by Amy Lloyd
It was clear she shouldn’t be driving as she jumped her left foot from brake to gas, often catching the edge of one pedal with the side of her shoe while her right foot lay throbbing to the side.
An hour later she was back in the hospital in which they’d watched Lionel die. It was louder in the ER. She filled out the forms on her lap with a shaking hand and her name was called much quicker than she was expecting. She glanced back guiltily at a young boy curled tight to his mother, hair plastered to his forehead with fever.
It wasn’t a break, the doctor said, but a severe sprain, with some damage to the ligaments. He wrapped it tightly with gauze and told her to rest it as much as she could.
‘Come back in eight weeks if you’re still having trouble,’ he said, writing a prescription. This she relayed to Dennis by phone, in a Vicodin bubble, leaning on a crutch outside the hospital. Her insurance had expired months ago and the shock of the medical bill was only cushioned by the orange bottle of painkillers they handed her, along with a script for two refills. The car would have to be collected by the rental agency from the hospital parking lot and she would need to find her own way home. For a minute she was horrified at the thought of Lindsay coming to collect her but instead Dennis said, ‘I’ll get you a taxi,’ and hung up without telling her when it would arrive. On the drive back she dozed and dreamed of leaving Red River. When this was over, she thought, Dennis would be different. It was something about this place, as if it changed him, and she could feel it changing her, too.
Thirty-one
Now that Sam was incapacitated, Dennis relied heavily on Lindsay to get to the store and organise the funeral. Sam managed her frustration by taking her Vicodin every four hours, the pills dulling everything around her, making her sleepy and warm.
On the day of Lionel’s funeral, she decided she would take her dose when she was in the hearse, hoping to ride out the service on an opioidal wave. The suit Dennis wore was tailored, and had been given to him on one of their first days together. He’d never worn it and to Sam he looked like someone new. She became shy around him and awkwardly attempted to fix his tie while he slicked down a rebellious lick of blond hair at the back of his skull. She was still surprised by how handsome he was, even after all the months they’d been together. The kick of desire she felt still hurt as he brushed away her hand.
Outside the sky was a troubling grey. Hurricane warnings were in effect and the old house trembled in anticipation, a teasing current of air trickling through the cracks and gaps in the windows and roof. How the house had weathered so many storms before, Sam didn’t know. Maybe this would be the one that levelled it to the ground so they could leave. Dennis didn’t believe in hurricane warnings and said they’d discuss it after the burial.
As they waited outside for the funeral car, Dennis looked straight ahead, his jaw working on another stick of cinnamon gum. She leaned in and kissed him, her lips tingling from the spice of cinnamon.
The car arrived, late, and the funeral director in the passenger seat got out to hold the door open for them, shaking their hands as they climbed in. Sam looked over her shoulder at the coffin behind them, which seemed absurdly small, until she remembered that Lionel was an amputee. Relieved it was a closed coffin, she took a pill out of her clutch bag and opened one of the bottles of water that sat in the cup holders either side of them. Dennis watched her from the corner of his eye. As they rounded a bend, the car jumped and jarred on the uneven road, disturbing the flowers in the back, shaking them out of their perfect arrangement. When the car hit a pothole there was a sliding sound and a soft thump as if Lionel’s body had shifted, his head bumping against the end of the coffin. Sam became a little queasy. Reaching around Dennis, she opened the window a crack and leaned in to the fresh air, breathing in shallow gasps.
The driver apologised profusely at the end of the journey: his funeral cars just weren’t suitable for roads like that, he said as the director rearranged the flowers. The church was tiny, white, with a large wooden cross hanging over the doorway. Outside Sam could see Carrie and a few of the film crew talking amongst themselves. There were a few people Sam had never seen before, and some uniformed police officers.
‘For fuck’s sake …’ Dennis murmured, extending his hand as Carrie came to greet him, Dylan teetering behind her in high heels that sank into the soft ground as she walked.
‘Fucking antagonistic pricks, right?’ Carrie said. ‘I can’t believe this. It’s your father’s funeral. Ugh, anyway, you guys OK?’ She hugged Sam tightly.
