The Old Dam

by R. J. Smythe bsmythe293@gmail.com Twitter: @rjsmythe293 http://rjsmythe.com Cover art by Alfred Boland redbol@extrapool.nl Reader Advisory Adult language Adult themes Sexual situations Gratuitous nudity Violence 1st Edition, March, 2011

As we hiked to the road, walking through the woods on the way back from the Old Dam, with our money wrapped carefully up in our towels, the sky above our heads turned from brilliant blue to bright orange, then blood red, as the day gave way to sunset, and sunset to night. Once we got to the road, we hitched a ride into town. Dick Bendik picked us up in his old rusted hand-painted pink pickup, and we climbed into the back. Then we bumped along through the night, the wind warm against our faces. We were silent as we rode. The enclosed space of the truck bed lent a certain sense of security; the rocking motion lulled us into drowsiness. The events of the day were left quickly behind, far behind. There was no moon and so the blackness was complete, with only the distant specter-like light of a farmhouse here and there floating in the dark giving some sense of distance and proportion to the place, this spot, this . . . ground on which we lived, this patch of earth that was our home. Every once in a while wed pass under a street lamp, and then for a few seconds I could see Amys facebleached of all color under the mercury-vapor glow, her features soft and hazy before it merged with the blackness once more. Then, for a few moments, I could see her expressiona mixture of excitement and exhaustion, happiness and fear. The alternating light and dark, the droning of the engine, the bouncing of the truck every few seconds as we hurtled down the highway, the glow of the green dashboard lights through the rear cab window, the unbroken silence among us threeall lent a surreal quality to the moment and for a second I felt quite alone, removed from the others, enduring a keen sense of isolation, the observer observing the observed.

Looking at Amy, the little lights reflecting in her eyewhy, it could be anyone over there, another person, a stranger sitting over there on the other side of the truck. Someone I didnt know. Someone Id never met. The Grant Hotel was an old three-story building of 19th-century architecture, locally famous for being the place where Ulysses S. Grant slept when he passed through our neck of the woods back in, back in . . . well, forever ago. Back when Ulysses S. Grant was alive. It was also famous for the size of its cockroaches. You never knew when one would suddenly scurry out as you sat at the bar or at a table or whatever. It was a downtrodden sort of place these days, always smelling of stale beer. It was good that they kept the lights low all the time. And when they gave you your beer, before taking a sip, youd want to look close because chances were good thered be lipstick or some other crap on the glass that youd want to wipe off. Even though we were underage, the people who owned the Grant Hotel let us hang out in the back because Joe had got a job there, mopping the floors on Sundays while the place was closed. Hey, Joed said, shrugging his shoulders. Its beer money. Anyway, it wasnt like the people who ran the joint gave a crap if you were too young to drink. If you had money, you got your alcohol. And we had money. Hoo. Whee. Did we have money. It felt good to have money. Unless youve been poor, you cant know the kind of relief, the kind of euphoria that sweeps over you when you suddenly can have anything you want whenever you want. You just cant understand what it can do to your head. Its like . . . its like youve finally had a moment to take off your shoe, shake out the stone thats been digging into your foot for miles. Its like an infected wound that finally begins healing, like a painkiller surging through your arteries that removes whole continents of worries and cares and lets you relax, lets you rest, allows you to calmly close your eyes and
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smile and drift away, lets you enjoy life as if you were a little kid again. Life like it was meant to be lived. Oh, the places you can go. The things you can do. Everybody whos drinkin a shot right now, Joe called out to the bartender, who was busy trying to fix the cash register. I wanna buy them a shot. Joe I whispered. Everybody whos drinkin a shot right now, I wanna buy them a shot, he announced again. Whats that? the bartender said, looking up from the register. Whats that you said? I said, I wanna buy everybody whos drinking a shot a shot. The blurred faces about the room peered up at him with . . . well, to call them curious expressions is to give them too much credit. But there were noises and voices and sounds and stirrings and things that hadnt been there before. Well, the bartender said. Okay. He gathered up some bottles and glasses and started pouring. Joe put a fifty down on the bar. Joe, I whispered. Dont be goin flaunting all that money. Dont be goin callin attention to Everybody whos drinkin a shot right now, Joe announced once again, loudly. I wanna buy them a shot. There was a guy sitting on a bar stool. I think he was from Tambine. Id seen him before, but I didnt know his name. He nodded at Joe. Im drinkin beer, he said, pointing at his glass. Yeah, Joe said.

So, the guy said. I guess Ill take a beer. Didnt you hear me? Joe said. I said, Everyone whos drinkin a shot, Ill buy a shot. Yeah, the guy said. I heard what you said. But I got a beer. Dude, Joe said. Dude. What part of drinkin a shot right now dont you understand? I aint buyin nobody nothin. Unless theyre drinkin a shot. The guy considered. Well, he said. Okay. Ill buy a shot. Then you can buy me a shot. Nope, Joe said. No? the guy said. Uh uh, Joe said primly. You had to be drinkin it. When I said Id buy everyone a shot whos drinking a shot. You had to be drinkin it then. A beer is sort of like a shot, the guy suggested. Dude, Joe said, shaking his head. Dude. Theyre both alcoholic beverages, the guy pointed out. What I said was, Joe explained patiently. I said, Everybodys whos drinkin a shot, Ill buy a shot. Thats what I said. Well, all right, I guess, the guy said glumly. But I am drinkin a beer. So we spent some time in the back of the place, at one of the tables, celebrating our good luck, whispering jokes to one another and giggling under the watchful gaze of the taxidermied animal heads mounted on the walls. Reflections of the ceiling fans pinwheeled in their glass eyes. We felt awfully giddy. I was starting to feel awfully good. The red and orange neon light of the beer signs seemed so warm and cheery. What did you do to your hand? Amy asked.
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Huh? I said. Look, she said, reaching out and turning my bottle of beer so that the label faced me. There were drops of bright red on it. I looked at my hand. The cut was deeper than Id thought. Its nothing, I said, grabbing a cocktail napkin. Just a little scrape. Youd better do something with that, Joe said. Dude. Put a band-aid on it. Itll stop bleeding pretty quick, I said. Ill fix it up when I get home. Joe showed us for the zillionth time the little bar trick that he knewthe only bar trick that he knew. He picked up a paper napkin and held it between his first and middle finger. Then he wrapped the napkin back around his fingers and kept wrapping until it was entirely around his fingers. Then he pinched the napkin here, pulled the napkin there, reached inside the bowl of his palm and pulled on a corner of the napkin, forming a perfectly shaped origami rose. Joe presented the origami rose to Amy. She took it as she always did. Like it was radioactive. Youre a one-trick pony, she said. A stallion, he corrected, giving her a wink. A stallion, I think you mean. And so the hours passed. Twitchy Nashadka fell backwards off his bar stool. His head made a hollow sound as it hit the floor. We were used to that hollow sound. His hat went rolling at our feet. We were used to that hat rolling by our feet. It was time for Twitchy to go home. Wont give a guy a drink! he groused, as he staggered through the door. Got money in my pocket, but they wont give a guy a drink! See ya, Twitchy, people called from inside the bar. See ya later, Twitchy.

Amy was craning her neck, looking up toward the ceiling, admiring the mounted moose head above her. She said something I couldnt quite hear. Huh? I said. Whazzat? I was just wondering what kind of pickling solution they used, she said. Thats one big ass moose, Joe observed, following her gaze. Thats one honkin big ass moose. So we stayed there pretty late, and wouldve stayed longer, but the people finally threw us out, because Joe kept playing Sunny Side of the Street on the jukebox. Over and over and over. Ten or fifteen times at least. And every time it got to the line If I never had a cent, Id be rich as Rockefeller, Joe would start to sing, well shout, well sing, along. Its okay, I kept telling angry people. Hes celebrating. Theres gold dust at his feet. His rover crossed over. But they finally threw us out. I guess they just got sick of the tune. Just you wait! Joe shouted at the building once he was in the parking lot, his fist raised high. Just you wait till General Grant hears about this! It was almost one in the morning by the time I got home. The diners sign was off and everything was dark except for a few dim lights in the kitchen where my mother was working. Scritch scritch scritch. The sound of metal on metal reached my ears as I entered the back door. My mother was cleaning the grill, scraping off the grease with a spatula, the same as she did at the end of every day. Scritch scritch scritch.

I tried to sneak inin and up the stairs, to where our living space waswithout her hearing me. I tried to be very quiet closing the door. But the steps squeaked. Scritch scri The scraping stopped. C. J.? I paused on the steps. Yeah, Ma? A moment passed. I just wanted to know if that was you. Its me, Mom. All right. The scraping started up again. Scritch scritch scritch. I began climbing the stairs, but she kept talking, so I felt obliged to stop and listen. Your father stopped by today, she said. Although my parents were divorced, my dad still stopped in on occasion. Infrequently. It was kind of a complicated situation. He says the mill might be hiring next month. Really? I said. Full time? No, she said. Day labor. Hourly. It will only last a couple of weeks. Its seasonal work. Oh, I said. Your father said you should put your name in. I bet he did. But it wasnt like he was concerned about me. It was more of a control thing.
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But what heand shedidnt know was I had other plans. By next month, maybe the next . . . . Id be in Toronto, or maybe somewhere in the Rockies. After I bought my car. My beautiful set of wheels. You know, time was passing, and I wasnt getting any younger. There was a lot I needed to do with my life. There was a lot I was planning to do. Now that I had the means. To be fair, my mom really didnt bug me about finding work and such. She was just passing along information. She didnt care if I just sat upstairs all the time like I did. She wasnt judgmental. I almost wished she would be. I almost wished shed accuse me of not helping out around the place. Why didnt she just state the obvious. That would give me something to rebel against. If she would only chastise methat might make some of the guilt go away. Anyway, my mother continued. I just thought you might want to know. Scritch scritch scritch. Okay, Ma. Oh, and remember. Stay away from the fryer. I got a big shock from it today. Scritch scritch. You got a shock? From the fryer? Yes. Dont go near it. Scritch scritch. Well. Are you using it? NoI got shocked. Scritch. Yeah, so . . . how are you cooking french fries and stuff?
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Im using the Fry Baby. The Fry Baby? Yes. I hesitated. Ill look at the fryer to see if I can fix it, Mom, I said. Tomorrow. If you want. I can use the Fry Baby. Scritch scritch. I put a hand to my brow. My head ached, maybe because of all the beer Id drunk. And my hand was hurting a bit. Ma, I said. Thats not made for commercial use. Itll only fit like twelve french fries at a time and itll take ten times as long to cook anything. And itll probably break in like two seconds. And . . . Mom, are you listening to me? Its all right, she said. I can just make do. Scritch scritch scritch. The horror. Later, standing in my room, facing the wall . . . . If only I couldve snuck in without her noticing. I hadnt felt like talking right then. She was tired and her heart wasnt really in the work. Who could blame her? It was late and she wanted to go to bed. Shed been doing the same thing for so many years. She mustve scraped that grill, along with all the other mundane crap, oh, I dunnofive thousand times? Maybe?over the years shed been working in the diner. At least. Machines wear out; people wear out. You could see it in her hands, by the hundreds of little cuts and burns, the thousands of tiny scars, the whitened weathered look of the skin having soaked countless hours in bleach water, the way the blue veins showed through the transparent skin. There was a history, a life to be learned there, if you understood the writing, if you knew how to read the language of scars.
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Well, Id put the money to good use. Tomorrow Id go buy her a little gift. A new fryer or something. A fryer. That wasnt really much of a present, was it? What else could I buy? Was there something else I could buy her that shed enjoy? I stood there and thought for a minute. I couldnt think of anything. She never bought anything for herself. She never went anywhere. I guessed it meant something when you wanted to buy your own mother a nice gift and had the money and all, but you couldnt for the life of you think of anything that shed like. I hadnt the foggiest notion of what, but I was sure it meant something. As I fell asleep that nightjust before I fell asleep that nightI watched the cartoons that played in my head. I watched them, curious. Curious about the colorful images. Images floating there in my head. Pleasant images. Silent, soundless images. Playful, comforting images. Cartoons. And then suddenly the picture of a face, a noseless, maggot-filled face, staring at me. I sat up in bed and put a hand over my heart, felt it pound, pound, pound. But then I reached under my pillow and touched the money where Id stashed it, and I started to feel calm again. It took a few minutes, but my heart stopped racing and my breathing returned to normal. And I started to think that it all might be okay. After a few more minutes, I was certain it was going to be okay. And so, with my hand still touching the money, I drifted off to the most peaceful sleep. *** The next morning, I was sitting in my mothers sun porch drinking a Kickapoo Joy Juice and listening to old scratchy 78 rpm blues records on my moms old broken-down antique
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Victrola. We called it an antique but it wasnt one really, just something wed found in an old junk shop that still kinda sorta worked. Id just woken up and was still kinda groggy. We called it a porch but it wasnt one really. The house my mom got as part of her divorce settlement had originally been a gas station. It was an awkward-looking thinghalf residence, half commercial property, a three-story green box sitting a few yards from a two-lane highway. The place was looking a little seedy and getting more so as my mothers money trickled away. The paint was fading and flaking, the white trim was tinged with soot, and in one corner there was a hole in the sidingthe underlying tar paper showing through like tendons through a woundwhere the German Shepherd pup, in its youthful enthusiasm and hopeless boredom, had chewed the shingles away, shortly before it broke loose from its chain and succumbed under the wheels of a passing car. There was a second-story room jutting out from the front of the building, overhanging the spot where the gas pumps used to be. This was what we called the sun porch because it was bright and airy with six big windows and kinda reminded you a little of the sort of porch youd find on a real home. It was a pleasant enough place to pass the time except that the tractor trailers tended to pull underneath, either to make U turns or else just to sit, engines idling, while the drivers ate their meals at my mothers diner downstairs. The trucks were so close that as the engines rumbled below you vibrated along with them, creating an odd tingling sensation in your legs, while fumes rose up and were sucked into the room by the window fans. So I was sitting in the sun porch, listening to scratchy records on the old wind-up Victrola, and playing with my pile of money. I enjoyed looking at the presidents faces. Though, strictly speaking I guess, Ben Franklin wasnt actually a president. I liked reading the serial numbers. I liked looking at the little picture of the car on the back of the ten. I liked looking at Grants beard on the front of the fifty.
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I liked looking at Independence Hall on the back of the hundred, the clock in the tower that showed 4:10. I liked the feel of the money, the crispness, the texture of the raised ink ridges against my thumb when I rubbed a bill. I held one to my nose. It smelled musty and dirty, a little moldy, but it also had that money smell, and it smelled good. I liked to pick a bundle up, hold it to my ear, and flip through the packet with my thumb. I liked the sound it madepzzzzt, pzzzzt, pzzzzt. Id flip through it two or three times. Then Id put that packet down, pick up another, and do the same thing. Then Id put that one down, go on to the next, and so forth. When I got to the last packet Id pick up the first and start over again. The sun was beaming through the window and there were only two trucks rumbling beneath my ass. A good day. The cut on my hand was starting to heal. I hadnt even bothered to put a bandage on it. My cell phone rang. It was Joe. Hey, he said. Listen to this. I heard a sound like a screen door slamming, then a few seconds of nothing. Then there was a blast in my ear, the sound of an engine revving, a lawn mower or rototiller or something. Huh, I said after he came back on the line. What the bejesus was that? Thats my new bike, he said proudly. Your newwait. What? I said. You bought a new bike? Yep, he said. Well, a new old bike. Triumph Tee One Forty Vee. Seven-fifty ccs, fivespeed. They dont make em like that anymore.
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I guess not, I said. Did you use the money? Well, yeah, he said. Of course. Did it cost a lot? Nah, he said. I bought it from my uncle. He let me have it for cheap. I thought it over a little. Gee, Joe I think theres maybe like this grinding noise coming from the chain or something, he said. Starts up right around 4500 or 5000 RPMs, then goes away. Ill be pissed, he said. Ill be pissed if my new motorbike is messed up already. Jeez, Joe, I said. Do you think You want to go for a spin? he asked. We could stop and get a chocolate milkshake. Im really in the mood for a chocolate milkshake. I thought for a moment. Joe, maybe you should be a little more . . . maybe you should think a bit about how you spend your money. A pause. Whaddya mean? he asked. Well . . . wheres your uncle think you got the money to pay him? He knows I been saving up for it. Ah, I said. Okay. Well, Im just thinking that if you spend your money, if you start spending money all over town, people might get suspicious. Another pause. I mean, I said, its not like youre known for having a ton of money, you know what I mean?
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Yeah, he said. Yeah? Yeah, he said. I know what you mean. Right, I said, I mean, you know, a little caution might be in order. I mean, what happens what if youre seen throwing out hundred dollar bills left and right? Dont you think thatll look a little weird? I needed transportation, he said defensively. I needed transportation, now that I dont have my truck. Yeah, I know, I said. But just go easy with it. A little bit at a time. You know, it wouldnt hurt to save some of it either. Yeah, he said. I guess youre right. Put some in the bank, or under your mattress, I said. Like, for a rainy day. I mean, its not like moneys ever gonna come our way like this again, you know? Not so easy. Right? I hear you, he said. Just a suggestion, I said. Its a good one, he said. Im with ya, bro. Okay, I said. Good. All right, well, anyway. Yeah. Why dont you come on over this afternoon and well go for a ride on your bike. Theres a dead cow in the back field I want to show you. Well, uh, he said. Well . . . . What? I said. Its pretty cool. The ribs are are starting to poke through. It cant be this afternoon, Joe said. Hows tomorrow sound? Well, okay, I said. Whats up this afternoon?
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Well, he said. Thats when my new boat is being delivered. *** Later that day I was in Petersons orchard with Amy. We were sitting under an apple tree. Its not a real big boat, I told her. Its just a little boat. But it is a boat. Hes going to dock it at Double Lake. People will see it. Theyll see him using it. People, theylltheyll ask him where he got it. Im just worried that hes not gonna have answers to those kinds of questions. Well, you know, Amy said, sighing, Joe can talk his way out of pretty much anything. I wouldnt worry too much about it. I dont know, Ame, I said, shaking my head. Hes pretty smart about some things, but other stuff, hes just clueless. Amy sighed again. She reached to pick another wildflower for the bouquet she was making. What are you going to do with your share of the money, C. J.? she asked as she arranged the bouquet carefully, adding the flower to just the right place. Oh, I got some ideas. Like what? Well, I dont know. Things. For some reason I didnt want to tell her about the car and Toronto and the Rockies, just yet. Are you going to go back to school? Id gone to college. For a year. Majored in geology. It hadnt worked out. Learned a thing or two about rocks, though. Probably not, I said. Are you going to buy a boat?
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No. Guys are so funny, she said. Now she was tying a dandelion-stem bracelet around my wrist. They always have to be the best at something. The best or the first. I puzzled about that a bit. I wondered how that fit into what we were talking about. I watched her face. The dreamy look on it got me intrigued. So, I said. Whatre you gonna do with your share? She looked up at the sky, watching a cloud drift above our heads. Oh, she said, curling a strand of hair in her fingers. I dont know. You dont know? She didnt say anything, but her cheeks began to color. Amy could be like that. A little bit . . . shy, sometimes. Which was funny. Which was sort of interesting. Because usually she was brash and outspoken and not reluctant at all to let you know just how she felt about something. Oh, cmon, I said. Dont be embarrassed. No, I dont want to say. Why not? I just dont want to. Are you going to buy something? A car or something? Oh, no! I wouldnt want to waste it. Well, what then? She gazed down at the ground. It seemed that she was thinking. But then she grabbed a handful of clover. She threw it in my face.
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Hey! I said. There you go! she said happily. There you are! Hey! I said. Cut it, cut it Doesnt it smell so fresh? she asked. Its just like perfume. Doesnt it smell just like a babys bottom? Its, uh, nice, I said, spitting out a bit ofsomething. So you like it, she said. Well. Have some more. And she tore up another handful. And rubbed it into my scalp. So I had to throw some back. And so we got into a bit of a grass-throwing fight. Which only ended after I wrestled her down. Wrestled her down and pinned her to the ground. And after a while, after I figured she yelled enough, after I figured she threatened enough, after I figured she pleaded enough, I let her go again. She sat up and composed herself, smoothing out her hair with her hands, brushing it back and gathering it up behind her head. With just a hint of . . . hurt about her. I watched her as she smoothed her hair and twisted it into a ponytail, some sort of hair band held between her lips. She didnt say anything and wouldnt look at me. After a while I asked: Are you going tell me what youre going to do with your share of money? She bit her lip. Youll tell everyone. I wont, Amy. You know me. She reached over and picked up her purse. She rummaged through it, burrowing through all the flashlights. She always kept about a zillion flashlights in her purse. All different kinds. LED, xenon, big ones, little ones, penlights, mini-Mags. All different colors and shapes. Shed
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never tell us why. Everyone teased her about it. But you always knew who to ask if you happened to need one. She extracted a wrinkled piece of paper. Here, she said. I looked at the paper. It was a web page printed out on an ink jet printer. The mission of our school, it read, is to prepare students to become employable in the taxidermy profession and to promote self growth, motivation and confidence as well as professionalism. And there werepictures. Hm, I said, looking at them. I want to go to taxidermy school, she said. I want to learn how to tan pelts and relax skins. I thought about this for a little while. When did you decide this? I asked. Oh, she said. Ive been wanting to do itforever. Really? I asked. You never said anything about it. Well, she said. Its not the kind of thing . . . most people dont understand. I studied the pictures closely. I mean, she said, excitedly. Ive been doing some practicing on my own, over in my uncles basement. Practicing in . . . your uncles basement . . . .

