad. But she couldn’t stop it, no matter how hard she tried.

  The sky was getting dark, but it wasn’t all the way dark yet. In the yard, the fir trees had purple-blue berries on them, big fat things with little spikes sticking out; they were the same color as the sky: dark, dusty purple. That became Skip’s sense memory for sight: the color of the sky. And a corner of the house was slate blue with bumpy gray trim, from where it kept getting painted over. And the red of her mother’s nylon jacket, as she walked away.

  The smell of smoke was in the air, from a fireplace somewhere in the neighborhood. Skip could smell her father’s breath; he hadn’t brushed his teeth since breakfast. She could smell coffee; she could remember the smell of her mother’s perfume, too—not anything girly or flowery, but just nice. Skip could even remember her own smell: the smell you get when you play hard, outside. Sweaty, with heat coming off you. And playing in the snow had a different smell than playing in grass, when the sun was out.

  Those were her smell memories.

  Her father reached in his pants pocket—he was wearing corduroys. Skip heard a sort of rub the fabric made and the sound of change in his pockets, coins mushed in with dollar bills. He pulled out his car keys and tossed them to her mother.

  “Here. Take mine. It drives better in the snow.”

  That was the sound memory.

  Clatter and clunk, as the keys fell short and dropped in the snow, and her mom had to reach down to pick them up.

  Soon, there would be another sound, but Skip wanted to delay that one as long as possible. She wanted to remember her mother one last time, laughing and smiling and picking up her father’s car keys from the snow.

  “For the best athlete in the world, you sure picked a klutz of a wife.” Her mother shook the snow off the keys, and Skip imagined she could hear the snowflakes, flinging away.