Curtains

by Scott Nicholson

  "You know all about hard, don't you?"

  Larry looked out the window at the far slopes of granite, the worn edges of the Blue Ridge. When you got mad, you just had to look way off in the distance, his Daddy always said. Daddy wasn't born a fool, just ended up that way. "That's enough of that. I made a promise, and I'll keep it. Are you going to keep yours?"

  "But you ain't said what you wanted yet." She lowered her voice into the husky whisper that sounded like the result of a lot of practice. "But I got a good idea."

  "I'll pick you up at seven. Like we planned."

  "Like we planned."

  "Bye, now."

  "Bye. I love you."

  The click of the phone rattled around inside his skull, bouncing against that word "love." He'd heard that word a time or two before. And then push always comes to shove, and you find out it doesn't mean a thing. It's just a word.

  He went back to the barn. He spread the velvet lining in the coffin and stapled it into place. Most people went with black velvet, but Larry believed in Royal blue. There was something churchy and sacred about it. When you went under the dirt, you wanted all the comfort you could get.

  Glue had leaked from one of the corners where the angled wood met. Larry took a chisel from the workbench and scraped the clot free. He felt along the joint. Not a stray splinter, tight as a mouse's ear. He was getting better with practice.

  He finished up just as the sun set on the hills. He tested the fit of the lid one last time. The lid wasn't so heavy, and he'd drilled holes where the nails would go. This would work just fine.

  At least, the part you could count on. Wood was straight up and honest, you could shape it and trim it and make something that would last. You could build your own coffin with no problem. But you had to have somebody to drive the nails, because you damned sure couldn't do it from the inside.

  He set the lid aside, wiped his tools, and saw that everything was laid out on the workbench. He blew out the lamp and hung it by the barn door. It was time to pick up Betty Ann.

  Larry sat in his Ford and looked around the trailer park. Betty Ann could do better than this place. She was plenty dumb enough to marry some farmer and have a bunch of kids. You got married to the dirt up here, one way or the other. Some put it off for as long as possible, but the mountains always took you anyway.

  He blew the horn. Betty Ann wanted him to be right on the button, but she didn't mind a bit to keep him waiting. Finally, the trailer door opened and she waved.

  Larry swallowed hard. She was wearing the red dress. Not a good choice for what they were about to do, because it made her easy to remember. Larry remembered just fine. Maybe a little too fine, because his pulse was running hard, and he needed to be calm for what they were about to do.

  She slid into the truck beside him and squeezed his leg. "Ready for anything?"

  He pushed her hand away. "I keep my promises."

  "So that's how you're going to be about it."

  "The things I do for you."

  "Don't forget the things I do for you."

  Larry wanted real bad to lean over and kiss her. She was the prettiest of them all. But she said "love" too easy and often. She looked like the lying kind.

  They'd find out about all that later, whether this was for real or not. He had a promise to keep, and so did she. He started the Ford and headed toward Tennessee.

  They drove fifty miles, running past the dark quiet of Watauga Lake, winding through Shady Valley where the cows outnumbered the people, and then followed a gravel road along the river.

  "You scared?" Betty Ann said. She'd been quiet for the last half-hour, a long stretch for her. She must have been thinking.

  Larry had been thinking, too. "Not about this. I'm scared about the rest of it. About later."

  "I'll take care of you." Her hand was on his leg again. This time, Larry didn't push it away. He stared ahead where the black road met the headlights.

  "I know. Because you promised."

  Betty Ann murmured happily beside him. She'd probably been looking for a dream man all her life. And that was what she found. A dream man.

  He said, "Other women made promises. Some got broken."

  "Larry, you ought to know by now that I ain't like other women." She leaned over and her breath was on his neck, and then, brief as a hummingbird, her tongue flicked across his skin.

  "You'd best quit that so I can drive."

  They were under the lights now, on the four-lane. Cars skimmed by in the night. Larry wondered where the cars were headed. He was willing to bet that everybody else in the world planned on sleeping in a normal bed tonight, that they didn't have the kind of dreams Larry had.