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But you can only go so far trying to learn off a web site, she said. The nictitating membranes are giving me a lot of trouble. Well, and the septums. Septums, I said. Nictitating, ah, membranes. Wheredo you get the animals? Well, mostly from the side of the road, she said. Every morning theres something new, there. Practically. I pondered some more. I could be a master taxidermist someday, Amy continued happily. I could open my own taxidermy business. They have a management training course. Gee, Ame, I said. I always thought you were a bit . . . squeamish . . . about these kinds of things. Squeamish, she repeated. Yeah, I mean, well, how about the way you acted the other day when I swam out, when I swam out to the SHHHH! She interrupted, holding her hands over her ears. Dont you EVER mention that. Dont you ever DARE talk about it! You know, its really strange. You think you know somebody. And then . . . . What does your mom think about it? I asked. About . . .? About . . . school, I said. And stuffing animals. She doesnt know yet. I havent told her. Do you think . . . do you think Id be any good at it? What? I asked. Taxidermy? What the hell did I know about taxidermy? She was watching me closely.
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I think youd be really good, Amy, I said. Whatever you put your mind to. Thank you, she whispered. She took the paper, re-folded it carefully, and put it back in her purse. Then she rolled over, rested her chin in her hands. She kicked out a little rhythm with one foot, her flip-flop dangling from her toe. She looked down at the grass, a little smile on her lips, and poked a twig at the eye stalks of a slug that was passing by. The thing about taxidermy school, is, Amy said, it costs a lot of money. Yeah? Yeah. I mean, you can get loans and stuff, but it doesnt cover it all. Ive been saving up my babysitting money. But now . . . now I dont have to worry about it. At all. When does it start? I asked. School? January, I think. Ill have to tell my mother Im leaving. Shell be all right, I guess, I said. I guess, she said. Was it hard? she asked suddenly. Was it hard for you to leave, when you went away to college? Was it hard for you to leave, when you went away? I thought back. I remembered the loneliness, the isolation. It was okay, I said. She was silent for a minute. Then she said: I missed you when you went away. You did. Yes. I was worried about you. You were?
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You didnt even say goodbye, really. I tried to remember back. Didnt we all go riding around Tambine? You, me, Joe? The night before I left? Well, yeah. I guess. But I mean, you didnt even come to see me before you left. Or anything. I tried to remember. I tried to understand. Things were awfully confused, then, Amy, I said. Everything happened so fast. Its all a big blur, now. It seems so long ago. Oh, C. J., Amy said. Do you really think it can be different, now, for us? Do you think its okay to wish for things? I looked at her. She was gazing up at the sky, blinking in the sunlight, and smiling. She was smiling because she was happyjust happy to be sitting under an apple tree on a lazy sunny day. I think she wouldve been as happy even if she hadnt suddenly been . . . rich. I love the sunshine, she said. I love the honey yellow sunshine. Yeah, I said. Its real nice out here today. Look at those turkey buzzards, I said, peering up into the sky. Look at them circling. Must be something dead. I wish Joe was here . . . I bet hed be real interested in them . . . circling . . . . There was a look on Amys face that was . . . troubling. Its kind of strange, the way you two hang together all the time, she said. You two, always hanging together. Its almost like you and him were . . . . Her voice trailed off. Well, I said. Hes my friend. Weve been friends for a long time. Hes sodifferent. These days. Sometimes I dont think I even recognize him anymore. Joes got some issues, I acknowledged. But, you know . . . hes had it pretty rough.

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Why do you always take his side? She asked. Youre always making excuses for him. When he does dumb stuff. Like when he was singing at the bar. Why are you always sticking up for him? Well, I dunno, I said. Like I said. Hes my friend. Gently, she placed a hand on my knee. Arent I your friend too? she asked. Then she smiled, and it was like a light turning on, a fire starting, orsomething. I could feel her breath on my cheek. The clouds were reflected in her eyes, her eyes of porcelain and blue. Her lips were full and red like a cut cherry. She was gazing into my eyes and trembling slightly. And so I kissed her. Why did I do that? I instantly asked myself. Why I havent I done that before? I asked myself. But she pressed her lips to mine, like it was something shed been expecting. Her lips were delicate and tender. She pushed herself against me, and it was almost as if she were flowing around me. She sighed and put her arms about my neck in a kind of a hug, a delicate embrace, her forehead against mine, and now she was touching her cheek to my face and just holding it there, gently running her fingers through my hair. It was almost a kind of poem, the way she held me, and it fit in so well with the blue sky, the green grass, the wind gently stirring the leaves. She brushed her lips across the skin of my neck, gave a little lick of her tongue. And suddenly I felt a sharp pang of pain as she nipped my neck with her teeth, vampire-like. What the HELL? It freaked me out some, it made me wonder, but I could feel her breasts pushing against my chest, I could feel her heart beating a rapid rhythm, and she smelled all clean and heavenly. And sure at that very moment at that exact second someone somewhere out there was dying a
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agonizing death, so much suffering in the world, with tornadoes and earthquakes and tsunamis, and yes the count of things to mourn is greater than stars in the sky and I know these sorts of moments are the rarest of all; but now she smiled, drew back and, with flick of her head to get her hair out of her face, placed the palms of her hands over my eyes so that I couldnt see. Wait, she whispered. Dont talk. Shut your eyes. Keep them closed. I have a little present for you. But Amy, listen Look, she said. You want your little present or not? All right, Amy, I said. All right. And there I sat. Eyes closed. Heart pounding. Waiting for my little present. Which came just a moment later. It was a lively polka tune. I dont know which one it was, exactly. Im not so good with names. I think it might have been the The Pennsylvania Polka, Im not sure. Did I mention that Amy played the accordion? She did. Played it for years and years and years. Took lessons as a little kid. Practiced all the time. She was really really good. As soon as the first lovely strains emerged from the reeds, I opened my eyes and there she was, one foot on a stump, squeezing away. Standing tall in her white sun dress, surrounded by the blue of the sky, the white clouds behind her, the sun glinting off of her golden hair, she looked like some kind of angel. An angel, perhaps, from heaven. It was such a beautiful thing, the way that her fingers leaped up and down the keyboard, her foot tapping out the time. Boy. She sure knew how to make those bellows sing.
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Come to think of it, it shouldnt have been so much of a surprise, really. Considering I had to lug that damn accordion all the way to Petersons apple orchard. And back again. But it was worth it. All that afternoon, under the azure sky and honey yellow sunshine, she played. Ballads, polkas, waltzes, everything. Just for me. *** I remember . . . . I remember, so long ago . . . . I remember the times we had at the Old Dam. It would be mid-August and the days would be unbearably hot. So wed meet down at the dam to while the hours away. Carefree. Not a worry, not a care. Wed swim in the cold, invigorating water and then stretch out on the lush bank, talking, talking, talking, making the mundane and trivial seem terribly important, conjuring our plans for the future, while the sun beat down upon us as it made its slow trek across the sky. Then when we grew tired of talking wed go for another swim and then maybe wade upstream, Joe and I reaching into the water lifting rocks, carefully waiting for the muddied water to settle to reveal maybe a crawdad, its claws extended and waving up at you, mad as all hell at being disturbed. Youd grab it behind the head so it couldnt pinch you, lift it out of the water and the sun would reflect off its glossy green shell, and it was like some sort of miniature deep-sea creature right there in front of you, right in your hand, the way it looked so strange being out of the water, the way it glistened, the way it was dripping, how slimy and slippery and cold it felt, with its tiny wet beady eyes looking back at you looking at it. Then while Amy roamed the bank looking for wildflowers, singing a little song, maybe placing a daisy or two in her hair and stepping barefoot through the tall grass to smell the wild mint, Joe and I would throw our crawdads into The Pit, which was a just a shallow hole in the

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sandy soil, and poke at them with sticks to try to get them to fight each other, watching as they raised their little claws furiously, threatening. Then when wed grown tired of that sport maybe wed find a grasshopper or two to feed to the garden spiders that spun their grand webs in the bushes, throw bugs into the strands, watch in fascination while in a wink of an eye the spider cocooned them in a shroud of silk. Then while Amy looked for flat stones to skip wed take out our pocket knives and sharpen some sticks and say they were spears, hurl them at some target, or maybe wed gather up rocks and try to build our own little dam, carefully laying them across the creek, shouting instructions to one another as seriously as if we were engineers, watching while the water rose, marking our success with each half inch it grew deeper. Then Amy might call out Look, a turtle! and Joe might say Careful, its a snapper! and wed prod it with our sharpened sticks, making it as mad as hell, taunting it to the point where it was pissed enough to bite through the wood until finally it just gave up and ducked into its shell, and maybe at just that moment a huge shadow would pass over us as a blue heron flew above our heads, stretching its great, grand wings, and wed look up in amazement and awe. About this time the sun would be starting to set over the steep hills and the cows would pass through on their way to the barn, on their way home to get milked, ignoring us as much as they ignored everything else that wasnt important in their cow-world, and the air would be sweet and the shadows would grow long and the light would wane dramatically. And all the while the water would flow, rushing, gurgling, rippling with a melody that was sonorous, a sound that was comforting, that made you forget about all other places and things. Flickering shadows of gigantic trout, hiding near the bank in the deep water, fleet and magical. The catfish. The sunfish. Mud puppies. Cattis fly larvae. The honking of Canadian geese as they flew over our heads in broken formation. Cattails growing in the marsh.

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The sun on your back and the wind in your hair. The future ahead of us, the summers eternal. The world was full of mysterious, magical things. That was a joyous time, a glorious time. Great days, great times. The best days of our lives. And of course what made it so . . . was . . . we didnt realize it then. *** When I next went over to Joes house, a few days latervisited the faded crap-colored asphalt-shingled row house that he shared with his motherhe was mowing his lawn. Well, actually, he wasnt exactly mowing. He was yanking on the mowers starter cord, trying to get it started. It was hard for him to do, what with his wrist being in a cast and all. Did I mention that hed broken his wrist? Wed had a little . . . incident . . . about a week before. Wed been driving back from Tambine in the wee hours of the morning, Joe at the wheel of his rusted-out pickup, music pumping from the speakers that dangled from the roof of the cab, their wires all tangled up in the headrests and guts all exposed (What the heck for? Joe had replied when I suggested that he spend a few bucks to do things right and mount the speakers in cases. God-awful waste of money. They sound great as is. I mean, just listen to that bass! Kick ass!) . . . driving back from Tambine, coming home the back way, bumping through the blackness of the night, making our way home on the empty rural road, both of us tired, dead tired, listening to the music as if in a trance. Itd been raining and the road was a little slick. As we climbed to the top of Lendigo Hill, something about the way Joe was driving set off danger signals in the reptilian animal part of my brain. Which was the only part still awake.

