"Leave it," says Lenise.
Jennifer returns her hand to the steering wheel.
"I can't believe this is happening," she says.
"Keep driving."
The windscreen begins to mist and Jennifer winds down her window to let in some air. It's frigid and vital and Jennifer sucks in four large mouthfuls but it will take more than fresh air to make this nightmare go away.
"Do you even know where you're going?" says Lenise.
"It was a long time ago now."
"Stop here. It's as good a place as any."
"A little further on."
Another mile on and thick woods give way to trees in rows, all of them the same type, large and ancient, their barren winter branches gigantic fan-shaped skeletons against the night sky.
"What is this place?"
"An orchard. At one time, anyway."
Jennifer turns right and takes a smaller trail into a more private area. She cuts the engine. Through a break in a stand of California Redwoods, Stickle Creek swimming hole shines like a beveled knife.
"There," she says, pointing through the windscreen.
Right in front of them is a magnificent Arizona cypress.
*
They step out of the car. Somewhere close by water rushes beneath ice.
"What's that smell?" says Lenise.
"Pears."
Jennifer clicks on the torch and a beam of light hits the trees. Fruit, rotten and brown and bird-pecked, lies forlornly in the undergrowth. A smatter of wasps hovers over the fallen bounty.
"I'm allergic," says Lenise.
"To pears?"
"Wasps."
Lenise reaches into the back seat and retrieves two shovels and gives one to Jennifer. She probes the ground for the weakest part, but it's hard all over, so she moves away from the rooty portion of the ground, about two feet from the tree, and traces a large rectangle with her shovel.
"This will do."
Progress is slow. There are layers of leaves and undergrowth and earth and rocks. Their shovels barely penetrate the surface. But they keep going, their bodies soon hot with effort and the two headlights aimed their way. Kush, slap, kush, slap. The sound of slicing and dumping seems too improbable and loud in such a lonely place. Occasionally too, the metal lip of the shovel pings off a flinty rock and sparks a tiny ginger flash.
An unbearable thirst grips Jennifer. It's as if her body is depleting its water stocks with every slice of the shovel. She tries swallowing but her mouth could be full of sand. How careless not to bring water or sensible shoes or a sweat towel or anything necessary to digging a coffin-size hole in the middle of nowhere. She bites down on her tongue to generate salvia and imagines something chilled and wet and quenching. It even crosses her mind to eat one of those worm-ridden pears.
She wipes her sticky forehead with an aching arm and stops to look at the pit. They have barely touched the surface. "This is going to take forever."
"Stop moaning and get on with it. It's not going to dig itself."
On and on it goes. Wasps buzz and the forest creaks and the sweet-sour decay of fruit saturates their pores. Jennifer's upper back burns and her wrists scream but she keeps up with Lenise's frenetic pace, matching her shovel for shovel until, finally, the pile of dirt has grown to a large mound and there's a box-shaped hole.
Jennifer squints at the sky. "How much deeper?"
"We need to make it as big as possible," says Lenise, continuing to dig.
"There isn't time."
"Just a bit more."
"No!" Jennifer snatches Lenise's shovel away. "We need to get him in there before daybreak."
Lenise looks at her, eyes glossed with exhaustion, and wipes her nose with her knuckles.
"Who died and made you president," she says.
Jennifer backs the car as close to the opening as possible then joins Lenise at the trunk, and once again they face the mission of trying to move their leaden freight, by now growing stiff with rigor. They tug and pull and press and push but he's too heavy to lift over the lip of the trunk. Jennifer hears a sniff. Angry tears are running down Lenise's dirt-streaked face.
"Hold it," says Lenise. "We need to stop rushing, do a bit at a time like before."
They do and it works and they maneuver the body until it is a see-saw plank across the ridge of the trunk then tip it into the grave like a bag of bricks.
Lenise jumps into the hole and removes the rug and unties the string and unfolds the plastic. Jennifer sucks in a breath because it's a shock to see Hank's pale-skinned corpse, gleaming and translucent and too human, slouching there in that humus pit.