  "Here it is," Betty Ann said.

  The gas station had four pumps, and Larry was relieved they didn't take credit cards. An electric Marlboro sign flickered in the window. The man behind the counter was hidden by a row of fan belts. "You sure this is it?"

  "Trucker told me about it. The owner's weird, he don't believe in banks. Thinks they're all run by thieving Jews."

  One truck was parked behind the store, a slow hunk of steel that had four wheels on the back axle. It was a Chevy. No need to worry about getting chased down.

  Larry parked by the door and left the engine running. If he had any sense, he ought to push Betty Ann out and let her thumb and screw her way back to North Carolina. But he didn't have a lick of sense, not where she was concerned. Plus, he'd made a promise.

  He took the gun from the glove box. It was Daddy's, a. 32 revolver that didn't have much knock-down but was big enough to move money. He tucked the gun under his arm and opened the door.

  Betty Ann leaned over and kissed him before he got out. "For luck," she said.

  The kiss tasted of sawdust.

  The lights were dim, probably because the cheapskate owner tried to save on the power bills. The beer cooler in back looked tempting, but Larry had a long drive home. Rounded mirrors hung in the corners of the ceiling, but there were no video cameras. He went up to the counter and chose a can of snuff, the real kind, not that sissy, grainy stuff in the plastic cans.

  He laid the snuff on the counter and met the man's eyes.

  "That all?" The man looked to be a hundred-and-fifty, or maybe it was the bad fluorescent lights. He looked mean and cheap. Larry didn't dread this anymore. It was just another chore, something you did to get what you wanted. It was like making two pieces of wood fit.

  He pulled out the gun, and the rest of it went like they were in a movie, like they both knew what to do and wanted to get it over with. The old man cleaned out the register, handed over his wallet, and even put the snuff in a bag. Larry backed out, checked for traffic, and tucked the gun under his arm. The old man even waved good-bye.

  "Here." Larry tossed the money and the wallet into Betty Ann's sweet lap. "Like I promised."

  "I love you," she said.

  Larry glanced into the rear-view mirror. He wondered what kind of description the old man would give. Should have shot him. But that wasn't his way. You met the dirt when the time was right. He gunned the truck out of the lot and roared away into the Appalachian night.

  They went back to his farm, the way they had planned. Larry had to admit the whole thing had gone smoothly. At least the first part of it, her part. He wondered if his part would be smooth, too.

  They stood under the stars. Not a streetlight marred the dark view. This was how a man was supposed to live. Too bad none of his women wanted to live this way.

  "Seven hundred and twelve dollars," Betty Ann said. "Plus some change."

  "I could get the tractor fixed with that."

  "You and your tractor."

  "All you think about is getting out of here. You know how many gas stations you'd have to rob to even make it to the Mississippi?"

  "It's a start."

  "No. You're born to this mountain dirt. You belong to it."

  "Don't start getting weird on me again, Larry."

  "You're the o
ne that keeps talking about love. And promises."

  Betty Ann shut up for the second time that night. Larry would have to remember that for the future. If they had a future.

  "I kept my promise, what about yours?" he said.

  She came to him and hugged him, pressed those curves against him. The bills in her hand scratched his cheek. Her lips were soft. The red dress was thin.

  "Want to go inside?" she whispered.

  "The barn."

  "Ooh. The hayloft again."

  Larry took her hand and led her down the path that he knew so well. The barn was still, the animals mostly asleep. Old Zaint had put himself up in the stall, and the chickens had their heads tucked under their wings. Nobody would see.

  Except maybe the cops. One day they’d get around to digging behind the barn. But maybe Larry wouldn’t be here when that happened. Betty Ann might be, or might not be, depending.

  He lit the lamp and took her to the workbench. The coffin glowed in the lamplight. It was his best ever. He couldn't keep down the pride that warmed his chest.

  "What do you think?" he said.

  "Damn, Larry. It's a…"

  "What do you think?"

  "What's going on?"

  "Your part of the promise. I need to know if I can trust you."