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Joe, I croaked. My voice sounded loud and brash, breaking the silence abruptly between us like it did. It had the effect of morphing the trance we were in, altering the mood in some slight, indescribable way. Careful of the bridge at the bottom of the hill, I said. Its kinda narrow. Sticks out into the road. Kay, he replied sleepily. Dunno why they dont do something about it, I mused. Pretty dangerous, if you ask me. A little time passed, a few more chainsaw-buzzing guitar licks from the speakers, and the bridge got nearer. Joe, I said again. Dude. Better watch out. Better watch out for that bridge. All right, he said. And we continued on. But he didnt slow down or anything. A few seconds more, a few more bumps that made the bikini-babe air freshener hanging from the rear-view mirror jiggle, and now the bridge abutment was VERY near. JOE! I shouted. LOOK OUT FOR THE BRIDGE! OH my GOD! he screamed. And yanked on the steering wheel as hard as he could. And drove right into the side of the bridge. Thats how Joe got his broken wrist. He got it after we pulled ourselves out of the overturned pickup, the music yet blaring, the headlights cutting a swath of light through the steam rising up from the leaking radiator. He got it because I smacked him. For being so stupid. Not hard, really. Just enough to make a point. But he slipped and fell backwards on his butt. And twisted his arm or something. I guess I sort of surprised him.
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I didnt mean to break his arm. Honest. Anyway, hed forgiven me. So now he was trying to get the mower to work, yanking on the cord with one hand. Once in a while the engine would burp and seem like maybe it was gonna start, but then a few seconds later it would just peter out. Scattered around in the grass were things that Joe was using to try to fix the mower, things like wrenches and screwdrivers and . . . odd, goofy shit, like a candy thermometer and a sledgehammer and a shoehorn. They lay there in the tall grass and seemed to fit in well with the rusting wheel hubs and rotting planks and the oil drum all shot up with bullet holes and the cinder blocks and the old broken bicycle and all the other junk that littered Joes so-called lawn. And in the distance, down in the valley, gray smoke leaked upward from the stacks of the paper mill, merging with the gloomy clouds overhead so that it was hard to tell exactly where the earth stopped and the sky began. A shrill shrieking whine of machinery rang through the valley and a heavy rotten egg stench from the mill hung in the air. From this height, I could see some of the people down there, the people who lived amid the pipes and the catwalks and the coal piles and the web of electrical wires running over the streets. The pregnant unwed mothers pushing their baby carriages as they waved to the boys driving by in their pickups, the drunks emerging from the bars on Main Street, staggering and blinking in the sunlightI could see some of the people who lived down there, I could see that they were alive and that they were moving. Joes face was red and the skin of his shoulders and chest gleamed like it was oiled, all glossy with sweat. He was pretty much out of patience. He was pretty much at the end of his rope. You could tell by the way he was swearing. FUCK you! he snarled, yanking the cord, one foot on the engine. The mower coughed, puttered a bit, died.

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Joe kept pulling, his teeth clenched in frustration. He swore in time with his pulling. DAMN little cocksucker you little . . . SON of a bitch . . . why dont you just . . . START, you little mother . . . HUMPer! The engine abruptly kicked in, roared to life. THERE you go! Joe said, rubbing his hands together gleefully, pumping his fists in the air. THERE she goes! THATS it, you little son of a . . . ! Keep . . . keep on . . . . The engine started to stall. Oh, no. No no no no no no, Jesus fuck, no! He began jamming the throttle lever up and down, up and down. Damn it! Damn it to HELL! he cried, as the engine sputtered and died. Joe stood there a moment, looking at the silent machine. Then, raising his fists to the sky, he said: mmmmrrrrrrrrrRRRRRRRRRRAAAARRRRRR! Geez, Joe, I said. Take it easy, why dont you. Youre getting all worked up. I cant get the sonofabitch to start! he said bitterly. I hate it, he said. I hate it with the strength of a thousand tigers! I peered up into the sky. Well, I said. Not much daylight left anyway. Sometimes you need to . . . just take a step back and relax. Let things sit for a while. Especially when youre working with engines. I dont know whats wrong, he said. Its got gas. Safety kill switch? I suggested. I wired it shut with a coat hanger, he said. That aint it. Vapor lock? I asked. Yeah. I mean no, he said. Whats a vapor lock? Its, its, well, never mind, I said. It could be anything. These little two-strokes are awful temperamental.
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I dont know what to do, he said. It is kind of an old mower. I kicked at the mower with my toe. Might be a bubble in the gas line, I said. Could be the spark plug. Might be bad gas. Eh, he said. Im through with it. I mean, look. Dude. He wiped his forehead with his dirty hand and showed it to me. Dude. Im sweating. I mean, what the fuck? Just take it to an engine shop, I said. Small-engine repair. Its got a lot of life left in it. Dicknipples, he said with a dismissive wave. Im tired of screwing with it. Im just gonna go out and get a new one. Theyre not cheap, I said, considering. At least the good ones arent. Its okay, partner, he said, giving me a wink. I got enough coin to cover the gig. If you know what I mean. Yeah but, I said. I lowered my voice. Joe, I think you need to realize. Like I said the other day. Twelve grand aint gonna last you forever. I got the cash. I got the cashish, he said. Seems like a waste, I said, stooping to give the engine a once-over. Probably not anything that cant be fixed. Probably nothing majorly wrong. I dropped to my knees to examine the engine more closely. Yeah, look, Joe, I said. Look at this. You see the little bubble push thingy? Its got all sorts of green gunk in it. That might be the problem right there. No response. God, what a mess, I said. Joe. Whens the last time you cleaned this thing, anyway? Silence. So I looked up. And there Joe was, aiming a shotgun at me.
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Well, not aiming, exactly, but sort of loosely holding the gun at the hip. Kinda leaning, arching back, his eyes half shut, a sort of dreamy look on his face, looking up into the sky. Sticking it out and wagging it in my direction. Scared the living shit out of me. What, with me on my knees like I was, and him towering over me with the gun, I felt like we were a pair. He was executioner and I was executionee. Joe, whatwhat I sputtered. Whatre you doing? Whup, he said, turning the muzzle away. Watch where you point that thing! I said, climbing to my feet. Whoopsies! he said. Sorry about that. I mean, what . . . . I said. I was kind of mad now. I mean, what the FUCK? What the HELL you THINKING?! Sorry! he said. I was cleaning the gun earlier. I was just putting it away. Before it gets dark. JESUS, Joe, I said. I dont like seeing that sort of shit. I dont like turning around and seeing a FUCKING GUN POINTED IN MY DIRECTION! It aint loaded, he said. Aint LOADED?! I repeated. What the fuck! Jesus Chri . . . . You got to be more careful where you point that thing! I was beginning to calm down, though my heart was still racing, my hands still shaking. I know, I know, he lamented. I mean, you just never know. You know? I said. Sure, he said. I know. Thats how accidents happen. *** Im not sure why we called it the Old Dam.
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Yeah, it was old, but so was the rusty train trestle that bridged the valley a couple miles up from my house under which the kids would hide from the cops and drink beer and break bottles and burn tires and generally go crazy, and nobody called that the old trestle. Nope. Just the trestle. And it wasnt like there was any new dam that the old one could be confused with or anything. The dam had been built to supply water to a small village. But thatd been over a hundred years ago, when the region was growing instead of dying, and the buildings there were long gone. There were still some broken parts of a house or two, some foundation stones that you sometimes tripped over as you stepped through the grass. The dam was built of great blocks of granite, roughly hewn and mortared together. The middle of the dam was very deep; we did not know how deep. No one ever touched bottom, and as you swam down the water got very cold. The dam was nestled within a large ravine, with steep hills forming the banks. It wasnt so terribly isolated, not so terribly out of the way, but there was no road that led directly to it. To get to the Old Dam, you had to walk. To get to the Old Dam from my house, you first had to climb the steep, winding road that went up Lendigo Hill. It was a narrow blacktop road, not very busy, but its presence there under the shady pines that lined the sides was a sorrow to the kids who lived nearby. Whenever you went over to someones house to visit or play or whatever, you had to climb Lendigo Hill. If you were on a bicycle you pumped the pedals until your legs were on fire; then you got off and pushed. Coming back was a lot easier of course unless you got going a little too fast, picked up a little too much speed, and ended up off the road with a concussion, a broken arm, a few missing teeth, whatever. It happened now and then to the kids who lived nearby. After you puffed your way to the top of Lendigo, you found the narrow trail leading into the woods. You followed it for a few minutes and ended up at the Short Level rifle range, a field with wooden target backdrops at one end. To get to the dam you had to crawl down a small slope behind the targets. Usually the range was deserted but you had to watch out coming
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back, when you were crawling back up the slope, in case someone was there sighting in their gun. Once past the shooting range, you followed another path, a sort of wide, grassy, tree-lined corridor through the woods. It mightve been a clearing cut for a narrow-gauge railroad that once carried timber from the forest to the paper mill, back in the days when the Pennsylvanian forests were newly logged. But no trace of tracks remained. Here the forest opened up and there was a lot of space to move around. The way was very green, with trees arching overhead to provide a kind of cathedral ceiling. The branches were filled with cardinals, red-winged blackbirds, blue jays, yellow-shafted flickers, and other birds of the forest, and they all sang as you made your way down the path. Chipmunks squealed in protest as you got near. Along the path, there were wild berries to pick and eat. You could mark the progress of the summer by the kind of berry that was in seasonstrawberries early in the summer, blackberries toward the end, blueberries in the middle. After you continued on this grassy way for another half-mile or so, you cut directly across a field, followed a stream a little ways, climbed down a little hill, and there you were. At the Old Dam. It was a great place. It was totally hidden from the rest of the world. It was our own private universe, our playground, our personal theme park. There were trees to climb, stones to skip, frogs to catch, cat-tails to gather up, thick hanging vines to climb, flowers to collect, woods to explore, and of course all the swimming and wading and inner tube floating youd ever want to do. The trees on the opposite shore hung out over the water and blocked the sun, even when it was high in the sky. So the water was usually too cold for swimming except for maybe in August. The banks were narrow, steep and stony and it wasnt a good place for someone looking to lie down and soak up some rays. Double Lake, a twenty-minute drive up the road, which had sand carted in by the truckload for its man-made beaches, was the place for that.
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So in all the years we visited the Old Dam, we hardly ever saw anyone else there. The occasional fisherman, maybe, or one or two farm kids who lived nearby. So, as kids, we kind of thought of the Old Dam as our own. It was all ours. No one ever bothered us there.

***
It was about a week after the lawnmower-shotgun incident that the bikers came to town. Our town was small. Everyone knew everybody else. Everyone knew everyone elses business. Strangers stood out. It was impossible to hide. God forbid if you were visiting from the city. Youd stick out worse than a three-legged dog with mange (as Joe would say). We could tell you were from the city just by looking at you. It was the fancy haircut you had, the khakis that you wore, the penny loafers on your feet. If you opened your mouth, it was the words you used, your proper use of grammar, your accent, the things you wanted to talk about, the way you wanted too quickly to make friends with us. We could tell by that desperate scared look on your face, the way your eyes shifted this way and that because you knew you were out of your element, in a place where the rules of your world didnt apply, where there were no streetlights at night and the woods were much too dark and thick, with strange, unknown things living in there emitting eerie, mournful cries, where during a storm the electricity could go out and not come back on again for days and so you wouldnt know where to plug in your electric razor, where everyone owned a gun and they werent afraid to do a little target practicing as they rocked on their porch swings, shooting at the hulks of old refrigerators and ovens that cluttered their yards. Anyway, thats why it was such a big deal when the two big biker dudes rode in on identical Harleys. Their bikes were not the only things that were identical. They too seemed to be carbon copies of each other. They looked exactly alike, dressed in precisely the same black leather, wore
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identical mirrored aviator sunglasses, had the same long hair tied in a ponytail in the back, had the same highway dust on their boots. The only difference between the two was that one wore a long handlebar moustache and the other did not. And as they rode down the highway together, side by side, they looked like a couple of plastic foosball men, the way they moved in perfect unison, side-by-side on the highway. They came into town and checked into the Andersburg Hotelvery strange, since of all the years Id lived in the Burg, this was the first Id ever heard of anyone actually staying at the place. I couldnt imagine anyone actually wanting to stay there, with its cracked, dirty windows and plaster flaking off the walls. The only reason it was still in business at all was because of the drunks whod turned the downstairs bar into their hangout. A sizable crowd, and it got bigger all the time, the more the mill laid off. For a day or so, the bikers stayed in their room. But then they emerged from the hotel and began visiting places around town, stopping at bars and ordering beer, hanging out eating ice cream cones at the Tastee-Freez, stopping at Ferrollis for a plate of home fries and eggs. They were quiet and always polite. Most of the talking they did was between themselves. Everyone in town talked about them and wondered what they were up to. They didnt seem to be visiting anybody. They werent looking for work at the paper mill. They werent fishermen or hunters. They didnt seem to be just passing through. What they did, though, was ask a lot of questions. They asked questions to the bartenders and waitresses and barbers and other people they met. And the questions they were asking made me very nervous. They were looking for a woman.
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A big woman with long black hair. A big woman with long black hair, who looked sort of like Janis Joplin. And they wanted to know if anyoned seen her. *** I knew it! Amy said miserably. Amy and Id met up with Joe at the varsity football game. We werent exactly the worlds biggest fans, and Ive always been leery of large crowds chanting in unison. Maybe I watch too much History Channel. But it was the only thing happening on a Friday night. We sat way in the back benches of the bleachers so that we could confab in private. I knew we werent going to get away with it! she cried. I knew it! Who said? Joe said, surprised. Who said we aint got away with it? We are so busted, she said in a low voice, and sunk down into her seat. Even though it was night, she was wearing a pair of sunglasses. Along with a hat that pulled down over her ears. Because it was the smart thing to do, shed said. Amy could be like that. A little bit . . . silly, sometimes. You just dont find things like this sitting out in the woods, she explained. And if you do, you dont get to keep it. Thats just not the way things work. And she put her head in her hands. I wanted to put my arm around her, comfort her, but I was afraid. And there was something else there, too. A sense of not knowing where to go, not knowing how to fit in, not knowing where I belonged. You think too much, Joe said. He paused to pull out a cig, tamping down the tip on the back of his hand. You worry too much.
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Suddenly, he pulled a pistol from his pocket. And leveled it at my head. He pulled the trigger. BANG BANG, Seej!! he said, blinking rapidly, the cigarette bouncing up and down on the tip of his lips. BANG BANG! He yanked on the trigger some more, making sparks fly. BANG BANG, Seej, youre DEAD! Nice, I said. Thats real nice. It was only the little novelty lighter in the shape of a pistol that he was all proud of. He liked to carry it around with him. To light up his smokes. He said hed inherited it from his grandfather. HA Ha! he said, working the gun, pulling the trigger again and again, the gun making clattering noises. Joe, I said. That sure was funny. The first fifty thousand times you did it. Yeah, he said. The little flame shot out of the top of the gun. He lit the cigarette and took a long, thoughtful drag. I guess. I watched the cigarette tip flare its crackling bright open-hearth orange. It seemed all warm and comfy in there, so cheery. But of course it was so tiny a flame. He blew out a lungful of smoke. Nothins been said about no money, he said. All theyre looking for is some woman. And the fish, he said. The fishve eaten the evidence. I dunno, Joe, I said. It might not even be our friend theyre lookin for, he said. Amys jaw dropped. My jaw dropped. Do you really believe that? I asked. He shrugged. Weirder things have happened. I shook my head. Joe, I said. Joe.
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I havent spent any of mine yet, Amy said with sudden brightness. I could give it back! Whoooah, shit, Joe said shaking his head. He flicked the ash off the cig with a deft tap of his finger. No. No no no no no. Look, manoh, um . . . woman. Were not giving anything back. But Joe, I said. Listen. We might . . . there might be How ya gonna give it back? he said. Who ya gonna give it back to? Well . . . I could . . . I guess I might I wouldnt give it back on principle, he said. Principle? Amy said. What on earth . . . what principle could that possibly be? Joe reflected for a couple seconds. Finders keepers, he said. Losers weepers. I bought a two-basket two hundred twenty volt commercial deep fat fryer, I said glumly. And a Strato-Lounger. I guess I could return all that stuff. Whoa, nowjust hold on a sec, said Joe. Jeez whiz. No ones sayin ya gotta give back all your stuff. No one sayin you gotta give up your two hundred twenty volt whaddyacallit. No ones sayin you gotta give up your nice new comfy chair. He paused, took another drag. Were in a little too deep to just crawl up our own collective assholes and hide, dont ya think? he said. Give the money back? I mean, hows that work, zactly? Wed be likeHey, dudefaces, hey, yeah, heres your money. Sorry about that. And oh oh oh yeah by the way, theres a little bit more to the story. Kinda sorta. You see, well, we kinda sorta found your girlfriend SHHHHH! Amy said. We fell silent. A few seconds passed. What? I whispered.