"Get the lime," says Lenise.
Jennifer does and they shake it over the body and begin to fill the grave.
"What about his truck?" says Jennifer.
"Give me the address where's he's staying and I'll drop it off once we're done here."
The process of putting the dirt back is quicker than removing it, but it's still hard work. They soldier on and it isn't long before they are on the homeward stretch. When they are nearly there Jennifer stops and stares at the hole.
"Jesus, Lenise. What are we doing?"
"Don't think about it."
"I'm burying my husband."
"I said don't think about."
Jennifer doesn't move.
"Hurry up," says Lenise. "We need to get back to McKenzie before sunrise."
Trying to ignore the blisters on the bridge of her hands, Jennifer forces her shovel into the earth and dumps the contents into the pit then does it all over again.
Soon the quality of the sky alters and the forest stirs and they are done. They change quickly into fresh clothes and bag up the ones they've been wearing for later disposal.
The mound looks too fresh so they cover it with branches and stones and armfuls of cracker-stiff leaves. But it still looks like a grave.
"Over time it will blend in," says Lenise.
"If nobody finds it before then."
"They won't."
They stand under the canopy of the Cypress and stare at the mound.
"We should say a prayer or something."
"He was a bad man, Jenny."
"Not always."
"He was. You just didn't see it."
30
The shower is hot and Lenise stands there for a long time, dirt and blood and grime pooling at her feet. She brushes away torn stamps of winter-blown leaves that have hitched a ride home on her calves, then reaches to pick a blood-encrusted seed from between her toes and lets it slip into the water and down the plug hole. Everything is evidence now. All of it. Even what she says.
She closes her eyes and pushes her face into the torrent, her hands two fists at her side. It was remarkable how easily his skin had yielded to the blade. A single slip between his ribcage and it was done.
No suitable word could describe how Lenise feels. Not sadness. Not shame. Not happiness or triumph. If anything, all she feels is the absence of regret. A court of law, she thinks, would probably call it lack of remorse. Well, it wasn't as if she'd had a fight with a loved one and things had got out of hand. He was a stranger. Much less emotionally complicated.
She had come close before. God only knew how many times she'd been angry with Cody and how easily a shove could have meant the back of a head crashing on a hardwood corner or concrete step. And how could she forget that awful incident when he was 3 or 4, when she shook him until he turned blue because he would not eat his brussel sprouts. It was easier than anyone could ever imagine – accidental death that wasn't really accidental because you were there with a knife or a bad attitude or a temper you could not control.
She shuts off the faucet and gets out.
First light punches through the patterned glass. A lone bird trumpets from atop a TV aerial. McKenzie will soon be awake. The child was safe now, at least. She would never have to face her father in a court or be subjected to McDonalds' visits on Saturday afternoons or his fake apologies or
the uncertainty of whether he would try it on again. She could grow into everything that she was ever meant to be, everything that Lenise never was. Yes, perhaps last night had been a blessing after all.
Lenise wraps a towel around the dripping tendrils of her hair and puts on some fresh clothes and goes to her bedroom and closes the door. She pushes the bed away from the wall and pries the loosened floorboard to access the hiding place where she kept valuables from Cody. Just enough space for a bag of bloody clothes, a bunch of stinking rags and a freshly used carving knife.
Then she combs her hair and goes downstairs. She will make pancakes – all American – with maple syrup and bacon, and some of that stuff they called potato hash. Everything her special guest could want.
31
The plan is to keep everything as normal as possible. But Jennifer doesn't feel normal, far from it. In the dark hours before dawn she jerks awake to find herself lying in a wet patch of sweat, a nightmare just beyond her reach. The single open eye. The stiff crab of a hand. The plum-colored bottom lip.
And there's a refrain, stuck on a loop inside her head. Hank is dead, Hank is dead, Hank is dead.