  Betty Ann backed away. She looked scared, but she didn't let go of the money.

  "Do you love me?" Larry said. He picked up the hammer. And the most important part, the nails.

  Betty Ann made it to the door, but Larry knew about how they tried to run. The first one had almost made it to the creek. Almost. But Larry had fixed the door after that.

  She pressed against the wood, her eyes rolling around, looking for a place to hide. There was no hiding from promises. Larry approached her, holding out the hammer and nails.

  "You promised," he said.

  This time her whisper wasn't the husky, practiced kind. "Don't hurt me."

  "I would never hurt you. I love you, remember?"

  "What do you want?"

  "I did for you, now you do for me." He pointed to the coffin, hoping she'd be impressed by the craft he'd put into it. "I want you to seal me up."

  She didn't understand. They never understood. "Bury you? But you ain’t dead yet.”

  "I’m just trying it out beforehand. Dying’s too important a business to put off till the last minute. Need to check for size and comfort, and I can't do it alone. It takes two."

  "You're crazy."

  Larry stared at the lamp until his eyes burned. "You love me. At least, that's what you said. I risk life and jail and reputation for you, and you won't do one little thing for me."

  He turned away. She was like the others. You ought to know better than to hope. You ought to know by now that love is just a word, a selfish, lying, hurting word.

  Then her hand was on his shoulder. Something had changed between them. Maybe, seeing that Larry was willing to kill for her if necessary, Betty Ann had found a strange respect. "I always knew you was weird."

  He smiled. Money didn't matter, not next to the other thing. "It won't take but a minute. And I ain't got nobody else. Nobody I can trust, that is."

  He gave her a look like the one from that time in the hayloft, the one she seemed to get all swoony over. "You'll have to put the lid on. Do you think you can drive the nails?"

  Betty Ann nodded. He kissed her. She took the hammer and nails. He climbed into the coffin and inhaled the cherry. She looked so good in her red dress.

  The lid fit perfectly. The first nail was awkward, she missed and busted her thumb. Her blood was likely soaking into the wood. He was glad he’d passed on the shellac.

  Love was built on blood and nails. You had to have both, or it didn't mean a thing.

  By the third nail, she was in the rhythm, and drove it home with four blows. Sixteen nails total, while Larry's heart pounded in time to the hammer.

  Her voice was muffled, but he could understand her. "Are you all right in there?"

  He said nothing. The air was stale. The coffin was the perfect size. He could be buried in this, when the time came. It would be a proud way to meet the dirt.

  "Larry?" she hollered.

  He waited.

  “Can you breathe?”

  She wouldn’t hear him if he answered.

  “I been thinking,” she said. “If I don’t let you out, I get the money all to myself.”

  God damn. She was a keeper. Not like those others, the ones who folded when they hit a knot or caught a splinter. This might be the one he could trust sharing his land with, his life with, his death with. Two holes and two tombstones, side by side, forever.

  They could get to that part later. First, he needed to see how good she was with a shovel.

  He pulled the hammer and crowbar from the secret fold in the velvet and began loosening the lid from the inside, too excited to concentrate. Hope pulsed through his flesh.

  This one might work out. She was the real thing, better than the others. A killer. Tight nails, warm blood, a wooden soul. And cold, cold dirt in her heart

  A woman who could nail your coffin was worth keeping around.

  One way or another.

  THE NAME GAME

  When Vincent awoke, he felt as if he'd been dropped headfirst from the Statue of Liberty's torch.

  He moaned and rolled over into a stack of moldy cardboard and newspapers. The avenue tasted of Queens, smog stung to the ground by the long rains of the week before. A car horn bleated, amplified by the brick canyons so that the noise rattled Vincent’s eardrums. He tried to peel back his eyelids so that the brilliant green in his vision could be scrubbed away by the orange crash of daylight.

  Damn this city, he thought, each word a hammer blow. And since he was bothering to think, he figured he might as well try to remember. That was a little harder. He was on his knees, supporting himself against the slick skin of a Dumpster, by the time he got past the previous two seconds and on into the last few hours.