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Amy nodded in the direction of the long, lanky figure sitting a couple of rows in front of us. Shes listening to us, she whispered. We were quiet for a minute, sneaking glances at the pony-tailed figure while trying to look as ifwell, as if we werent. Uh, Amy? I said. Thats not a girl. Thats Billy Miller. Hes got long hair. Hes sittin watchin the game, Joe said. Hes eating a chili dog, I said. Amy sighed. We could just leave it somewhere where theyd find it, she said. Huh? Joe said. What? The money, Amy said. We could just leave it somewhere. Like we never found it. Yeah? Joe said. Leave it. Like where? I dont know, Amy said. Like in the middle of the street or somethin? Joe asked. Under somebodys pillow? At the end of a rainbow? I dont know! Amy said, putting her hand to her head. I just want to get rid of it. I want to get rid of it before it gets worse. I cant eat, I cant sleep. I bought a boat! said Joe. And a motorbike. And a new lawn mower and a pinball machine. And Im plannin on gettin a new shotgun and theres a couple other things on my list. I aint just gonna leave it somewheres. Well? Amy said indignantly. Who told you to go out and buy all those things anyhow? Did someone put a gun to your head? Amy, I said.
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I mean, why did you have to go out and buy all that stuff anyway? she said. Youre being pretty stupid. Calling attention to yourself. Calling attention to us. Joe made a sour face. Its my money, he said. I can do what I want with it. Your money, Amy said. It was never your money. Funny, Joe said, his voice starting to get all throaty and tight. You seemed to think it was good enough when I handed you your cut. OkayOKAY! I said. I closed my eyes and held up my hands, seeking . . . tranquility. Why, I said after a moment. Why do you two have to always be fighting and bickering all the time. Dont we have enough to worry about? Dont we? Why do you two always have to be fighting and bickering. Huh? Neither of them answered. So we sat quietly for a few minutes, kind of melancholy, watching the figures on the field collide with one another, watching them twist and spin, as the drums from the marching band beat time to the cheerleaders chants. Were just gonna have to tough it out, Joe said. We really dont got no other choice. The crowd suddenly came to life, people standing, people whistling, people clapping, people cheering. There was a touchdown or something. Fact of the matter is, Joe continued. Were just gonna have to sit it out. This thingitll blow over. Youll see. He was talking a little too quickly, maybe trying to persuade himself. Justchill. But Im kinda nervous, Joe, I whispered in anguish. Will it matter in fifty years? he said. Will it matter in a hundred?

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Joe, I said. Nothing will matter in a hundred years. They have no clue it was us, he said. They dont even know we were there. They dont know who we are. I knew he was right. No matter how this turned out in the end, wed just have to bear it for the time being. I didnt see any other way out. We were already in too deep. Hey, buddy, hey buddy, some guy a few rows over sang out. He was talking to Joe. Yo, my friend. You mind putting that cigarette out? Its gettin all dang smoky over here. Joe looked at us, stunned. Well, whaddya know, he said, gesturing with his thumb over his shoulder to where the guy sat. Dont that just bulldoze yer garden. Dont that bump yer beehive. Ya know, thats the trouble with the world right there, he said. Another so-called American patriot. People always tryin, people always tryin toHRAAAK! And he erupted into a fit of coughing. From the cigarette, I guess. Smokers hack, it appeared to be. Hraak raak raak. Hraak raak raak. Raak. I reflected on my life behind bars. Hraak raak raak. Gork. Joe, I finally said. You okay? What? Yyeah, he said, his hand on his chest. ImIm just fine, bud, he said in a strained voice. He talked like someone had just punched him in the belly. Just . . . fine. Dontdont worry about . . . dont worry about . . . HORK GAK GORK! And he spent the next five minutes coughing. Which ended, finally, with the clearing of the throat and a mighty spit. Disgusting, Amy said.

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The cheerleaders were leading another cheer. Marsha Marinetti, the sheriffs daughter, was there, all white teeth and pom-poms and bleached blond hair, doing leaps and kicks and precision moves. Good GOD, look at her, Amy said, suddenly, furiously. Every hair in place. God how I hate Marsha Marinetti. I wanted to put my arm around her, comfort her, but I was afraid. After that thing in the apple orchard, a few days ago, I wasnt sure what she was thinking. And there was something else, too. A sense of not knowing where to go, not knowing what to do, not knowing how to fit in. Not knowing where I belonged. *** Its growing dark. Twilight is . . . upon me. The clouds drift slowly above my head, like great lumbering beasts of the heavens. Im standing by the waters edge, looking up and wondering. I open my mouth to catch a few drops of red rain. It tastes sweet, like pomegranate seeds. Its delicious. I decide to go for a swim. The sky is sulfur yellow. The water is magma red. Something is there, rising up from the depths, from the muck and the mud of the bottom. Bubbles, bubbles well up from the deep. Im near the center of the dam, now, trying to swim to shore. But Im not getting anywhere. Im trying hard to swim away, kick with all my might, but for some reason, in some way, Im stuck. Something is there with me. I feel Im not alone. Some other presence. Something in the water. I can feel its getting close. Im frightened. Up it comes, ever nearer. I struggle hard to swim away, but . . . .
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The thing breaks the surface. Up it comes like a breaching whale. The water splashes like crystal lace in every direction. And a figure coalesces from beneath the waves. Its a girl. A woman, actually. Her eyes are closed and she wears the becalmed expression of a heavenly angel. Her skin glows the heatless blue light of holiness. Her hair floats like a golden halo about her head and for just a moment theres the white-noise hiss of foam evaporating, of many millions of tiny bubbles bursting, like you hear at the ocean on the beach after a wave breaks on the sand. Flies buzz about her head, light upon her face, scamper all around. She opens her eyes slowly and looks dreamily within mine. She looks like she wants to say something. She looks like she has something to say. She opens her mouth to speak. Oh, she says. Oh. Its a strange utterance, a single syllable that could be either agony or ecstasy, maybe both at once. She flings her head back, eyes closed, her face to the sky. Kiss me, she says. I lean in close, but theres a particularly big and fat fly perched on her lips. Big, fat, juicy. It buzzes its wings languidly, making brassy farty noises. II dont know how to tell her . . . I dont know quite how to say it . . . but it disgusts me. She beckons to me, with a little wave of her hand, asking mecommanding meto follow. We are going to go away. We are going away together. I start to follow. I want to follow. But. . . I . . . I feel . . . I feel like Im . . . forgetting something . . . leaving something . . . behind . . . I feel like theres . . . something I ought to remember . . . something I ought to do . . . and Im unsure. She sees my hesitation. She notices my reluctance. She looks deep into my eye. Suddenly her features contort, the muscles spasming, convulsed by seizure.
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Her eyes bulge and light crackles from them. Her mouth drops open and maggots fall out. She reaches out of the water, stretching her arms to the skya gesture of supplication. She rises up out of the water, reaching toward the sun. She is naked and beautiful. She is naked and dazzling. She is naked and . . . and . . . er, well, instead of breasts, she has these two long tendril-thingies extruding from her chest. They twist and gyrate about, serpent-like, clutching and crushing everything within their grasp. And, andher face. It begins to bubble and boil. From one eye socket, a great number of smaller eyes sprout up, like tiny pupiled mushrooms, like bubbling foaming frog eggs, all clustered together like some sort of obscene sighted tumor. Wake up. More tendrils extrude from her body. And now they reach out. Now the sky is filled with them. They writhe and wriggle, blotting out the light. Theyre like a great nest of squirming worms, a great batch of undulating maggots, on top of which her head is perched, bobbing up and down on them like a cork on the water. Whatever they touch, they destroy; whatever they grasp, they squeeze out the life. Whatever they clutch and grab, they curl about like a python with its prey. Then they crush it, fling it away. Thoughtlessly. Randomly. Lightening flashes and thunder cracks, and it starts to rain frogs. They spit fumes and flame in tiny belching hiccups BRAP! BRAP! BRAP! And then the head somehow loosens, starts rolling this way and that on top of that great undulating mass. Holy moley! It looks like its going to . . . it looks like maybe itll . . . . It picks up speed and flips right off, splashing into the water. The HEAD! The HEAD! Where did it GO?!
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Its important, for some reason, that I keep track of the head. That I dont lose it. Its my job, my responsibility. I search and search. Dont worry about it, a voice beside me says. I look around and there beside me is the . . . biggest frickin possum you ever want to see. Its tail is as thick as my arm, its head the size of a cantaloupe. A honkin big possum. It peers up at me a little crookedly, its head tilted a bit quizzically, with beady, intelligent eyes. A big mother. On fire. Flames jet from its mouth and eyes. Wake up. Just let it go, the possum says chattily. Something will eat it. I dive under the water. Ah, there it is! I found it! I clasp the head tightly and kick to the surface. I return it carefully to the top of the writhing worm-tendrils. Where it belongs. But it gets loose again and starts rolling around some more, this time with the pupils of its eyes darting back and forth and its tongue sticking out and flicking and wiggling and enunciating utterances as if its whispering in tongues. Doing all the sorts of things that a head does after its been separated from the body by the blade of a guillotine. And it rolls off again, back into the water. The water is now a raging sea, with huge swells, gigantic waves, lots of wind and foam. This time, I cant find the head. I look and look, splashing fretfully, feebly around in the water, but its nowhere to be seen. Thats when the dam breaks. With a deafening roar the water starts pouring out. I panic and try to swim to the shore, but the current grips me tight. As the water drops away from the shore, all sorts of things are revealed, things that should be hidden. A stick of gum, some lip gloss, a couple of tampons, a pack of Camels, a pair of

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copulating skeletonsthings that shouldnt be thrust into the light of day where the prying, judgmental eyes of strangers can see. And all the while from on high the sun-god beams down, smiling his perfect, golden, secretive smile, watching the confusion, hearing the noise, witnessing the chaos, and seeing that it is good. I feel a sudden sharp pain. I look down at my hand. It seems the head has clamped onto it, sinking its teeth deep into the flesh. And it wont let go, no matter how much in my alarm I pull and tug and shake. Its eyes roll up and lock onto mine. You sure know how to show a gal a good time, it says through clenched teeth. My hand feels like its being ripped with a razor. Bloodmy bloodbegins to flow. I can feel a sandpaper tongue lapping it up hungrily, eagerly. And I can hear the thing chortling, cackling in grand humor. And then it comes for my neck. Eyes blazing, jaws yapping, teeth snapping. Aiming for my jugular. Wake up! WAKE UP! I woke up. It was light. Id slept late. The sun was streaming in. So. Yes. I rubbed my eyes. Justjust a dream. Itd been just a dream. A terrible dream. A horrible dream. Some might call it a nightmare, even.
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But just a dream. Huh. Howtrite. I lay unmoving for a few minutes, trying to clear my head, the violent images still jangling around inside my skull. Oh, man. And the images began to fade. And the sounds of the workings of the waking world began to trickle into my head. I could hear the goings-on of the diner below, the screen door slamming as people came and went, their voices raised in conversation, some laughter, the radio playing some lively polka tunes. All the things I knew so well. All the things that had made up my world, before I went to college. But rather than comforting me, they reminded me that a new school year was starting without me. They made me wonder what my school friends were doing, what exciting things they were experiencing, made me understand how hideously dull life in Andersburg really was. They reminded me that the days were gliding away and here I was. Stuck in my past. Maybe I shouldve tried harder. To do well in college, I mean. I thought about the kids Id graduated high school with. A few of them had managed to escape. Billy Mann had joined the Army. I didnt know where he was now. Kirk Stine moved to Pittsburgh, found some money somewhere, and opened a car dealership. Stan Laudermilk moved to New Jersey and became a big-time drug dealer. Or a pimp. The rumors werent quite clear which. Tom Naschadka had joined the Air Force and became a jet pilot. I thought of him often, as I sat alone in the sun porch, whenever a jet roared overhead on a military training exercise. High in the sky and close to the sun. And me, down here in fly-over country.
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Chrissy Peterson had moved to Florida and became a pole dancer, Id heard. She was pulling in the big bucks. I lay in bed. Stared up at the ceiling. I heard the mailman come. I recognized the sound of his engine motoring down the highway from far away. I heard him stop. I heard the mailbox open. There was a moments pause while he slipped the mail into it. Then the lid slammed shut again. I heard it. Then the engine revved and he started tootling down the highway once again. The next day I would hear it all over again, as I lay in bed. Every day, the same things, never changing. I was still young. But I felt my life slipping away. Well. Maybe the money would change all that. Now. Id bettermove. Try to move. I sat up and rubbed my eyes, trying to clear my head. Then I got up and walked around a little. Scratched at my handit was bothering me. I visited the bathroom, relieved myself. Leaned over the sink and stared at my reflection, pushing up my hair to see how bad my hairline was receding. There was a bad taste in my mouth, so I squeezed some toothpaste onto my finger, started rubbing my gums with it. Tried to forget the memory of the . . . thing. The thing in the dream. What was that all about anyway? I was trying to remember but the dream had faded. All I could remember wassomething about an opposum. Rubbing my gums and teeth . . . . Gradually my brain started to work, and the cloudiness left my head. I thought about what Joe and Amy and I talked about last night. Now that it was a new, bright day and the sunlight was streaming in, and the memory of the dream was fading, and my mind
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was beginning to work again, I was feeling kind of odd. I was feeling kind ofdifferent. I was feeling . . . what . . . what was it . . . . Ah. I was feeling good. How strange. Yes, thats what it was. The weight on my shoulders had eased just a tad. Maybe Joe was right. Maybe this was nothing to go crazy over. He would know. He had a way of getting himself out of tight situations. Thats why they called him CraftyCrafty Joe. Well, okay, actually, no one really called him that. But maybe they ought to start. He always saw a way to milk a situation for all it was worth. He never got caught. Like Amy said, Joe could talk his way out of anything. You know, when you stopped to think about it, I was lucky to know someone like Joe. I could learn a lot from him. That kid had a lot of street smarts. Vewy wily and cwafty. I spat into the sink and turned on the faucet, got a drink, dried my hands on a towel. Yep, I was feeling a whole lot better. I couldnt even remember what the dream was about anymore. Something about water, thats all I remembered. And an animal of some sort. A porcupine? Something. I walked out of the bathroom and headed toward the fridge. I opened it and grabbed a Kickapoo Joy Juice. Noticed that we were getting a little low in the Kickapoo Joy Juice department. Gonna have to make a Kickapoo Joy Juice run soon. Running out would be a Bad Thing. Closed the refrigerator door and walked up the hall to the sun porch. Glanced at the clock. A little after ten. Started to think about what Id do for the day. Belched and parted, parted the curtain a bit to look out and see what the new day brought. Took a little sip of Kickapoo Joy Juice. And damn near spit it out all over the window. Oh.
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My. God. In the parking lot, two black Harleys were parked side by side, the sunlight glinting brilliantly off the chrome. *** I guess I was hoping that the bikers would just . . . go away. But an hour went by and the bikes just sat there, in the parking lot. I figured what Id do was . . . tiptoe down the stairs and . . . take a peek. Try to see exactly what was what. Stay out of sight, see what was going on, then go back upstairs. I threw on a t-shirt, some shorts, a pair of flip-flops, and slowly made my way down the stairs, my back against the wall, listening for shouting or screaming or gunshots or God knows what. What I did hear was . . . . . . My mom holding forth in bubbly conversation. I peeked around the corner. The bikers were sitting at the counter. Steam was rising from their coffee cups. Some empty but crumbly pie dishes rested nearby. The other patrons sat in the booths and snuck glances at the two, trying to pretend that they werent interested. I was so busy being flabbergasted that I got careless. My mom saw me standing there. C. J.! she exclaimed with sudden strange jubilation. Youre awake! I cleared my throat. Yeah. Yeah. Mom. This is my son, my mom said, introducing me to the two bikers. Hello . . . uh, hi, I said. They nodded. The one with the moustache played with his little container of non-dairy creamer, spinning it around like a top with one hand, flicking it with his thumb.
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They rode all the way from Youngstown on their motorcycles. Theyre, theyre, ahwhere did you boys say you were going? Just visiting, maam, Moustache Guy said in a kind of unexpected, rapid, silvery voice which reminded me, for some reason, of a trout swimming in a bubbling brook. More like youd expect from a radio DJ than a biker. Just passing through. These two boys are brothers, my mom said to me. Identical twins. Isnt that interesting? I nodded. Sure.. I knew a set of identical twins when I was growing up, my mom said. Back in New York City. We used to play with them, but then one of them got polio and he was in a wheelchair after that. I had a very large family, she told the bikers. There were eight of us. Three boys and five girls. It wasnt easy with such a large family. There was never enough money. Sometimes wed have to wait until my brother came home with his paycheck before wed have anything to eat. Wed sit on the porch, waiting for him to come, and the smell of the bakery across the street would make us so hungry. But we just had to wait, and after a while you could see . . . . Id heard the story a million times before, and staring at the two bikers, I began to tune it out. They listened politely to my mother while regarding me with lazy half-interest. She kept talking. Obviously my mom was in her manic stage at the moment. I see you, she called to a customer gesturing in one of the back booths. And she hurried over to fill his coffee cup and take his order. There was an awkward silence. I looked at the two bikers. They looked at me. Then they looked at each other. Then they looked back at me. Say, bud, the one without the moustache said, in a Melvin the Martian voice. You must know these parts pretty good. What? I said, my heart pounding a sketchy beat. What do you mean, these parts?
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Oh, well, you know, the guy said. Around here. The people who come into this joint. The people who come and go. I guess, I said, nervously rubbing the cut on my hand. I guess you could say that I know these parts. Some. Well, uh, he said. We was wonderin. We was wonderin if you seen anybody recently that looked a little . . . unusual. Hm, I said. Unusual. What do you mean? Well, thing is, Moustache Guy said. Were looking for a woman. Yeah? I said. A woman, huh? Yeah, he said. Big woman. About forty or so, middle-aged. Long black hair. Big tits. Tattoo on her face. You seen her? Tattoo on her face? I said. Yeah, he said. A little tattoo of a teardrop. Looks like its coming from the corner of her eye. Like she was crying or some shit. Cmon, C. J., I said to myself. Get your act together. If youre gonna try to bluff your way, at least do it right. Dont give silly dumbass answers to their questions. Dont just sit there squirming like a worm in the sun. Make it sound real, at least. Converse. Ask questions. Seem interested. Perform. Get crazy. Do it right. In other words, lie your ass off. I shook my head. Nope, I said. Cant say Ive seen anybody like that. You sure? he said. Yeah, I said. We think she came this way, he insisted.
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Oh yeah, yeah! I exclaimed. Now that you mention it. We found her down by the Old Dam. Boy, did she stink! She was rotted pretty good. We took all her money, probably the money youre looking for, and loaded her up with rocks. Then we floated her out to the center of the dam and scuttled her like a rusty old boat, and accidentally pulled her arm et cetera off in the process! Ha ha ha ha ha ha, her hair, too! We laughed our asses off over that one! Yeah yeah, sure, I remember now, how could I forget? Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha! Stop stop stop. I didnt say that out loud, did I? Even if I did have a sudden impulse to blurt it out, I managed not to say that, didnt I? Even if I was thinking it? Right? By the looks of their facesno. It was all right. It was all in my head. So what I did say was this: Sorry I cant help. Whats her name, anyway? I asked in what I hoped was a . . . casual manner. Moustache Guy glanced at his brother, then looked back at me. We dont think youd know her by name, he said. Okay, I said, affecting a yawn. Whats she doing here anyway? I asked. I mean, was . . . is she visiting or something? Yeah, the clean-shaven one said. Shes visiting. Sorta. So you aint seen nobody like that? You sure? Moustache Guy said. Nope, I said. Im pretty sure Id have remembered someone like that. A woman with a tattoo by her eye and all. Yeah, Moustache Guy said. Thats what people been sayin. I mean, isnt that some kind of gang symbol? I asked. You tried looking up Wilboro way?
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Some, his brother said. Were heading that way later. Somebody like that woulda stood out, I think, I said, scratching my head. People around here seem to know everybody. You know, small towns. Yeah, they agreed. Not like Youngstown, I said. They grunted. I was warming to the task. I mean, people get tattoos, but a picture of a butterfly or something, I explained eagerly. A little teardrop on the faceI dont know. Right, said Moustache Guy. Okay. If I see her, you want me to tell her youre looking for her? Sokay, Moustache Guy said. Well find her. Thanks for the help. There was a pause. I scratched again ferociously at my hand. It was itching something fierce. I glanced down at it. Oh, wow. Id thought my little wound had been getting better but now it looked . . . it was . . . it was like . . . well . . . it looked bad. All angry and puffy and fiery and stuff. Hm. Moustache Guy saw me looking at it. Say, he said. Hell of a cut you got there. Howd that happen? I . . . I got bit, I said. Oh yeah? he said. What bit you? A . . . uh . . . an opossum, I said.
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He stared at my hand for a few seconds. An opossum, he said. Yeah, I said. It wastrying to protect its young. He nodded. Opossums have a strong maternal instinct, he said. The females, at least. Hm, I said. You ought to put some mercurochrome on it, his brother said, nodding at my hand. Mercurochrome or tincture of methiolate. Interesting fact, Moustache Guy said. The common opossum is the only marsupial native to North America. I never realized, I said. Most people dont understand how intelligent they are, his brother said. What? I said. Opossums? They all have different personalities, he said. Each ones an individual. What kind was it that bit you? Moustache asked. Didelphis virginiana? Hm, I said. Well . . . . Of course it was didelphis virginiana, the clean-shaven one said irritably. What else would it be? You dont know, Moustache Guy said, without looking at him. He didnt say. Coulda been an exotic species. His brother shook his head. Not this far north, he said. More coffee? my mom asked. Please, Moustache Guy said. There was a lull in the conversation as my mom filled his cup.
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Im good, the clean-shaven one said when she offered him the pot. She left to help other customers. Thereve been sightings, Moustache Guy said. There was that woolly possum found in Tennessee last year. Unconfirmed, his brother replied. Another lull. The steam curled from Moustache Guys cup. Another round of polka tunes started up on the radio. Didelphis virginiana are carriers of leptospirosis, Moustache Guy said to me. Keep an eye out to see if you develop a dry cough. Or if your liver fails. Its just wonderful, my mom said. We looked up, puzzled. The new fryer, she explained, reaching into the freezer to grab an order of chicken nuggets. It cooks so wonderfully. And it does NOT shock you like the old one did! Mom I said. Its just wonderful. It makes my life so much easier. So much better than that Fry Baby, she said, pointing to the shelf where it sat like an obstreperous child. My son just bought it, she explained to the bikers. He bought it for me. The old one broke. We all looked at each other. The conversation seemed to have ground to a halt. It was like one of us was expected to say something, but we werent sure who. The Moustache Guy shrugged. Looks like a nice machine! he said. Nice chrome! So shiny and new, my mom said. It must have cost a fortune. C. J., you need to let me pay you for it. Like I said, Ma, I said between gritted teeth. I found it cheap. I got a deal.

