County Line

by Bill Cameron

  “Jimmie—”

  There was a knock at the door. From the dining room, Bella wheezed. “I called the police.”

  As soon as Officer Callan stepped through the door, Jimmie started shouting. Bella appeared from the dining room and shouted back, though whether she was defending Jimmie or Dale was impossible to tell. Callan tried to calm everyone down. At some point he looked at Ruby Jane and asked her if she knew what happened.

  “Look around. Look at Jimmie’s face. How many times you been here?”

  “That’s not helping—”

  “You’re useless.”

  She went out and started the Caprice. The temperature hovered in the teens. A light snow fell. Ruby Jane waited in the back seat. Drying sweat contracted the skin on her arms and legs. After a while, Callan left—no charges filed, again. Shortly after, Bella helped Dale to the car, then returned to the house. Jimmie, sober and licensed, would have to drive. Bella wouldn’t be spending her evening in the emergency room.

  Looking back, it would have been better if Dale had bled to death that night. At least Jimmie could have claimed self-defense.

  Now, in the brush at the edge of the depression, Dale moved. Not much, enough to make a sapling or twig crack beneath him. She didn’t know whether to be relieved or terrified.

  “Ruby, baby. Where am I? Something’s wrong.”

  Grunting, he hoisted himself onto his elbow. A silver flash of moonlight gleamed on his forehead. “Christ, my chest hurts.” His eyes were caverns of darkness, but as his head pivoted left and right she felt the weight of his gaze.

  “What were you—?” His roving head locked on the hole, a trapezoid of mud and darkness.

  She felt the pressure of the gun in her sweatshirt pocket.

  “You’re gonna put me in that hole.”

  He lurched to his feet, wincing, his face pale and wet in the flashlight’s uncertain glow. Bemused. “Christ, it’s your grandmother, isn’t it?”

  “Don’t—”

  “You found out, didn’t you?”

  “Shut up!”

  You’re next, Roo. Soon as I’m out of here …

  He moved toward her. She groped for the gun, jerked it from her pocket. Dale went still when the stubby barrel rose out of shadow. A Denlinger gun, not a Whittaker gun. A Whittaker gun might refuse to fire. But a Denlinger gun in the hands of one of Dale Whittaker’s ill-used spawn?

  No problem.

  “Baby girl, you don’t want to do that.”

  “Shut. Up.”

  “Your brother, I know what your brother did to me. I’ll tell—”

  “You’ll tell no one!”

  He raised his hands. His expression twisted from confusion into fear.

  “Listen, I get it, little girl. You’re pissed, your brother is pissed. Maybe I earned that. But this, this is too much.”

  “Or not enough.”

  “Ruby, … Christ.”

  “Where is Grammy’s ring?”

  “You can’t …”

  One choice. Hide the body. But how do you hide a body when it’s standing on two feet, trying to talk you out of putting it in a hole? What was she supposed to do? Let him come back? The hole couldn’t be undug. The gun couldn’t be unfired. She saw the dark shine of blood on his shirt. How much longer could he stand there with a bullet in his chest? How much more could she take?

  It needed to end. He needed to be in the hole.

  “Get on your knees.”

  “Ruby, for God’s sake.”

  “Get … on … your knees.”

  He knelt. She let the gun track him to the ground, aimed at the center of his chest. His damp face pleaded. In that moment, she could imagine a time when he had been handsome. Long ago, when he and Bella were young and brash and eager to flick shit into the eyes of whoever dared disapprove. But young and handsome and strong had eroded into a broken addict—a thief—begging for his worthless life from the girl least likely to grant it to him.

  “Don’t do this, baby girl.” His rasp echoed the rain. “What would your Grammy say?”

  She squeezed the trigger.

  - 37 -

  Post-Season, April 1989

  A pain in her stomach awoke her. The pale touch of daybreak filtered in around the window shade. Huck lay on his side, facing away from her. He had taken most of the covers. The corner of sheet covering her smelled of a faint must, a scent which stirred her unsettled bowels. She threw the sheet aside and for a moment lay frozen, sure someone was watching her. But all she heard was Huck’s breathing and the ticking of the electric radiator under the window.