‘Nice to see you two again. Sorry it’s not under better circumstances,’ Dylan said.
‘I’m so glad you’re here,’ Sam said. Seeing people she cared about made her aware of how lonely she’d been.
‘What happened to your leg?’ Carrie asked.
‘Sprained it while I was out in the yard,’ Sam said.
‘You poor thing!’
Sam gestured towards the crutch and made a gesture as if she was coping. The truth was that she was almost enjoying being injured: the likes she got when she posted a picture of her ankle on Facebook, the way Dennis held out his hand to her each time she stood. The ritual of wrapping her ankle each morning, admiring the tie-dye bruise in all its yellows and purples as it changed day by day. The pills.
‘Really painful. It’s so hard when I’m up and about like this but the pain medication helps.’ Behind them, the group of people Sam didn’t recognise watched Dennis with hostile expressions.
Dennis greeted mourners before leading them into the church. Carrie, Sam and Dylan sat in the front row. A few others sat further back: people who must have known Lionel; the rest of the crew. Sam felt depressed as she looked at all the empty seats.
The reverend walked in, leading the pall-bearers and holding a red Bible to his chest. Behind him walked Dennis, his corner of the coffin resting on his shoulder. The other pall-bearers were from the funeral home, strangers who nodded solemnly at Dennis as they put the coffin down on a cheap stand at the front by the altar. A red curtain hung around it but the gold wheels protruded at the bottom.
The reverend began. Dennis took his seat next to Sam and held her hand. She gazed at him and he turned to her and mouthed, ‘What?’
Sam lifted his hand to her mouth and kissed it.
There were some prayers; then Dennis stood to give the eulogy.
‘Thank you all for coming,’ he said, reading from a folded piece of paper in his hands. He looked up and smiled before lowering his head again. He read steadily. ‘My father was an alcoholic who burned most of his bridges while he was alive. He was not an easy man to get along with. If he knew I was giving this eulogy right now he would probably shoot himself all over again.’ He paused for laughter but the church was quiet. By Sam’s side Carrie and Dylan smiled at him, and he continued. ‘Anyway. We didn’t have a great relationship, but he was the only family I had left, so, obviously, you know, this is not easy. I didn’t know who would even be here today – there were only a few people I could invite. But I’m lucky to have friends and a wife who care enough to be here, so thank you.’ Sam mouthed, I love you, and he nodded.
‘The only thing I could think to say here was this: He wasn’t a great guy, he wasn’t a kind man, he pissed most people off and he never achieved anything. But’ – Dennis pushed his glasses up his nose – ‘he was the only father I had. Thanks.’
People coughed and shifted in their seats, then some conversation started at the back of the room. The reverend added some lines about how fathers are irreplaceable and it’s hard to put into words the loss we feel when our parents pass on, but the whispering continued in the back pews.
Shortly afterwards, they were back in the churchyard, where the police officers still stood, shifting on their feet and casting their gazes at the spectators along the edge of the grounds, as if in anticipation of an attack. Sam scanned the faces for Harries but she saw no one she recognised. This, at least, was a relief.
‘I don’t even
know how these people knew about this. I didn’t put anything in the paper,’ Dennis said.
‘Rubberneckers,’ Carrie said.
‘Ignore them,’ Dylan agreed.
The funeral director and the pall-bearers wheeled the coffin over to the side of the open grave in the small cemetery to the side of the church. The crowd moved closer and started to chant something.
‘The fuck are they saying?’ Dennis asked. Everyone craned their necks to see what was happening.
As the crowd got closer they started to make out the words. ‘Where are the girls? Where are the girls?’ One woman held a picture of Lauren Rhodes above her head; underneath it read, ‘Lauren’s parents buried an empty coffin!!!’
‘Unbelievable,’ Carrie said. ‘Fucking nut jobs!’
‘Where are they, Dennis?’ a man shouted. ‘Where are they buried?’
The police watched but didn’t move forward to break it up.
‘I’ve had enough of this shit,’ Dennis said, starting towards them.