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Well, you still have to tell me how much it cost. I can pay for it in installments. We can talk about it later, Ma, I said, and scooted the hell out of there. *** To say that my little talk with the bikers had scared the willies out of mewell, that was an understatement. In fact, to say that my little talk with the bikers had scared the willies out of me was an understatementwell, that statement was itself an understatement. Um, if you get my drift. My mind was working very hard. I kept thinking about the woman. I kept thinking about what wed done. I was trying to think of things we mightve missed. The scene at the dam played itself over and over again in my head. I couldnt push the image of the womans face out of my mindhow shed stared at me, so accusingly, as I pushed her to the middle of the dam. The little tattoo of the teardrop next to her eye. Well, the eye socket. The eye itself was misplaced somewhere. Was she still at the bottom? Had she dissolved yet? Were the fish nibbling at her bones? Was she floating on the surface now? Maybe her head had popped off and the bag had slipped off. Maybe, maybe just part of her? Was floating? A head or a foot or her left ear or a small intestine or a, a, oh, I dont know what. Whatever. If someone went out there, what would he find? Did we leave any evidence of what wed done? I mean, wed been pretty careful to sink her good. Wed weighed her down so heavy with rocks that I couldnt, I couldnt even . . . um . . . . Oh shit. Id managed to forget all about the other things that were in the bag wed found, the bag with the money, the cigarettes and the other stuff. The stuff that Amy and Joe had dumped out onto the ground. Wed got so caught up in hiding the body that we just plain forgot about the
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other junk. And it was getting dark and wed been hell-bent on getting out of there and blah blah blah. Wed left that stuff a little upstream and maybe it wasnt too terribly noticeable and yeah, hardly anyone but us ever went anywhere near the Old Dam but, you know, it wasnt entirely out of the realm of possibility that someone might just stumble over that stuff and wonder what it was doing there. Particularly the two sticks of marijuana. People just didnt leave weed lying around like that. Theyd call the cops and Sheriff Marinetti would figure that no one would just toss away two joints and then theyd start looking for who they belonged to. Theyd start wondering if someone had drowned. Maybe. And then maybe theyd start dragging the bottom of the Old Dam with those great big grappling hooks or nets or whatever they used to, well, fish dead things out of water. Maybe the bikers would hear about it. Maybe when they heard about the woman with the bag over her head and the money missing, theyd come looking for us. Maybe. I started to worry. I couldnt sit still for more than a couple minutes. I paced back and forth. I tried winding up the Victrola but the music just didnt do it for me. I kept worrying about that pile of stuff that wed left behind. Finally I called Joe. Joe, I whispered. Joe. Is it safe? Hold on a second, he said. Let me turn down the volume. I got the TV on. The little girls are callin for Mothra. I like it when they do that. I like the way they sing. Joe. Joe, I whispered. Is it safe? Huh? he said. Whazzat?
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Is it safe? Is it okay to talk? I still cant hear a thing youre saying, he said. How about talkin a little louder, why dont you. I SAID, I shouted, is it okay to TALK! Joe was confused. What the hell you mean? he asked. What the hell you mean, is it okay to talk. Opposed to what? Like, whistle or hum or strum the ukulele or The phone, I said. Do you think someone might be listening in? The phone, he repeated. Why would they do that? The walls have ears, I said. The hills have eyes. Huh? Weve got to be careful, I said. I just ran into the Harley guys. They were asking questions. Mmf, he said in a kind of muffled voice. That right? Hung out with the Harley guys, huh? Wow. Yeah, I said. I think I fooled them, though. Heh. I thought back on the incident. I had fooled them, hadnt I? Heh heh. Yeah, I said. I was smooth, man. You shoulda seen me. That was pretty cool. Now that I think of it. But I wouldnt count on . . . I wouldnt . . . hey. What are you eating? Whup. I heard a kind of crackling sound, a bag being rolled up. Jesus, thats disgusting, I said bitterly. Come on. What is it? Scooter Pie, he said meekly. Marshmallow-banana flavor. Well, artificially flavored. And some chips. Do I chew in your ear when Im on the phone?!
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Never. Munch munch munch. Chew chew chew, I said. Sorry, he said. Sorry, dude. I know how much you hate that. I sighed. Joe, man, I said. Dude. Weve got to do something about the stuff. I put it away, he said. No, I said. I mean the stuff at the Old Dam. That little pile of junk you dumped on the ground. Oh. From the bag? Yeah, I thought about that. We forgot to take it with us. Its gonna burn our butts, I said. We were too sloppy. You think too much, he said. You worry too much. Someones gotta. Hey, Seej! he said excitedly. Check this out, man! The Skipper accidentally bashed Gilligan in the head with a crate or somethin, and now his teeths turned into a radio! Theyre all crowded around listenin to the weather through his mouth! Hahahahahaha! Joe, I sighed. Could you please turn down the TV for a minute? Could you please try to concentrate on what Im sayin? Please? Hey, Im listenin, dude, Im listenin, he said. Look, he said. I guess if it makes you feel any better, I guess we could go get it, I guess. All that stuff. I should have snarfed up them two doobies anyway. Well, I said. Okay. Ill bring some tools. Tools, he said. Tools. In case we decide to cut the branches, I explained. A saw and a pair of pliers and some stuff like that.
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Silence on the other end of the line. The branches that the hair got all tangled up in, I said. We should get rid that too. Wed need a lot more than some pliers and a saw, Joe said. Something to stand on while we work. Like a boat or something. Im not supposed to get my cast wet. Right, I said. I mean, I got a boat, he said. Its a beaut. But I aint got a way to get it nowhere, since we wrecked my truck. Its just sittin in front of my house. Lets go take a look, I said. Then we can decide what to do. Ill call Amy. You know, he said. We dont really need to bring her along. We dont really need to. A pause. Whats the matter with calling her? I asked. Whats the problem? Well. Cant just you and me go? Well, I said. I dont know. Been a long time since you and me did anything together, he pointed out. You know. Just the guys. Doin guy stuff. Hangin out. Shootin stuff. Blowin shit up. Well, I said. Amys just like one of the guys. Although at that exact instant an image flashed through my mind of Amy and me, in the apple orchard, sitting under the tree. Kay eye ess ess eye en gee! Oh dear! Just like that dumb old schoolyard rhyme . . . . Yep, I said slowly, somewhat stunned at the recollection. Just one of, just like one of the ol See, heres the thing, Joe explained. In this little party we got goin here . . . Im worryin . . . well . . . . What?
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Shes the weak link. I thought about that for a second. Really, I said. Why do you say that? Well, he said. Lots of things. What she said, for instance. Cant keep the money. Oh, no no no no no. That wouldnt be right. Oughta call the police. Blah blah blah blah blah. Whine whine whine. You know, sooner or later, shes gonna squeal. Oh, no, I said, aghast. Amy wouldnt do that. You dont think? he asked. You must be livin in a different reality than I am. Figures. Youre always making excuses for her. Even when she does dumb stuff. Why are you always making excuses? I dont know, I said. Shes my friend. Weve been friends for a long time. Arent I your friend too? he asked simply. A pause. Joe, I sighed. What is it with you and ol Amy, anyway? Ol Anytime Amy? he asked. Hey, I said. I dont like it when you call her that. Thats what everybody else calls her, he pointed out. You know thats what everybody calls her. I know, I said. I know thats what people call her. I dont like it. They say she gets around, he said. They say, back in high school, she did the whole varsity football team one time. Under the bleachers. After they won in double overtime. Yeah, I said. But I still dont like it when you call her that. Another awkward silence.
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I heard him sigh. Well, he said, resignedly. Okay. All right. If you say so. Seems to me that youre just freakin out over nothin. But if you wanna go, poke through the woods, buddy . . . we go. *** So an hour later we were walking down a twisting winding cow path through the woods, on our way to the Old Dam. Amy was there, wearing the denim jacket Id given her a couple years ago, around her waist, with the arms tied up in front. She seemed reluctant. She seemed subdued. She wasnt saying very much. I was busy asking Joe questions as we made our way beneath the maples and pines. So, like, if you eat a fish that, turns out, ate part of a dead guy, is that the same as if youre like eating the dead guy yourself? Dunno, Joe said. Philosophically speaking, I said. I meanwhat if the fish still has bits of the dead guy in, like, its small intestine or something? Wouldnt work that way, Joe pointed out, bored. You wouldnt be eating the intestines. Youdve gutted it. Okay. Well, what if the fish has already digested the pieces, and theyve gone into the bloodstream and all. Would you be eating the dead guy then? Or are you just eating fish? Silence. Joe, I said. What if the fish has shat out all the human bits already? I looked around. No Joe. Joe? I asked.
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Shhh! Joe said. Joe! Amy called out. Where are you? Quiet! he whispered. He was hiding in the tall grass behind a thorn tree. Over here! Get over here! Git down! Amy and I ducked and crawled into the grass. Whats going on? Amy whispered. Look, he said, pointing ahead. There was somebody at the Old Dam. A figure silhouetted against the glittering water. Holy monkey trumpets! Amy cried. Itsits! It was Sheriff Marinetti. His police motorcycle was parked nearby, under a tree, the shiny chrome looking all out of place among the bushes and shrubs and rustic ruralness of the woods. Whats he doing here?! Amy whispered. I dont know, I whispered back. But make sure he doesnt see us. He already does! Amy said, standing up. Run! Whoa whoa whoa, hold on! Joe said. Just stay put. Youre gonna make it look like were guilty of something. Marinetti was hollering, motioning to us. Aw, shitdicks, Joe said, rising to his feet. Lets go. Just act natural. Natural? Amy asked in amazement. Casual, Joe said. Calm and cool. Maintain. Maintain, I repeated automatically. Maintain.
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I glanced out over the water. Thank God. As far as I could tell, the dead branches that had been sticking up had rolled over and sunk or something. Whatever the reason, the hair-flag was no longer there, screaming out what wed done. But I didnt get too long to look, because in another moment Marinetti was puffing and wheezing his way up to us. Well, howdy! he said cheerfully. Hello, Sheriff, we murmured, shuffling our feet. Lets see now, he said. He waved a hand in Amys direction, pointing with his toothpick, holding it between thumb and finger. Youre the Schaffer girl, right? Yes. Thought so, he said, placing the toothpick back between his teeth. Annie is it? Amy, she said. Right, right, he said. Amy Schaffer. Hows Huck doin inwhats he in, the Army? Marines. Right, he said. Semper Fi. Hows he like it? He likes it okay, I guess. Well, next time you see him, you tell him ol Marinettis got his eye on him. Sure, Amy said. Ill tell him. Tell him I still got the twenty-two revolver I took from him. Did he ever tell you that story? Marinetti said. No, Amy said. He never did.
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That boy was a terror, Marinetti drawled. Always gettin into trouble. Pretty good linebacker, though. He looked at me. You Pickles boy? Pickle was the name my dad was known by around town. Yeah, I said. Right, he said, Pickles boy. Next he turned to Joe. His eyes narrowed. I know you, he said. Last names Lukaszewitcz. Second Avenue. Youre a long way from town. Sore you, Joe pointed out. Marinetti gave him a funny look. Thats so, he said. Watcha doin out this neck of woods? he asked. I was visiting my friends, Joe said, glancing at Amy and me. We was . . . goin swimming. Yep, Marinetti said, glancing up at the sky, chewing on his toothpick. Wont be too many more warm days. He absent-mindedly polished the badge on his chest with the tip of his thumb. You kids come here a lot? Some, said Joe coolly. We swim here sometimes. That so? Marinetti said. You ever notice anything out of the ordinary? Like what? I said. What would be out of the ordinary? What do you mean? Amy asked. You mean like something unusual? No sir! I said. We havent seen anything unusual. Marinetti played with his toothpick, rolling it between his teeth. Okay, he said. All right. Hey! he said to Joe. What? said Joe. You better keep that cast from gettin wet. Oh, yeah, Joe said. Gotta keep it outta the water. He chuckled and lifted his arms.
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Raise my hands high. Keep em where you can see em, he giggled. I looked at Joe. He was smiling. That sonofabitch was enjoying this. Yeeeess, Marinetti slowly said. Something was bothering me. Something was bothering me about Marinetti. Maybe it was that string. That little piece of string clinging to the fabric of his trousers. Right by his fly. Not really a stringsmaller than that. A thread, maybe. Cotton, maybe, or some man-made material like polyester, I didnt know exactly. It just sort of dangled there, kinda wriggly and worm-like, like stray threads do. It bothered me. It seemed so untidy. I wished he would take it away. I glanced at Amy, to see if she too saw the string. She saw something. Her face was white and her eyes were wide. They darted between Marinettis face andwell, something behind him. I followed the direction of her gaze. I saw what she was looking at. I saw it sticking out of the water. Near the waters edge. Right behind Marinetti. Kinda half-in, half-out of the water. A lot of flies buzzing around. It was the arm. It was the arm that Id pulled off the dead woman. The hand lay with the palm facing the sky, the fingers curled in a kind of supplication. Joed been rightsomething had been eating it. But not enough to do us much good. Though itd been gnawed on and chewed up, the bones sticking through the skin, you could still make out some blackened fingers, the thumb and such. And then there was the rainbow-colored braided friendship bracelet tied around the wrist. It was only about ten yards away. If Marinetti turned, hed see it easy. Hey! Marinetti said. I thought you said you was goin swimmin.
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Yup, Joe said. Sowheres your towels? How come youre not wearing swim suits? Uh, I said. I . . . I . . . . said Amy. Well, Joe said. Truth is, sir . . . we werent gonna wear any clothes. Marinettis eyebrows arched and his smile disappeared. Did I hear you right, son? he asked. You was gonna swim naked? Yessir. We was goin skinny dipping. Hmmmm, Marinetti said. It was sort of a spur of the moment thing, Joe said. Hmmmm, Marinetti said. Thats why we aint got no towels or nothin, said Joe. Hmmmm, said Marinetti. Well, son, dont get me wrong. I was young once myself. But I dont think thats a real good idea. No? Joe said. No sir, said Marinetti. Not such a good idea. I dont much take to the idea of young people of mixed sex runnin around the woods with nothin on. Well, Joe said. Okay, then. How bout if it was all the same sex, sir? Would that be all right? Marinetti frowned.