  She ran her hands across her skin. Her flesh felt strange to her. She turned her head, gazed at Huck’s tangled hair, at his muscled shoulder sticking out from beneath the blanket. The smell was him, and it was her. The skin of her breasts and stomach and thighs was her, and him. The recognition gathered in her chest and swelled, a strange and curious feeling of loss. In the dark, she found herself blinking back tears. She looked at Huck again.

  “You’re a good man.” She whispered. “I’m not sorry it was you.”

  Her skirt and jacket were draped across a chair back, blouse folded on the seat. Shoes side by side on the floor. She hadn’t let him watch her undress—down to her panties and bra at first. Those came off later, as she warmed to his touch. She slipped out of bed and dressed quickly. Then she hesitated. She didn’t know what to do. She didn’t want to give him a chance to ask her to stay. She felt confused and disjointed and sorrowful. She needed to be alone, to escape from the scent and the electric tremor of his touch. But she didn’t want to leave without an acknowledgment of … what?

  She didn’t know.

  At last she leaned over and kissed his forehead, then fled before he stirred through the quiet house and out to the road.

  She wanted to get home before Bella realized Ruby Jane had been out all night. Her only choice was to walk. These ridiculous shoes. Yet before she could raise a good blister, a car slowed beside her, a silver Escort.

  Mrs. Parmelee was behind the wheel. “Forgot your running shoes?”

  Ruby Jane blushed and lowered her gaze.

  “Climb in. I’ll give you a ride.”

  She expected an interrogation, but Mrs. Parmelee only asked where she lived, then muttered something about West Alex and breakfast with her parents. The drive lasted a few long, aching minutes, Ruby Jane’s nerves tight as a drum head. When they stopped at the end of the driveway, Ruby Jane hesitated. The house was dark, the Caprice in the driveway. No other car with it—her mother hadn’t brought a friend home. Not a friend who could drive anyway.

  “Out later than you were supposed to be?”

  Ruby Jane nodded, though she’d never had a curfew. Her thoughts were still on Huck, and Gabi, a tangle of thorns. She turned to Mrs. Parmelee.

  “Is hate a good reason to want to do something?”

  Her teacher smiled, whimsical and a little bit sad. “Ruby, you don’t need me to answer a question like that.”

  “I guess not.” She breathed in, breathed out. “Sometimes I think I dunked because I hate Clarice.”

  “You didn’t enjoy it?”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “How can you take pleasure in something you do out of hate?”

  “Maybe I’m Darth Vader. My hate makes me strong.”

  “When you dunked, you used the dark side of the Force?”

  “You make it sound so ridiculous.”

  “But Yoda told us, ‘Fear leads to anger. Anger leads to hate. Hate leads to suffering.’”

  “Hate leads to dunking.”

  “I don’t think you’re being very serious.”

  “I guess not.”

  “What are you afraid of, Ruby Jane?”

  “Of not being able to dunk.”

  Mrs. Parmelee rests a gentle hand on her arm. “What are you afraid of in that house?”

  She felt tears gather. “I should go.” She got out before Mrs. Parmelee could say anything
more, waited in the driveway until she pulled away. Mrs. Parmelee waved, fingers curled with uncertainty. But then she was gone.

  Ruby Jane went to the back door, put her key in the lock.

  The door swung wide. Her mother glared at her through the opening, eyes bloody coals in her drawn face.

  “Where the hell have you been?”

  “I—”

  Her mother swarmed onto the stoop. Ruby Jane cringed. Bella’s hair was a snarl on her head, a Medusa tangle of henna and steel. Her mouth was open now, teeth bared. “I asked you a question.”

  “Clarice—”

  “I know you weren’t with Clarice, you lying bitch. You weren’t with any of your basketball friends.”

  They’re not my friends. But then she thought of Gabi. Gabi was her friend, and she’d betrayed her.

  “Get in here.”

  Ruby Jane ducked her head and pushed through the doorway past her mother. Before she could dart through the kitchen, her mother grabbed her forearm and yanked her around.

  “Answer my question, young lady.”

  Since Dale’s disappearance, her mother had bagged a new boyfriend every month, sometimes every week. But Ruby Jane understood too well there were rules for Bella and rules for everyone else.

  “I was with a friend.”

  “What friend?” Bella’s breath was ripe with a fresh bourbon rinse. “A boyfriend? Were you slutting around with some boy? Is that it?”