‘Dennis! Stop! Don’t do anything stupid,’ Carrie said, running after him. Sam watched as Dennis approached the man at the front of the group and began pointing in his face. The man was clearly frightened and instinctively stepped back, but forced himself to stay facing Dennis, bolstered by the approaching police officers.
Carrie started to pull Dennis back, pleading. A police officer stepped between the two men and the protestor fell back into the group. An argument ensued between Dennis and the officer, until the police formed a line between the protestors and the funeral party. He and Carrie returned to the graveside and Dennis nodded to the reverend, who stood, nervous, his hands shaking as he held his bible in front of him. Sam tried to hold Dennis’s hand but he pulled it away and balled his fists by his side.
Afterwards, Dennis had booked a table in a restaurant just outside of Red River. Lindsay showed up as they all sat down to eat and ordered a double vodka and Diet Coke. Carrie leaned in and asked, ‘Who shows up to the wake but skips the funeral?’
‘Isn’t that weddings?’ Dylan said.
‘I think she’s putting the drinks on our tab and she’ll probably drive home after …’ Sam said. She and Carrie smiled at each other.
‘Oh my God …’ Lindsay said, so loud that everyone froze with their forks halfway to their open mouths. ‘Look,’ she said, pointing to the window. The table turned and looked at a man who had cupped his hands to the glass, peering in. He was skinny, unkempt, with long black hair that receded from his forehead. When Dennis looked up the man waved slowly.
‘Is that … Howard?’ Lindsay said.
Dennis pushed his chair back and stood up, suddenly pale. He excused himself and the group watched quietly as he passed the windows around the outside of the restaurant. When he saw Howard, he extended his hand but Howard didn’t accept it. Carrie looked away, uncomfortable, and started to talk quietly to Dylan. Sam felt she shouldn’t be watching but she stared as hard as Lindsay did, trying unsuccessfully to read their lips. Howard was clearly angry about something, but it was impossible to say what it was. Dennis stood still as Howard ranted, before finally Howard pushed him once, and walked away quickly as Dennis stumbled back a few steps.
Dennis put his hands in his pockets and looked at them in the restaurant. Sam and Lindsay both quickly turned back towards their plates, though they knew he’d seen them watching him. He returned a short time later, a layer of moisture on his skin, his eyes rimmed red. When they asked him what was wrong he told them it was nothing, but Sam noticed a gentle tremor as he picked up his drink, and Lindsay gave her a knowing look across the table.
‘How long are you staying?’ Sam asked Carrie as they left the restaurant.
‘We’re flying back tonight … This storm … we can’t risk it.’
‘But you two should definitely visit!’ Dylan added.
‘Mm, definitely. But, um, we’ve got some stuff left to do on the house …’ Sam said.
Carrie looked over at Dennis, who was standing by Lindsay’s truck. The pair of them were talking intensely.
‘You can always come out by yourself, you know.’
‘I think he really needs me right now? He’s having a hard time.’
‘I’m only thinking about what you need. This situation here is … not great. You don’t seem well, not yourself.’
‘I’m fine! It’s these painkillers. I’m tired.’
‘I don’t want you to worry about a few stupid haters, OK? They’re a very loud but very small minority, remember that.’
‘I know,’ Sam said, though she believed otherwise.
‘Thanks for coming,’ Dennis said from behind her. ‘It was great to see you both. We really appreciate it. Are you sure you can’t stay?’
Around them the sky was dust-grey and Dylan’s hair blew across her face, wrapping itself around her neck like a rope.
‘We’ll be lucky if this flight isn’t grounded as it is,’ Carrie said. ‘Supposed to be a big one, this hurricane.’
Dennis laughed. ‘They always say that and it comes to nothing. You Californians could do with experiencing a little weather now and then.’
‘All the same, I think we’ll pass, Dennis,’ Carrie said, hugging him.
‘We’ll be finished up here soon and then we’ll come visit, I promise.’
Sam wondered what he meant by ‘finished’. As time had passed it had become less and less clear what the point of the visit was. She had hoped that once the funeral was over Dennis would realise how futile it was to clean the house to try and sell it. Whatever he was doing there, it seemed only he would know when it was done.