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I mean, Joe said. Like, say, a bunch of the guys down at the cop shop. You know, your buddies. And you. If you was all swimmin here. Naked. Loungin around together. Naked. Oilin down each others bodies. Naked. Rubbin each others You just skidaddle out of here, now, Marinetti said in a quiet voice. Yessir. We started to walk away. Come back when ya got some swim trunks, ya hear? he called out after us. Whew, he said, waving his hand in front of his nose. Something died. *** Hiding in the brush, we watched him for a while. We could hear him whistling. Whats he doing now? Amy whispered. Dont know, I said. Kinda looking around. Is he looking for something? Dont know. Is he gonna see it? I dont know! He aint gonna find it, Joe said. Were clear, were cool, were gonna be all right. Suddenly, though, Marinetti seemed to be very interested in . . . in . . in what, I couldnt tell. Something. He was walking about in circles. He peered this way and that, bobbing his head in a way that sort of reminded me of a pigeon. He looked back in our direction, craning his head to see if wed really left. We ducked. Uh oh, I said. But then Marinetti unzipped the fly of his pants and proceeded to take a slow, leisurely leak.

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Amy turned her head. I dont really need to see that. Throwin an arc, Joe observed. Marinettis whistling started up again, louder, the melody brighter, with lots of tremolo and glissando and such. Then he was done. Marinetti zipped up his fly. But still he was looking around. Something near the water caught his eye. He went over to investigate, a frown on his face. Uh oh! I said. Is Amy said, her face in her hands. Is it all over? Nah, said Joe. I think . . . well, I said. I think . . . well . . . . Marinetti reached down and picked up . . . a pebble or a twig or something, something small. He inspected it for a few seconds, scowling, peering at it closely, turning it over in his fingers. Then he tossed it away, whatever it was. He stuck his hands in his pockets and kicked at a log with his toe. Like a bored little boy. Please make him go, please make him go, Amy said. Then Marinetti strode purposefully back toward his motorcycle. Hes leaving! I said. Sweet Jesus! Told ya, said Joe. Oh, thank you! Amy said brightly, to no one in particular. Thank you thank you thank you! Hang in there, Ame, I said. Its almost over. Her face looked like it was carved in alabaster, it was so white.
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Marinetti straddled the bike and pushed the starter button. The engine bawled to life. He gave the throttle a few twists of the wrist, revving the engine. Maybe, I thought. Maybe I should start going to church again. He put the bike in gear. It jerked forward a few feet. He began to pull out. Then . . . . A look . . . . A look passed over Marinettis face. A look of . . . puzzlement. Confusion. Concern. And he got off the bike. He pushed the kickstand in place with his toe. Uh oh, said Joe. I was horrified. What? Marinetti was walking back in the direction of the water, in the direction of the arm. Oh no, I said. Crap, said Joe. Ohmigodohmigodohmigod, Amy said. Yes. It was true. He was standing over the arm, looking straight down at it. He stood with his back toward us, facing the water, hands on his hips. He leaned over for a closer look, then stood straight again. He glanced over his shoulder for a moment, looking in our direction. We ducked. Then he looked down again, regarding the arm some more. Amy was freaking. Holy shit holy shit holy shit! she was saying. What do we do, what do we do, what do we do?
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Ill take care of it, Joe said. He stood up. And calmly ambled out. Joe! I hissed. Whatre you! What dya think youre! He just shook his head and gave a little dismissive wave of his hand. Get back here! I said. But he kept on walking. What was he THINKING? He wasnt gonna talk his way out of this one. Uh uh. No way. We watched as he meandered up behind the cop. The motorbike was idling, its low rumbling filling the valley, drowning out the familiar sounds of wind and water. Marinetti was peering out over the water. Joe paused a few feet behind him. We watched for a few moments while he seemed to take in the situation. Whats . . . . whats he up to? I wondered out loud. In the trees around us, the cicadas screamed. Joe! Amy hissed. Come back! I held up a hand, trying to get his attention, but he didnt see. Joe scratched the back of his neck. He glanced around, as if not exactly sure what to do. Then he bent over to pick something up. No. He wasnt gonna . . . he couldnt be thinking . . . . NO! I screamed. Marinetti heard me. I think he heard mehe turned to look. He was in mid-turn when the rock hit his head. Even from the distance I could hear the noise it made. Sort of a hollow, sticky, sound. Like a brick punching into a watermelon. Amy gasped.
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Marinetti stood for a moment, squinting at Joe. He held one trembling finger up, as if in admonishment. Then his body shriveled up and he crumbled to the ground. Fuck fuck FUCK! I screamed. I jumped up and ran over. Joe, what the fuck! Marinetti was lying half in, half out of the water. His eyes were bulging with astonishment. Well, one was bulging. The other was hanging from its socket. His face was frozen in a kind of a leer. Made him look like he was wearing a goofy kind of smile. A bloody, goofy smile. He didnt seem to be breathing. I started punching his chest like Id seen in the movies. It was like hitting a sack of flour. Little bloody bubbles burbled up onto his lips. That aint gonna help, Joe said. Hes got a big chunk of brain missing. I stood up, and then for a full minute we just looked at the . . . thing on the ground. Maple seed helicopters spiraled gently down around us, landing on the ground, onto the water, on Marinetti. The blood flowed out. Already the flies were excited. The rock dropped from Joes hand. YOU KILLED HIM! I screamed at him. YOU KILLED HIM! Yes, he said. I did. WHAT! I shouted. WHAT DID YOU DO THAT FOR! I punched him. I hit him again and again. He backed away and put his arm up to fend off my blows, but otherwise didnt do anything to stop me. Whats the MATTER with you? Are you FUCKED in the HEAD?! I screeched. I had to do something! Joe yelled. He seemed a bit shaken. He seen the arm! He seen the arm! He was . . . gonna put us in jail! I thought you had a plan! I shouted. I didnt think you were gonna KILL him!
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No! he said. I wasnt trying to! I wasnt trying to kill him! You werent tryinyou werentwhat the fuck WERE you trying to do? Huh? Huh? I yelled, trying to punch his head. What else CAN you fuckin do with a fucking rock to the fuckin head? Huh? Huh? I hit him again and again, and then I started to kick him, as best I could. Ow! he said. Cut it out! That hurts! You idiot! I shouted, kicking as hard as I could. You dumb bastard! He found the arm! Joe said. Next thing you know, he woulda, woulda had the fire department and scuba gear and fuck all knows what out here, and theyd be searching the bottom or something! I stopped hitting him. I was exhausted. I put my hands down. My knuckles were bleeding. Theyd a found her! he said. Now, now, just settle down, fer chrissakes! Jesus! Just relax! Motherfuckin chill! I know this is pretty hard to take but they woulda found her! They woulda known it was us! Im telling youthere was nothing else I coulda done! You . . . you . . . I couldnt get the words out. I felt like my head was going to bust. I searched for the language, but I couldnt think of how to express what I needed to say. I couldnt think of anything to call him that was evil enough. I was furious and shocked and horrified and disgusted and very, very terrified. You . . . you . . . imbecile . . . you . . . fucking moron . . . . Okay, okay, I know this is a big mess, he said. I know this looks bad. But Jesus, just calm down, cool it! You bastard . . . you . . . idiot . . . . There was a harsh guttural sound behind us. Amy was throwing up. She stood up and wiped her chin.

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Im going to give myself up now, she announced. Im going to go into town and walk into the police station and tell them what happened. No, you are NOT! Joe said. Yes I am, she said levelly. Im going to tell them about how we found the money, how I was going to use it to further my education. Im going to tell them about the woman at the bottom of the dam, about the bag around her neck, and Im going to tell them about what happened here today. Then Im going to stop at Sheetz and buy myself a Kickapoo Joy Juice because Im very very thirsty. Joe tripped up the bank, running and stumbling toward her. Amy stepped back in fright. My God! she cried. Did you HEAR me? Joe shouted. Youre not going to do ANYthing like that! Stand back, Joe, I said, taking a step forward. Keep away from her. Shes crazy! he said. Shes gonna put us away! No! she shrieked. Youre the crazy one! I didnt kill this guy so that we could turn ourselves in! he said. If we were gonna do that, we shoulda done it BEFORE I bashed his head in, for Christs, for Gods . . . . His voice trailed off and he just stood there, his eyes wide but looking at nothing, his head nodding, the Adams apple in his neck bobbing up and down in a funny kind of way. I shook my head. Its time, Joe, I said. This is the end. Come on, C. J., Amy said. Lets go. Just . . . a minute. I crouched next to Marinetti and pressed my fingers to his neck. There didnt seem to be a pulse, but it was hard to tell. It was hard to concentrate with Joe laughing so loud.

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Whatwhat the fuck is so funny? I asked bitterly. You see something funny about this? He just laughed some more. A deep belly laugh. Then he said: You guys are accessories to the crime! Youre gonna go down! Youre gonna go down! Amy and I looked at each other. Youre gonna get life in prison! he said. Maybe get out in forty years if youre lucky! How you like them apples? Gettin out when youre like sixty or seventy years old? I stood up, a little wobbly. I was suddenly feeling a little dizzy. Ah, I said. Ah, shit. Me, he said. Im a lucky guy! Theres a death penalty in Pennsylvania. Ill get the chair or the magic needle or whatever it is they use these days. You two are looking at a six by four room at the gray-bar hotel for the rest of your lives. He laughed some morea little hysterically, I thought. Then he held his hand out to me. Hey, C. J.! Let me introduce you to your new cell mate. His name is . . . Bubba! He grabbed my hand and started petting it. Bubba like C. J.! he said. C. J. . . . prit-tay! I snatched my hand away. Soap on a rope! Soap on a rope! he shouted in my face. Better ask for soap on a rope! For yer birthday, I mean. Sos you dont hafta bend over! When you drop it in the shower! Soap on a rope! Soap on a rope! he squawked, like some sort of pathetic parrot. He turned to Amy. Schaffer, Joe said. For you itll be like one of them chicks in prison flicks. You know, with the shower rape scene and all? Heeeeeeres Johnny! Johnny Broomstick. Your new boyfriend! Im going into town, Amy said shakily. Im going into town right now.
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NEGATIVE, Joe said. Neither of yous going anywhere. What youre GONNA do is help me get rid of Marinetti. So that Amy can go to school, I dont have to shake hands with Mr. Sparky, and C. J. can do whatever the fuck he was goddamn planning to do ten, fifteen, twenty minutes ago! Nowwe did it once, we can do it again. I found a log and sat down. SOMEONE KILL THAT FUCKING ENGINE! I snarled. Amy walked over to the motorbike and switched off the key. I put my head in my hands. I lay my head between my knees. I looked at the grass and the things crawling in it. I put my hand on my chest. I suddenly felt like crying. I thought maybe at any moment Id burst into tears. It was all I could do to keep from sobbing. I closed my eyes and massaged them. It felt so good to massage my eyes. It felt so good to close them. The blackness was reassuring. Maybe this was all just a dream. Maybe this was all just a very bad dream. Was this just a dream? When I opened my eyes again, Amy was naked. Well, almost. Shed stripped off her t-shirt and bra and was unbuttoning her jeans. Wha I stuttered. Amy, what, what I thought it over, she said. If Im going to be an accessoryan accessory to murder, according to what District Attorney Joe saysdo you mind if I call you District Attorney, District Attorney Joe? No? Nothing to say? Okay, well, then. If Im going to be an accessory to murder . . . . She wiggled her jeans down around her hips. And looked me dead in the eye. Im gonna make damn sure the job gets done right, she said. And kicked off her jeans.