  Ruby Jane twisted free and fled up the stairs. Bella followed, screaming, but Ruby Jane was faster. She ran into her room and slammed the door. Bella rattled the doorknob, beat the door with her fists. Screamed. Whore. Ruby Jane leaned back against the door. Cocksucker. She felt each blow in her scalp, bit her lip rather than cry out. After a while, her mother gave up —special place in hell for sluts like you— and faded away. Back to The Studio, or down to the cabinet over the refrigerator. Ruby Jane fell onto her bed and imagined she was a little girl again.

  Later, hours later, the phone rang. Ruby Jane opened her door as Bella answered. “Are you the one she was whoring herself to last night? … I don’t care what you think, fellow. You’re not to call here again.” Ruby Jane slipped back into her room before her mother knew she was there. Later, her mother’s door slammed, and a little while after Bella stomped down the stairs. The car started. Ruby Jane watched her mother drive down Walnut and disappear.

  She ran to the phone, but hesitated before dialing. Gabi, or Huck? She decided to call Huck first. The conversation wouldn’t take long. She didn’t know what to say to him, and after his chat with Bella, he would understand if she couldn’t talk. She wanted to apologize for her mother. Then she’d call Gabi and, hopefully, fix things. Try to fix things.

  No one answered at Huck’s—answering machine. She didn’t leave a message, didn’t want his whole family to hear her voice. She took a deep breath, and dialed Gabi.

  It rang and rang and rang. No answer, no machine. She hung up, dialed again. Same result. Outside, she heard her mother’s car in the drive, tires popping on gravel. She slipped up the stairs and into the bathroom. She locked the door, turned on the shower. Bella could shout at the door all she wanted. Ruby Jane didn’t care. She would fix things with Gabi tomorrow.

  - 38 -

  Post-Season, April 1989

  She entered from the student parking lot. Not her usual way, but then she didn’t usually drive her mother’s car without permission either. She’d overslept and missed the bus. Bella would be pissed when she discovered the car gone, but Ruby Jane figured if Bella didn’t want her to take the car, she shouldn’t have chased Valium with bourbon. She parked a minute before the first warning bell, ran through the double doors next to the locker room as it rang. Hoping she wouldn’t see Huck. Hoping she would.

  The hallway was jammed, students gathered in clumps at open lockers. The girls were dressed like a collision of Molly Ringwald and Lucy Ewing: bangles, shoulders, and asymmetrical hair. The boys looked like they couldn’t decide which John Hughes character they wanted to be. She looked at her watch. Less than two minutes til first period, but no one was moving. The atmosphere in the corridor was suffused with electric whispers.

  Ellie called me. We’d just got home from church.

  I was at the Pizza Palace.

  Mister Unger appeared at the far end the hallway. “Okay, everyone, time for class. Find your rooms please.” His voice was sharp; it pierced the veil of conversation. He repeated himself again and again as he moved down the hallway. Groups scattered in his wake.

  He pulled up short when he saw Ruby Jane. His eyes narrowed, then he put his hand on the shoulder of one of the boys walking past, said something to him. The boy trotted off. The corridor went suddenly quiet.

  “What’s going on?” She wasn’t talking to anyone in particular, and no one responded.

  She doesn’t know.

  “I don’t know what?”

  How could she not know?

  Unger stopped in front of her, his face unreadable. “Ruby, could you come with me?”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Just come with me.”

  It couldn’t be about her and Huck. On the list of Valley View’s sexually active, she didn’t rate a footnote. There wasn’t even a scandal in the making. Huck wasn’t going with anyone, she wasn’t going with anyone. There’d be none of the drama associated with cheating and break-ups. Huck wasn’t Hardy Berman, and she wasn’t Clarice. Ruby Jane was notoriously unattached. A lay might throw off her lay-up.

  “Where are we going?”

  “To my office.”

  “Why?”

  “Ruby, please …”

  His voice wasn’t angry. Wasn’t accusatory. It was … anxious. His eyes were bloodshot and rimmed with red skin.

  “What’s happened?”

  “We’ll talk in my office.”