Dennis helped Sam into the truck, threw her crutches into the bed, and slid in next to her so that Sam was pushed up close to Lindsay as she drove. On the way back to the house she rested her head on Dennis’s shoulder and semi-dozed.
‘She seems pretty out of it. What’s she taking?’ Lindsay said, not attempting to lower her voice.
‘I don’t know. Painkillers. Let it go, Linds. She hurt her leg pretty bad.’
‘Whatever. I’m only asking.’
Sam felt his hand squeeze her shoulder, and listened to the sound of the engine as they drove the rest of the way home in silence. The bumps in the road woke her up as her bad ankle bounced in the footwell of the truck. From the driveway she could see grass cuttings and bits of trash from the dumpsters were strewn across their garden. Blown by the wind, wrappers and cardboard tumbled over the grass. The mess made the place look abandoned, as if the people inside had left in a hurry.
‘Shit,’ Dennis said, opening the door and reaching back in to help Sam on to the grass. ‘Coming in for a minute?’ he asked Lindsay. Sam faltered in his arms.
‘Sure.’ Lindsay pulled another six-pack from the bed of the truck and offered one to Dennis and Sam. He shook his head and she shrugged.
They sat on the porch, Lindsay tapping her ash into her empty can of beer as she drank the next.
‘Howard though. Can you believe it?’ she said after a while.
‘Didn’t think I’d see him again,’ Dennis said.
‘I’ve seen him around. He never says hi. Always with his dad. It’s pathetic.’
‘Do they live together?’ Sam asked.
‘Until recently,’ Lindsay said. ‘Two grown-ass men, never had any women there, never had any company at all.’
‘Where is he living now?’ Dennis asked.
‘The trailer park where the old factory used to be. Oh shit!’ Lindsay pulled her feet up on to the bench, hugging her knees. Sam clutched at Dennis.
‘What?’ he said, scanning the garden for intruders.
‘Look at the size of that bastard!’ Lindsay pointed to the floor as a large brown spider ambled past.
Sam shrieked and brought her feet up on to the bench. Lindsay laughed until her laughter descended into coughing. Dennis took the cigarette from between her fingers and leaned down to the spider. He touched the cherry to its body and the spider stu
ck to the glowing tip of the cigarette, its legs wriggling as it tried to free itself. Dennis watched it, then put the cigarette to his lips, the spider still wriggling on the tip, and inhaled. The spider’s legs curled inwards, twitching, and then it was still.
Sam watched, appalled, as the smoke poured out of Dennis’s mouth and nostrils. The spider burned, turning black, shrinking.
‘Gross, Den,’ Lindsay said. He smiled and offered her the cigarette back. ‘Ew! No fucking thanks.’
Sam felt ill. As he took another puff she thought less of the spider in its death throes than she did of the fact Dennis didn’t cough when he inhaled. It was as if he’d smoked all his life and she’d never known. She felt suddenly very alone, as though the person she married had never existed and she had woken up to a life she didn’t recognise, in the middle of a story she didn’t understand.
Thirty-two
That night the wind picked up and bullets of rain dashed the windows.
Dennis set about securing the dumpsters in the front yard, strapping huge sheets of plastic over the piles of junk that could be blown from the heap and hit the house. The kittens mewed incessantly, while the mother sat, ears back, emitting a low growl as she watched the screen door waving in its frame.
From the garage Dennis produced two huge water containers, yellowed and dusty, rinsed them in the bath and filled them with water from the faucets.
‘I guess this storm’s been upgraded,’ he said, raising his voice over the weather that pounded the walls. ‘Might be best to stick this one out in the storm shelter.’
Sam didn’t like the way the shutters banged open and shut in the wind, or the way the rain lashed the windows, so she didn’t question what Dennis said. She only nodded, and allowed herself to be led to the back door and down the steps, soaked the minute she was outside, her clothes clinging to her skin. Still there was the constant pressure in the air that never seemed to break, even after the heaviest rain.