She's never felt so exposed. What if someone finds out what she's been a part of – what she did – burying him like that to cover her own tracks? What if someone finds out she is a coward of the worst kind? Because that's how she feels, like a coward, sick to her stomach, disgusted that she ever agreed to any of it.
On the third day she begins to clean. Every inch of the house. The skirting boards and window sills and door handles and light switches and refrigerator and oven and bathtub. She scrubs the kitchen floor so many times the blue and black polka dots begin to crack. Jennifer cleans all morning and afternoon and well into the night and into the next day and the day after that. She cleans until the chrome shines and mirrors wink and tiles gleam.
On Friday she decides to get rid of his clothes. She calls Rosemary to reschedule her morning clients and waits until McKenzie leaves for school then retrieves some trash bags and goes to the wardrobe and puts everything in them. The second skins hanging in the wardrobe, gone. The well-worn brown leather loafers and laceless Reeboks, gone. The birthday boxer briefs and cotton socks and faded tshirts and woolen sweaters, gone. His toothbrush and Abraham Lincoln soap on a rope and Remington shaver, gone. All of it, tied up neatly into six trash bags, ready to go to a good home or a bad one, she doesn't care which. She just wants the stuff out, like the memory of that shovel in her hand.
Jennifer takes the bags to the Goodwill and the lady in the Elvis Presley jumper gives her a free fridge magnet and a 10% discount on anything in the store. Jennifer discards the more personal items in a dumpster behind a Lebanese takeaway then goes to work.
But when she gets back home that night and sees the empty section of the wardrobe, she doesn't feel any better.
"Where are Dad's clothes?" McKenzie walks past Jennifer and reaches down to pick up a man's charcoal dress sock on the bottom of the wardrobe floor. "Mom, where are his things?"
Jennifer's mouth goes dry. "I was going to tell you."
"Tell me what?"
"I spoke to him last night. He's decided to move away."
"What? Where to?"
"I didn't ask."
McKenzie sits down on the bed. "Will I see him before he goes?"
"He already left. He came today and got his things while we were out."
"Oh."
"It could be for the best, hon."
McKenzie stares at the sock in her hand. "He doesn't care about me, does he?"
"That's not true."
Jennifer puts her hand on McKenzie's arm.
"I'm nothing to him," says McKenzie, blinking back tears.
"He knows he hurt you," says Jennifer.
"Don't defend him."
"Oh God, McKenzie I'm not, but I really believe he's sorry for what he did."
"He's a piece of shit."
"Hey – since when do we talk like that?"
"Since I found out my father was a piece of shit."
"You sound like Lenise."
"So what if I do? At least she's real about things."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"She doesn't pretend everything's alright when it's not." McKenzie lifts a forefinger to brush away her tears. "He shouldn't have left without telling me, I'm not a little kid."
"Hon, we've got each other, you and me, that's not so bad, is it?"
McKenzie looks at Jennifer. Her eyes flash with something Jennifer can't place.
"Mac?" says Jennifer.
"Don't call me that."
Then she walks away.
32
On Saturday Jennifer can't get out of bed. Her head feels like yeast and her joints ache too. She isn't sure she's slept, really slept, and she doesn't mean just closing her eyes, but going right under into that merciful blackness. It could be why her body feels this way, heavy and drained and shackled, her mind too. It's hard to form thoughts, even when she concentrates, which is too bad because she really needs to think her way out of this mess, like whether she should speak to her lawyer or just go right ahead and confess to police. She's gotten as far as 9 and 1 but can't go all the way, slipping the phone back on its cradle before pressing that final digit. What's stopping her is the image of McKenzie sitting at a beige Formica table and the voice on the loud speaker announcing visiting hours are over.
"Are you going to stay in bed all day?"
McKenzie appears in the doorway of Jennifer's room, dressed in a shapeless sweatshirt and pants, looking more boy than girl.
"Sorry, hon, I'm under the weather."