  The hallway had begun to empty. First period bell rang. She followed a step behind Unger to the school office. Mrs. Parmelee waited inside. She gave Ruby Jane a tight, nervous smile and followed Unger around the counter into his office. Mister Unger gestured, and Ruby Jane sat in one of the chairs in front of his desk. Mrs. Parmelee took the chair beside her. She nodded to Unger. “Give us a few minutes.”

  “I’ll be right outside.”

  Where were you when you found out?

  “What’s going on?”

  “Ruby, I have bad news.”

  “Jimmie—?”

  “Gabi Schilling has died.” A tear hung at the corner of Mrs. Parmelee’s eye, a glistening sphere. “I’m so sorry.”

  “I don’t understand.” It was a stupid thing to say. She understood perfectly. Mrs. Parmelee couldn’t have been more clear. Her words weren’t a metaphor, weren’t an equivocation. A simple statement of fact.

  Gabi Schilling has died.

  “It happened late Saturday night. Her grandparents were asleep. She committed … her wrists …”

  Ruby Jane closed her eyes. She could hear a ticking like a clock in an old movie and muffled voices from the outer office. Someone laughed, but the sound abruptly cut off. Gabi cut her wrists. She went home from the banquet, rejected by her only friend. She waited until her stern Baptist grandparents were asleep, and then she bled her broken heart dry.

  “Ruby, honey, I’m so sorry.”

  “It’s my fault.”

  “No, Ruby. Don’t say that.”

  “I killed her.”

  She felt Mrs. Parmelee’s hand on her back. “Honey, no—”

  “You don’t understand.” She opened her eyes, pulled away from Mrs. Parmelee’s touch. “We were at the banquet. She wanted someone to love her. But I got scared, or freaked out, and then Clarice—” Her breath caught in her throat. “Gabi ran away. And instead of following her, I stayed behind with Clarice. God. Damn. Clarice. I abandoned Gabi when she really needed me. I went to the Pizza Palace and found Huck and he took me home and I had sex with him. My friend was alone and dying and I was fucking Fi
nn Nielson because I didn’t want anyone to think I was a dyke.”

  “Ruby, please. Listen to me. This isn’t your fault.”

  “I’m her friend. That’s supposed to mean something.”

  “Please, this is too hard as it is—”

  “No. It’s not nearly hard enough.” Ruby Jane jumped to her feet. Mrs. Parmelee reached out and tried to stop her, but she threw off the hand and rushed through the door. Mister Unger stood next to the secretary’s desk, the PA microphone in his hand. Announcements time. He wasn’t announcing. He was looking at her, eyes wet, mouth round. “Ruby, wait.” She didn’t wait. She rounded the counter, almost plowed through a terrified frosh girl.

  “Ruby—!”

  In the corridor, she imagined the ball in her hands. Dribble, bounce pass drill, take the feed, shoot. Over and over. A few kids lingered, aware the day was a different kind of day, almost a holiday. It didn’t matter if they’d ever known Gabi, if they’d ever spoken to her. All bets were off. “Why weren’t you in class?” Oh, you know. Dead girl.

  She found Clarice in the gym, an impromptu team meeting. Ashley, Moira, the others were gathered under the east basket. No sign of Coach. At her appearance, everyone grew quiet. Moira wore street shoes. She began tapping one heel, clicks echoing in the open space. Clarice turned, the corner of her lip tilted up.

  “Poor, sad Ruby Jane Whittaker. Her girlfriend is dead—”

  Ruby Jane was screaming when they pulled her off the bleeding Clarice and dragged her into the locker room.

  An hour later, as she sat alone in the athletics office, Coach came in. He stood at parade rest, three paces from where Ruby Jane sat. His whistle hung suspended in the center of his chest.

  “Whittaker, look at me.”

  Ruby Jane gazed at her hands instead. She hadn’t washed. The gritty tack of Clarice’s blood on her fingers calmed her.

  “We’ve made our decision. You’re suspended from school for one week. You are also suspended from the basketball team for a minimum of seven games, reinstatement contingent upon you making appropriate amends and demonstrating you are fit to be part of the team.”

  Even without her—and Gabi—they figured to go at least 4-3, and possibly 5-2 in the early season next year. She’d return in plenty of time to help the team make the tournament. As for her reinstatement, the only thing she’d have to demonstrate was a continued ability to drain threes and keep the double team off Clarice.