  It was morning. The aroma of bagels and coffee drifted from some back door along the alley, fighting with the stench of gutter garbage before mingling into a deeper smell of rot. And if this was morning, then Vincent was Late.

  He was supposed to catch a pre-dawn flight, to be out of town before another sorry New York sun rose. No, he wasn’t supposed to catch the flight. He remembered harder, and more painfully. Robert Wells was supposed to catch that flight.

  Robert Daniel Wells, his new identity, a boring tourism official from Muncie. The Feds had set it up that way. A tourism official could go places, sleep in a few motels, get lost in America’s excess. Los Angeles for a convention to pitch movie locations, then Oregon for a meeting of the Christmas Tree Growers Association, zippp down to, where was it? Oh, yeah, Flagstaff, Arizona, to sell Muncie to wealthy retirees. Good old Indiana, that scenic destination, that mecca of the masses.

  Dumb damned Feds. Like Joey Scattione couldn’t figure that one out. With Joey’s resources, Vincent was meat no matter what identity they gave him. What he needed was a new face, new bones, a new brain, because his brain was halfway down the back of his neck. He touched the welt on his head.

  Ouch.

  He struggled to his feet, took a step, and nearly tripped over a pile of rags. The pile stirred, a bottle rolled to the asphalt, and a bleary eye opened amid a dark crack of cloth.

  “Suh-sorry,” Vincent said. He waited a moment for the bum to acknowledge him, but the eye closed, extinguished like an ember dropped in mud.

  His hand went to his back pocket. No surprise, his wallet was gone. It had contained nothing but cash, a few hundred bucks. No biggie. He hadn't dared carry his fake IDs in there.

  Vincent took a couple more steps. Even if he missed the flight, he still had the ticket. They’d let him catch a later one. If he had a connector in St. Louis, maybe he’d slip out of the terminal and throw Robert Wells in the ditch somewhere, dig up some new papers. It could be done. Easier that way than screwing around a
nd counting on the Feds.

  That’s why he’d went alone. With a spook escort, Joey’s people would have spotted Vincent a mile away. Feds' shoes sparkled like skyscrapers, and they always looked as if they should be wearing sunglasses. Might as well carry a sandwich sign that said, “Hey, bad guys of the world! I’m a spook.”

  So Vincent had talked them into playing it his way. Take up the tourism official act, gawk at the skyscrapers, do the same kind of dumb things an Indiana bumpkin would do. Like try to catch a cab at four in the morning.

  Whoever had clobbered him must have been an amateur. Certainly wasn’t any of Joey’s muscle. Joey would want Vincent whole, uninjured, wide awake, and ready for some slow face-to-face. Joey's people would show Vincent ten thousand ways to die, all at the same time, and none of them easy. Joey would want it all on videotape, since he couldn't be there in the flesh.

  And the Feds, they weren’t in for the double-cross. Not only were they too dumb, Vincent had given them the slip back at the hotel at around midnight. Sure, they probably would have a spook or two haunting the airports, but they wouldn't want to make a scene. Better to let Vincent get out of town and track him later.

  Vincent neared the end of the alley, the traffic thick on the street in front of him. Pedestrians clogged the sidewalks, hustling off to make the nine o’clock ritual. He felt better already, though his pulse was playing “The War Of 1812” in his temples. Safety in numbers, and nowhere were numbers more numerous than on a Manhattan street.

  He attempted to whistle, but his throat was too dry. He put on his indifferent grimace, the mask that New York wore, and slouched into the crowd. He fell in behind a woman walking her poodle. He nearly stepped on the poodle when it stopped to relieve itself. The woman pretended not to notice either Vincent or the steaming brown pile on the concrete.

  Vincent reached inside his jacket, to the inner pocket. He stopped. The ticket was gone.

  Someone had taken his papers. The social security card, the Indiana driver's license, the credit card made out to "Robert Wells," even a blood donor card. All the FBI's clever forgeries, along with four more bills, were now in the hands of some idiot mugger. Or mugger of idiots, whichever way you wanted to look at it.