"We're out of detergent and bleach. We need paper towels too. Get the jumbo-sized ones. And shampoo and soap, don't forget that."
Jennifer glances at McKenzie's raw, cracked hands.
"Maybe it's time to cut back on the showers."
"I can go if you want, if you're not feeling well."
Jennifer gets up. "No, it's alright,"
"And Mom, make sure you get the 100% stuff."
*
The ground shifts like sand beneath her and she grips the cart to help stabilize her clumsy legs. The grocery store is busy given it's a Saturday and she's having problems keeping out of people's way. She usually comes armed with a list and a menu for the week ahead but that was asking too much of herself today, so she wings it, tossing whatever into her cart and hoping for the best.
After passing through the bottleneck in the vegetable section, she makes it to the meat aisle and sees a fresh whole chicken and decides to get one. She will roast it tonight. She and McKenzie will sit at the table and have a regular meal together and pretend to be normal. Jennifer even buys a chocolate tart.
"Ma'am, you alright?"
"Yes, why?"
"That's my cart."
She looks down and sees shaving cream and a six pack of Bud light. "Oh God, sorry."
She quickly removes her items and puts them in her own cart.
"You'll need this too."
The man hands over the knife Jennifer has just selected from the hardware section. She goes cold at the sight of it.
"It's for the chicken," she says.
*
When Jennifer gets home she hears laughter burst from the lounge.
"Lenise bought pizza," says McKenzie, biting into a cheese-laden triangle. "Did you remember the soap?"
"And something for the grown-ups too," says Lenise, holding up a bottle of Bourbon.
Jennifer hasn't seen Lenise since that night. They had agreed to keep their distance but here she was now, sitting on Jennifer's sofa, like a long lost friend of the family.
"Hello, Lenise."
Lenise nods at the grocery bag hanging from Jennifer's hand. "Did you have other plans?"
"It's fine."
"Good because there's enough pizza to feed a rugby team. You're dripping."
"What?"
"Your bag."
Jennifer looks down t
o see chicken blood seep from the corner.
"Perfect."
Jennifer hurries to the kitchen and dumps the bag in the sink and removes the items.
"You don't want me here."
Jennifer looks over her shoulder. Lenise is standing in the doorway.
"I thought we agreed to keep our distance," says Jennifer, placing the chicken in a dish and putting it in the fridge.
"I understand," says Lenise. "These are difficult circumstances."
Jennifer stops and looks at Lenise. "You've heard something."
"No. And why should I? He's not going to be found. We were very thorough."
Lenise reaches into the cupboard for two glasses and pours some liquor in each.
"You look tired. Have you slept?" she says.
"I feel like I'm swimming in a vat of molasses," says Jennifer.
Lenise studies Jennifer over the rim of her glass.
"Relax. He's vanishing as we speak."
"It's not as easy as that, Lenise," says Jennifer. "I can't just forget about it."
"Listen Jenny, you need to learn to let go. Stress is not good for the soul." She hands Jennifer a glass. "McKenzie told me her father moved away."
"Yes."
"You did the right thing, telling her that."
"I lied to her."
"Stop looking back, focus on the future," Lenise sits down. "Actually, I have a job interview next week. It's a good opportunity. In fact, I was wondering if you had something I could borrow – a nice suit jacket or dress."
Jennifer stares into her glass. A stray hair skirts across the surface.
"I don't know if I have anything suitable."
"My clothes are a little dated," says Lenise.
"I'm not sure we're the same size."
"You'll find something."
And before Jennifer can say anything else, McKenzie is calling out. The pizza is getting cold.
33
The ivory blouse is a perfect fit and Lenise can hardly believe she's actually wearing something so nice. She's never been lucky enough to own such a thing of beauty and, at first, she's worried she won't have anything to match it. But after hunting through her wardrobe, she finds a simple black skirt and pair of navy sandals. She would have preferred the black pumps but the heels are worn down to the plastic bone and she doesn't want to make a bad first impression.
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