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You guys, she saidsomewhat bitterly, I thought. You guys couldve let me know. She picked up her jeans and started folding them, quickly and expertly, as if she were home putting away the laundry. I mean, she continued, her voice wavering. When you called, if youd just told me we were going to be hiding another dead person today, I couldve planned ahead. She finished folding her jeans, so she set them down and started on her jacket. I wouldnt have to be standing here practically naked right now, she said, still folding. I wouldnt have to be standing here with my big blubbery fat just sticking out where the whole wide world can see. I wouldve made sure to bring along my bathing suit, at least. You know. The one I keep for special occasions. That nice purple one-piece that I keep for committing felonies in. The one I wore when I robbed the bank. The one I wore when I blew up the Tastee Freez. I wouldve brought that along. You didnt tell me youd be wanting to sink another body today. She was done with the jacket, so she placed it with the jeans, forming a neat little pile on the grass. Then she started on her t-shirt. A towel, she continued. A robe. A swim cap. Some suntan lotion maybe. A girl does like to be prepared. I couldve packed us some sandwiches, she said, her chin beginning to quiver as if, as ifwell, not as if, she WAS trying not to cry. In a nice little basket, well, Tupperware at least. We couldve had a lunch. A picnic. Some flowers. I mean, gosh darn it! You couldve let me know! Shed finished with her t-shirt, so she started folding her socks. Boy! she wailed. You guys sure know how to show a girl a good time! Joe was staring at her, mouth open wide and all googly-eyed. BLINK much? she snapped angrily, tearfully. Why dont you take a pictureitll last . . . itll last . . . longer . . . . He looked away and hung his head like some chastened dog. But still managed to sneak a peek or two, out of the corner of his eye. As did I. At her milky white skin, the freckles that dotted her smooth round breasts on her delicate frame. At her thin waifs shoulders, which could have been cast in porcelain, they were so fragile, so elegant. At that soft downy wisp of hair that ran from her exquisite navel down the feminine bulge of her belly disappearing into the waistband of her silky pink panties
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with the little cartoon of a smiling happy spouting whale sewed onto them into the nether regions of OH OH OH She waded into the water. Help meOOH! Help me get him in, she said, tugging on Marinettis leg. We just stared. I noticed that she had a kind of an extraordinary tattoo, a kind of extraordinary tattoo on her Come ON! she said. What ARE you waiting for? Help me get him IN! Okay, Amy, Joe said. All right. Yeah, all right, Ame, I said. Okay. Joe and I waded into the water and started pushing. Oof! I said. Goddamn! He weighs like a ton! One too many donuts, Joe said. Jeez! I said. Maybe we should just leave him here. Let them find him here by the shore. Make it look like he drowned. With that hole in his head? Joe asked. He looked out over the water and shook his head. Nah. Better to hide him. Sweep him under the rug. With the rest of the dirt. Working hard, we managed to drag Marinetti a few inches through the mud, into deeper water. Hold on a sec, Joe said, straightening. I almost forgot. Oh jiminy crickets! Amy exclaimed. What now? We gotta weigh him down, Joe said. So he dont float. Remember the woman? We gotta get some rocks and stones and things. I lifted my hands before my eyes. They were warm and sticky with blood.
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Problem! I said, gazing at my hands. Howre we . . . what . . . whatre we gonna put the rocks in? Howre we gonna hang em, hang em off him? Howre we gonna attach them to his body, I mean? We aint got a duffel bag. We aint got any kind of bag. We aint got jack. You guys wait here, Joe said. Im gonna run back to the house and get somethin. A pause. Youre gonna do what? I said. Im gonna run home, he said, and look for something to put rocks in. Like, ah, ah, a laundry bag or a picnic basket or an umbrella. Or something. Oh dear, Amy said. Joe, whatwhat I said. What kind of drugs you on?! What the hell kind of . . . . I aint gonna sit here for two hours with a dead cop while you walk home and rummage through your basement and make yourself a little snack and watch a little TV and Dont worry, he said. Itll just be a couple minutes. I dont think so, I said. What if someone shows up while youre gone? What if you never come back? said Amy. Just say hes sleeping, Joe said. We just looked at him. Right? he said. Just pretend hes taking a little nap. If someone shows up. And asks, and asks Joe, I said quietly. Whatever it is we do, we do right now. Well . . . . he said. Well . . . . I know! Amy! he said excitedly. Well use your jacket! Whaaaa? she said.
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Yeah! he said. Its perfect! We just tie the arms around his neck and fill it up with rocks and button it all up and then . . . and then . . . um. His voice trailed off as he began to feel the heat of her glare. C. J. gave me this jacket, she said quietly. I gave her that jacket! I said. It can be traced back to me! Well, Joe said, rubbing his forehead vigorously with the back of his hand. Okay. So we dont use your jacket. All right. Okay. But Ill tell you what. I sure as shit aint havin him floatin back up again. No way. He stooped and began scooping up pebbles and stones and sand and crap, shoving it all into Marinettis shoes, his pants, his pockets, anywhere it would go. While Amy and I watched in amazement. While Marinetti grinned happily up. Joe, you nincompoop, I said. My patience was pretty much at an end. What the fuck. That aint gonna do fuck. That fuckin little piddly shit. Fuck that piddly shit. I tend to swear when I get excited. Dont know whetherta shit or go BLIND, Joe intoned, prying open Marinettis pants pocket with the finger of one hand, pouring in sand with the other. Dont know whetherta shit or go BLIND. Dont put too much in, Amy said. She was standing in the water sort of twisting her legs with her arms crossed, rubbing her shoulders, trying to stay warm. I need to be able, I need to be able to I SAID, FUCK THAT PIDDLY SHIT! I hollered. I mean, Joe said, still pouring sand. Just think how much better off the world would be, if everyone would just pitch in and I need to be able to carry him, Amy said. Hurry up! Its freezing!

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Wish I had my inner tube, I said, mostly to myself. We could float him out. Like we did the other, the other Never mind, Amy said grimly. Thats what the cross chest tow is all about. And without another word she slipped into the water, wrapped her arm around Marinettis chest, and began swimming, heading toward the middle of the dam. Gee, Schafe, Joe said. Um. What about your delicate undergarments? Thats a long, hard swim . . . . Dont wanna get waterlogged . . . . Maybe you oughta lose those too! But she just gave him a dismal look. And kept on swimming. Just joking! Joe shouted to her. Joking, I mumbled. My stomach felt like it was filled with lead. At a time like, at a time like Just tryin to keep our spirits up! Joe said. Espree day corpse and all that. We watched those two bobbing faces recede in the water, Amys taut and businesslike, Marinettis comically scrambled, his eye hanging down and sort of rotating to the rear, as if he too were trying to snatch a peek at Amys guileless beauty. Well. I could feel good about one thing, at least. At least the waterd washed that damned string off Marinettis fly. Powee! Joe said to me, rubbing the side of his face. You sure landed me a good one there! Hurts like a mother. You sure hit me good with that last, with that last . . . . I had a terrible sense of dj vu. Just like last time, twilight was approaching and all seemed so placid, so still, so calm. The water was like glass green.

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I didnt mean to kill him! Joe whined. I was just gonna stun him or something, knock him out cold. Then we could tie him up and keep im in a cave or in your basement or somewhere and bring him snacks and things to eat and just keep him there until he promised, until he promised . . . not to . . . . His voice trailed off, his shoulders slumped. I put a hand to my brow. Hoo, boy, I said. Hoo, boy. Hoo, boy. Hoo, boy. Hoo, boy. Hoo, boy. Hoo, boy. Hoo, boy. Hoo, boy. Hoo, boy. Hoo, boy. Joe stood watching Amy swim away. For a minute or two. Considering. Hm, he said, ya know, he said. Shes got some major cajones. For a chick. Hoo, boy, I said. She looks pretty in pink, Joe mused. Did you get a gander at that extraordinary tattoo? Too bad about her leg. Did I mention that? When Amy was born, the doctors noticed that there was some kind of . . . problem. Something not quite right. One of her feet was, er, well, it was a little bit . . . twisted. Compared to the other. Shed had to wear a bunch of casts on her foot for years, when she was a little kid, always getting one taken off and another put on, and finally everything straightened out, but not quite perfectly. You really couldnt notice most of the time, except maybe when she was wearing shorts or a bathing suit, or next to nothing like she was now. And when she walked, she walked with a teeny little bit of a limp, thats all. Other than that, normally you couldnt even tell. At least, thats what I kept telling her. Over and over again. The water lapped musically at our feet. ***
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Please stop crying, Amy, I said. I wish I could just be normal, she said through her tears. I wish it could just be like the way it was. Shed finished her chore and returned to shore and donned her t-shirt again but it was sticking to her wet skin and she stood with goose bumps on her legs and arms. And she was shaking. Shaking and trembling like the earth was quaking. It will be Amy, I said. Youll see. Its going to be okay. I wanted to put my arm around her, comfort her, but there were pieces of Marinetti in her hair. And there was something else, too. A sense of not knowing where to go, not knowing how to fit in, not knowing where I belonged. Now, heres what were gonna do, see? Joe said. Were gonna go back home and not tell anybody about this, see? Were gonna go back and just live our lives. See? What was he doing here? I babbled. Did he find out about the woman? Did he find out about the money? What? Dont know, and it dont matter much, Joe said. At this point, it dont matter much at all, does it? Lets get out of here, Amy said. Please. Yeah, said Joe. Lets go get the shit, get the fuck out. Wait, Amy said. She nodded toward the water. The rock. The one that Joe used. I walked over and picked it up, examined it. It reminded me of my college days. Sandstone, I said grimly. Actually an orthoquartzite. Probably Silurian. One end of it was somewhat pointed, somewhat sharp. And bloody. And sticking to it were little bits of, little bits of Into the water she goes, Joe said, grabbing the rock from me and hurling it with all his might. It made a big splash.
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The arm, the arm, Amy said woefully. Yep, said Joe, and walked over to where the flies were swarming. He picked it up by the bracelet andinto the water it went. Now what about the bike? I asked. How are we gonna make that disappear? Ill show you, Joe said. Ill show you what were going to do with that. He walked over to it, stood beside it, gripped the handlebars. Spit. Kicked the kickstand up. Turned the key and pushed the ignition button. The engine turned over and started right up, a deep guttural purr. He spit again. Revved the engine. Revved it again. Pulled the clutch handle, put the bike in gear with his toe. Revved the engine once more. Released the clutch a little bit and moved ahead an experimental foot or two, stepping with the bike as it jerked forward. Spit one last time. Then opened the throttle wide, the engine screaming. Then let out the clutch. The bike went speeding, soaring, arcing over the bank. Out, out into the water. It floated for a few seconds after the engine died, and then it went under. There was a moments silence. Thats, I said, thats it? Half question, half statement of fact. Thats it, Joe said. I feel, Amy said. I feel . . . . Her voice trailed off. We walked up river, to where wed first found the money. But there was nothing there. What? I said. We stood silently for a minute, staring at the ground, trying to absorb this development. Was it up a little ways? I asked.
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It was right here. Theres where I found it, Amy said, pointing at the tree. Its gone, Joe said. SON of a BITCH! I shook my head. This is so fuckin weird. Did Marinetti find it? Where did he put it? Its gone, Amy said. I dont know why. But lets leave this place. Can we leave this place now? Please? Okay, Joe grumbled. Fuck it. Fuck it to hell! So he wasnt in quite as jovial a humor as the last time we made a body disappear. No little songs to sing today. No little tunes to whistle. Theyre gonna miss him, I said. Theyre gonna wonder where he is. Nothing we can do about that, Joe said. Just gotta keep our heads low. P-BAR, he said. Huh? I said. Peewhat? Pee bee . . . ay arr, Joe said. Probably Be All Right. Shit! I said. I never want to come here again, Amy said. Never ever ever. We began the long walk back. It seemed so far a distance to go. And this time around, we didnt have any money packed away in our towels to cheer us up. Did you . . . Amy said. Did you ever . . . . She abruptly stopped short and just stood there, a smile on her lips, her eyes shining, her face looking bright as she peering up at the sun. Did you ever get the feeling that, while you were away, someone at home went out and bought you a nice present, a really nice present of some kind, and you know its just waiting there for you when you get home? I kind of feel like that now! Im thinking that, well, I dont
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know who, exactly, but somebody somewhere just went out and got me the nicest present you ever want to see, and its just sitting at home on the table waiting for me right now, and when I get home, itll be . . . itll just be . . . sitting . . . and Im . . . Im going to . . . . Her voice trailed off. Joe and I looked at each other, then back at Amy. She didnt seem to see us. She was still looking up at the sky, but now her face didnt look so happy anymore. She slowly began walking again. So we followed her. Joe cleared his throat. I think weve all learned a very important lesson here today, he began. Shut up, Joe, Amy said. Quiet, fool, I hissed. Right, he said. My hand throbbed terribly. I had a funny feeling in my head. Like I was seeing everything through a fever or something. And, unlike last time, I didnt bother to look back. There was nothing to do. There was nothing that could be done. This was a New Thing.

***
I was trying to get to sleep, but all I could really do was watch the numbers on the digital clock change. Minute by minute, hour by hour . . . . One oclock, one-thirty, two oclock, three, four . . . . I was desperately wishing that sleep would come and release me from this . . . hellish agony. I was in the clutches of The Fear. Terrible fear. Horrible fear. The kind that your body forgets when its not in the midst of it. The kind that you normally cant even imagine.
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The kind that takes your breath away. Like a cold iced skeleton hand is reaching through your chest and crushing your heart. The kind that some lunatics in asylums bear every moment of their lives. Where every minute is an agony, every momentdeath. Where each innocent soundthe refrigerator kicking in, a creak of the floorboards in the black of the nightsets your pulse racing, racing, your forehead sweating, sweating. Where you lie in your bed listening to the sound of, the rhythm of, your own heart, and it astonishes you that it is beating at all, that it can keep beating in such a manner for the rest of, for all of your life, silly little hunk of quivering tissue that it is. Where you are all too aware that, after each beat, there is no assurance that in another moment it will start up again. And one day it certainly will stop, that much is guaranteed. And so you lie there in the dark and, in between each beat, in that pause in which your life, your consciousness, all you know and understand, all you love and cherish, everything, hangs in the balanceyou wait, desperately, pathetically hoping for that frail sack of meat to throb at least once more. Outside my window, from far far away, the lonely sound of a train whistle . . . . And all the while the digital numbers kept changing: four fifteen, four-thirty, four forty-five . . .. Would sleep never come? I tossed and I turned. Finally I lumbered to my feet, staggered out into the kitchen and to the shelf where my mom kept a bottle of Crme de Cacao. For special occasions. Well, I thought, unscrewing the cap. This was a special occasion. I lifted the bottle to my lips. Took big gulps. I drank a third of the bottle before I started gagging on the sickening sweetness. I stumbled back to my bed.
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Then I was able to fall to sleep, or at least into unconsciousness. It was really hard to wake up the next morning. There was a single blissful moment right after I woke in which my mind was blank and my conscience was free. I awoke, there was sudden awareness, and I felt the childlike excitement of being alive. I heard the birds chirping and I could see a bit of blue sky through the window. Then memory came flooding back, and with it the terrible weight, the horror that thrust like a dagger into my brain. Marinetti. Rock. Head. Dead. I rolled over and tried to find my way back to that beautiful place of non-awareness but I could not. So after a few minutes, I sat up and tried to start making the same kinds of movements, the same kinds of motions, that normal people did. I looked at the clock. Eleven AM. My head hurt. I sat down in the chair in the corner. There was some kind of insect, a stinkbug or something, clinging to the ceiling above my head. The next time I looked up, it was after seven oclock, the sun had disappeared over the hill, and the bug was gone. You know, I thought to myselfand this was the first really clear thought Id had in all those hours. Its one thing to imagine youd know what youd do in a . . . situation like this. Its entirely different to actually find yourself in one. My addled brain tried to start working again. The thoughts came slow. They bounced around in my skull like popcorn. I was trying to figure out how . . . I felt.
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My hand hurt. It was swelling up so much that it was getting hard to move my thumb and fingers. Id have to get it looked at. Soon. When? Soon. I didnt feel all that afraid. Not at the moment. That was interesting. Maybe the survival instinct was kicking in. Maybe I just didnt care anymore. I did feel sorry for myself. A little bit. I didnt know why things always had to go against me. The past few years had been hard. What with college and all, my parents divorce. I wished, I wished I could just figure out what I was supposed to do with my life. Why I was here. What it was all about. Then I could just do it, get it done, get it over with, discharge my duties. Then I could move on to the more important business of dying. Figure out what I was supposed to do, do it, and call it a life. I felt sorry for Amy. Joeit was a little hard for me to feel sorry for Joe, right now. But I felt sorry for Amy. My mom, too. I felt sorry for anyone who ever had anything to do with me. What a fuck-up I was. Things had been bad before. But now they were the absolute worse. Forevermore, it seemed, Id always be a little different. Forevermore Id have an evil secret. Thered always be a kind of wall between me and other people. From now on. I was a criminal now. This wasnt a simple crimethis was the Big One, the worst kind. These were the big leagues. I had taken human lifewell, helped take a human lifewell, helped cover up the taking of a human life. Whatever. The distinctions didnt matter. This was something that could never be put right. It would always be inside me. Like an oyster coating mother-of-pearl around an offending grain of sand, I might try to cover it, bury it, but never could I banish it.

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I could never be completely open and honest with anyone again. There would always be something about me that Id have to hide. Something hideous, something vile. My true self was loathsome. And the people I lived with on this planet . . . . Never again would I be able to think of them as, well, persons. Friends. Relations. Personalities. Never again. They were mere meat sacks. Id seen what happened when that flimsy aura, that thin veneer of life, was ripped from the flesh it surrounded. Forevermore I would see a person as just a, well, just a, well . . . . Just a mistakenly animated hunk of matter, an ungainly, unlikely engine held together with rubber-band ligaments, stuffed with a kind of imperfect organic clockwork, with a bit of precious life-fluids squirting haphazardly here and there to keep things greased. Meat machines. That was what a person was, really. The smiles, the laughter, the tearsall that was just a chimera, a kind of St. Elmos fire that flickered and danced upon the rigging untiluntil it didnt. Then what you had left was the carcass that hung from hook in the slaughterhouse, the road kill you tried not to look at as you sped by on the highway, the meat that the fat butcher sliced into surreal, unnatural chunks with his saw, his cigarette hanging loose from his lips, the ash dropping off and mixing in with the blood and guts of his handiwork below. And it was so easy, so laughably easy, to upset the workings of that puny machine. Id seen it with my own eyes. A slice here, a hole there, a little too much or too little of this or that, something in the intake manifold to clog it upthe possibilities were endless. Then the ghost was all too willing to abandon his place. His suitcase was packed and ready and he tipped his hat to us as he stepped through the door.
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And then the surrounding edifice crumbled and turned back to the clay it once had been. Suddenly I couldnt stand it anymore. The next thing I knew, I was lying on the rug. Face down on the floor. Sobbing. Crying, my head in my arms. A fit of weeping. The rug smelled dusty and moldy. It felt good to cry because it blocked out all other thinking, all other feeling. But I knew Id have to stop in a moment, and then the horrible reality, the agony of awareness, would fill me once again. So I tried to cry as long as I could. After a while, things calmed down, and I was left idly regarding the wet spot on the carpet. C. J., C. J. Are you a survivor or not? I supposed I was. In my own way. So. Then. I sat up and slowly turned my head to gaze out of the window. I guessed I could turn myself in. But, you see, I didnt want to go to jail. I was afraid of jail. There were bad people in jail. Bad things happened in jail. And maybe there was some chance that I could still get out of going to jail. Do you think I could somehow still manage to not go to jail? After all, why should I be punished? I wasnt the one who committed the crime! I wasnt the murderer! I was just a . . . a bystander. My only real crime was ambition. To have a better life. To wake up and not have my first thought be that already my best days were behind me. My only real crime was wanting to be someone better. God. What bullshit. Try telling that to the judge. Pretty soon, now, Id start believing my own bullshit. Pretty soon now. God.
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God, this sucked. Why couldnt I just be a normal person again? You know, like the guy pushing the button that started the pump down at the gas station, the person selling cigarettes at the mini-mart. Even the out-of-work guy sitting at home staring at the TV, scratching his crotch between infomercials and wondering why the bejeezuz he just couldnt seem to find a job for the life of him, the guy who was down, down and out . . . even he was a king compared to what I was now. They all thought that their lives sucked but I was here to tell them that they were wrong. My life sucked. Their lives were good. They could sleep at night, long and deeply, with a crystal clear conscience. No monkey on their backs. They ought to be happy. They ought to appreciate what they had. Id trade places with any one of them in a heartbeat, if it meant . . . . If it meant that everything could be like it was yesterday, before we visited the Old Dam and found Marinetti there. Before Joe picked up the rock. If only yesterday morning Id realized how happy I was. I suppose that if I had to use a word to sum up how I felt, it would be . . . lonely. So lonely. There was no one I could tell about this. No one to whom I could just pour it all out, who would listen patiently to me while I explained how afraid I was. No one to say, thats all right, C. J., we all make mistakes. Itll be okay. Lets you and me just go down to the police station and tell them how it happened. Theyll understand. Once we explain things, itll be all right. Bing-bong. That was my cell. Someone had texted me. It was Amy. where r u?, the text read. I turned the phone off.
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And turned my head to reflect out the window some more. I wondered what Amy was thinking. I wondered if she was managing to keep our secret. Shed better not be thinking of talking! Id KILL the little bitch! Wait, wait, wait. Hold on. I put my hands over my face. Amy was my friend. We grew up together. We rode the bus together to kindergarten. Wed . . . wed shared a kiss under an apple tree and the deep blue sky. C. J.you are cracking. You are crumbling. You are going crazy. Youd better get your shit together. Id better give Amy a call, or go over to see her. Reply to her text. But something in me shrank from doing so. What would she say, what could I say? Shed want to be comforted, at a time when I felt so empty myself and didnt have any comfort to give. You know, I thought. I dont have all the answers. Maybe I should turn Joe in. Save myself. Hmmmmm. I toyed with the idea for a few seconds. But then shook my head. No. I couldnt do that. I wouldnt do that to Joe. Not any more than Joe or Amy would do to me. Any more than Joe and Amy would do to me . . . how true was that? What if Joe or Amy turned against me? What if they plotted together to put the blame on me? To save themselves? Were they plotting even now?

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But . . . to narc on me was to narc on themselves. Joed been right. If they did something like that, Id squeal like a pig. Share the crime, share the risk, and none of us would turn on the other two. I was just being paranoid. In the end, what enabled me to cope was this: I walked over to the Victrola, opened the little mahogany door in front, reached into my secret stash and pulled out the money once again. What was left of it, after my recent purchases. Most of it was still there. Looking at the money made me feel a bit better. It was for this that Id done what Id done. It was for this that I was suffering. Was it worth it? What had Joe saida gift from God? Pah. A gift from some demon of Hell, maybe. Or maybe God had a particularly sick sense of humor. I was thinking too much. Too much thought is a disease, they say. I felt the bills, pushed my fingers through the packets, rubbed my hands all over the money, sniffling and coughing and snorting like some nervous, snuffling, sniveling, miserly old man. And thats when I noticed that my hand was . . . leaking. The cut on my hand was oozing a bit of . . . some yellow goo. Not much. Just a little. A drop here and there. And it was getting all over the money. Staining the money. As I caressed it. I smiled. I chuckled. I giggled. I threw my head back and laughed and laughed, in the blackness of the night. But not because I thought anything was funny. C. J.? my mother called from down the hall. Whats going on? Nothing, Ma, I shouted. Just thought of a joke.

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A joke. As it is written. On the wall of the mens room. Directly above the urinal: Dont look here. The joke is in your hands. Now, I thought, looking in my hands. At the green stuff there, the yellow goo that was getting on it. As I fondled, groped, caressed it. Now, more than ever. It was important. That I get myself some wheels. And get the HELL out of town. *** About a week later I got the letter. I still hadnt gone anywhere. I hadnt shaved, I hadnt showered, and I sure didnt feel like eating anything. I was just sitting around in gym shorts and no shirt. The time just seemed to dribble away. It took me an hour just to create and execute a plan to go to the bathroom. I knew I should get up, maybe log on to the net and look at car ads, but I just didnt seem to have the . . . energy. Boy. Did I need a shower bad. My hand was swollen and red. Well, it was many different colors, really, but there was a lot of red in there. It hurt so much, a kind of throbbing pain, and the skin was cracking. Id tried to put some gauze bandages on it but they didnt fit right and I couldnt find any medical tape so I had to use paper napkins and scotch tape but it didnt stick right and everything was peeling off and coming apart.
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C. J.? My moms voice, outside my door. I roused myself. Yep? I said. Heres a letter for you. Huh? A letter? Oh yeah, a letter. Huh. I didnt get too many letters. Probably just junk mail. Ill leave it on the table. Okay. I heard her hesitate for a moment before she stepped away. She knew something was wrong, probably wondered what was going on. But that was something I didnt want to deal with right now. The letter was from Amy. I recognized the handwriting right away. It had no stamp on it, so . . . she mustve dropped it off in our mailbox herself. I was afraid to open it, but afraid to not open it. So I tore the envelope open, and, as carefully as I could with my damaged hand, unfolded the letter. I stared at it for a half-minute, my eyes focusing and unfocusing, thinking that maybe Id had a little stroke or finally lost my mind entirely, before I realized that I was holding it upside down. I turned it the right way and then I was able to read. Dear CJ, it began. I was going 2 try to call u again but then I thought a letter might be better. So here it is!!! I hope u are OK!!! I am scared. I have some important news 4 u. Last Friday I felt I was finally looooosing it so bad so I tried to call u, but you didnt answer **sniffles**. I felt so awful bad I had 2 get out otherwise CJ I dont know what I would have done. I went 2 Karen Dublers party. It wasnt much fun and they all were looking at me strange but thats a different story. So I left, but I had 2 use the bathroom before I left so I go inside and who do you think I run in 2? Marsha
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Marinetti!!! ***SHPLOOF!!!*** She was in there brushing her hair which was so freaky C J I was so freaked out!!! But I tried not to show how freaked out I really was. Well you know Marsha hates me so I told her I would buy her some beer. She did seem kind of suspicious at first but didnt say no. I got a 6 pack from the sportsmen club and we sat on the dyke and drank it, actually I didnt drink very much (yuk) but Marsha did. After she loosened up, good garsh, u wouldnt believe, did she talk my ear off or what? She is a regular Chatty McChatterpants. She told me like her whole life story rite there and then!!! She started talking about everything, started kind of cussing somewhat, talked about this about that about how everybody hates her cuz they are all oh so jealous, oh what a mouth shes got on her. She really can be a real B _ _ _ _ if you know what I mean. I just pretended 2 be interested cuz I thought I could find out if she suspected anything about you know what but she doesnt seem to, thats whats weird. Anyway, she told me about how much she hates her dad, she told me how embarassing it is 2 have a narc as a dad and she wants 2 run away but cant even until after homecoming cuz shes sure she will be queen and Jim Oliver will be her escort. She wants 2 drive around town in his Renigade with the top down. She says he (her dad) locks all the evidince up behind a screen at the police dept, but what he doesnt know about is that she got a key and now she can get into it whenever she wants, so she sneaks stuff out, wine and mariujhanna (weed) and stuff that he takes off the juvy offenders. She said that he never seems 2 notice and she takes just enuf so that he will not notice. She told me not 2 tell and I promised I wouldnt!!! Well, she was bragging about this she was bragging about that she was saying that she has the dirt on everybody in town cuz of who her dad is, she told me a ton more and I will skip it all for now, I forget a lot. But she told me that she knows who the motorbike guys are, she said she heard her dad talking to somebody on the phone and she saw some email that was on his desk. She says that the ohio police sent email out about a big drug guy in Youngstown whos girl friend ran away after he beat the living crap out of her, the thing is, she stole money from him before she left!!! ***DOINKS!!!*** Like a real real lot of money. Everyone in Youngstown knows about it and is looking for her and the
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money, the cops and the druggies and everybody!!! Marsha Marinetti, she couldnt keep a secret if her life depended on it. After that she was pretty drunk, she told me how cool I was and how she always liked me and we are going 2 the dance together at the Elks Friday night. Heres what I think u will think is important, though, the druggie girlfriend was from around here but shes old, like the half sister of somebody over in Tambine, I cant remember the name. So when she left, her boyfriend is looking for her, hes so mad that the money is gone and he wants it back!!! Hes looking at all the places she might have gone, california and some place Southern, I forget. He also figures she might have come back around here and get this!!! Are you sitting down??? The reason hes so mad is cuz it wasnt just $35 thousand like we thought. No. Its closer to a million!!! ***GLEEESH!!!*** So it looks like the ***thing*** was only a little bit of the whole ***thing***. Wheres the rest, of the ***thing***, u want to know? I really dont know, but thats a very good question, dont you think??? And I was real curious why she didnt seem to be so worried about her dad so I kind of asked her real casual like about where he was and she got real vauge and said she didnt care a hoot and that he was out of town or something and blah blah blah but then later on I asked her again and she just laffed. Ha ha ha she said, her dad was such a coward, he was hiding from the bikers someplace cuz everybody wants him to arrest them but hes scared. Ha ha ha. She didnt go in 2 it any more than that but you know, she seemed rather bitter I thought. But I felt like crying too cuz I felt sorry 4 her cuz I know that blah blah blah and she does not know yet. Oh my God. Welps, theres a lot more 2 say but my hand is all cramped so I guess I should just end. CJ, please please call me would u Im so scared? Im sorry 2 be such a chatty cathy but I just needed to write. Theres so much more I need to talk about with u but Im afraid of putting it down in words. I really need somebody 2 talk 2 rite now!!! I would really like 2, okay? :-) Sometimes Im sure Im just going crazy, so please, please call me or better yet just come over to my house? Okay? Please please please please please please. I will be logged into chat too. ***smile***
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Love, Amy :-) PS Joe bought a new TV I think hes nuts!!! PPS Burn this letter after you read it!!! If you think you ought to. PPPS I didnt tell Joe about Marsha and the money, do you think I should of? I folded the letter and stuck it back in the envelope. Then I thought a little bit about what Amy had said. A million bucks. Holy kaboley, I said out loud. Thats a lot of dough. *** But Joe was a whole lot less interested than I thought hed be. We were walking through the woods up near Andersburg Airport. Hed just bought a new shotgun and was itching to try it out, so he told me to meet him there. Andersburg Airport was on the top of the hill overlooking Joes street. It always kind of confused me why they called it the airport, because . . . it really didnt look much different from any other overgrown field, what with the trees and shrubs and boulders and total lack of pavement, windsock, hangars, control towers, passengers, pilots, and all the other things you typically expect to see at an airport. And Id never, ever, ever seen a plane of any kind up there. Yeah, Joe drawled. Well, you know what they say, Seej. Out of sight, out of mind. Huh? A penny saved is a penny earned, he said. It takes one to know one.

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What the hell is that supposed to mean? I asked. Dont you understand? Theres a whole lot of money out there! He wasnt really paying attention. He was all proud of his new gun. Funny how people are different. Here all week Id been holed up inside my house, wondering and worrying. Joe, on the other hand, had gone out and bought himself a new gun, and from the looks of things, his conscience wasnt bothering him much at all. Pretty cool for a murderer. We got a ton of money, he said, sighting down the barrel at a tree trunk. No, no, no, I said. You know how many times thirty-five thousand goes into a million? A million is a LOT more money. Yeah, well, he said. Hold on a second. Here. Feel this. He handed me the gun. Try it out. Is there a shell in it? Not yet. I checked anyway. I had a healthy respect for guns. A double-barrel breech loader. I broke the shotgun, holding the gun under my arm so as not to aggravate my hurt hand. Yep, empty. I snapped it shut again. Try it out, Joe said. I pulled the hammers back and pulled each of the triggers. Click, click. You see? he said. The right barrel. Does it feel like its sticking to you? I dont know, I said. I didnt notice anything.
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Ill be pissed if my brand new shotgun is messed up already, he said. I cant really tell, I said, handing the gun back to him. Can we get back to the money? Lets try it out, he said, and extracted two shells from his pocket. He broke the gun, popped the shells into the barrel, snapped it shut. Here, he said, grinning and holding out the gun. You do the honors. You sure? I said. Its your brand new gun. Yeah, go ahead, he said. I pulled back on one of the hammers, felt it click into place. I lifted the gun and took aim at a young maple a few feet away, a small-ish trunk about the thickness of my head. I slowly squeezed the trigger, applying a little pressure. A little more. A little more. A little more. That was the trouble with a new gun, or any gun you were unfamiliar with, you just never new how much you had to pull to BADOOOM! The shotgun bucked in my arms like a some kind of terrified, convulsing animal. Yow! I said. My ears were singing. Joe was laughing. Its got a kick, huh? Man, I said, rubbing my arm. My shoulders all popped out. Look what it did to the tree, he said. Yes, what it did to the tree. It looked like it cut it in two, thats what it looked like. The upper part of the tree was still connected to the lower part, but just barely. The spot where the pellets had hit was all mashed and splintered.
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I rubbed my shoulder. Pretty impressive, I said. Joe took the gun back. Yeah, he said. The guy was trying to talk me into buying a pumpaction, but I just like the ol double barrel concept, you know what I mean? Its simpler, more reliable. He was aiming the gun this way and that, kind of trying it out, first aiming at the ground, then up at the tree tops, then back down at the ground again. Sure, I said. I didnt really want to talk about guns. I wanted to talk about the money. I wanted to talk about the money so that I wouldnt think about Marinetti. I didnt want to think about Marinetti floating bug-eyed at the bottom of the Old Dam. I didnt want to think about the fact that the guy who put him there was standing here in front of me, that I was talking to him, and that I called him my friend. Joe, I said. The thing is, there could be a whole lot of money still sitting around the Old Dam somewhere. You think? he said, aiming here and there. I dont know, I said. I dont know what to think. What, you think its like just laying round out there in the open somewheres? Hows come we didnt see it? I dont know. But maybe BADOOOM! He let loose with the other barrel. A few yards away, another small tree ruptured and, crackling, fell forward a ways, until its limbs got hung up in another tree. Why would it be in two places? he asked. Wouldnt the dead bitch justa kept it all together? I guess. Who knows? I dunno. Sounds pretty farfetched to me. Where did ol Anytime Amy learn about it? Marsha Marinetti. And I told you. I dont like it when you call her that.
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He snorted. Yeah, he said. Well, there you go. Marsha Marinetti. Its not like that skank is all that reliable a source of information, you know what I mean? He broke the gun and extracted the spent shells, tossed them on the ground. Then he put a couple more in. Slapped the gun back together. Lets go look for it, Joe. Sounds like a wild goose chase to me, he said. You really want to go back there? Well, not really, I said. But yeah, if theres more money sitting there somewhere. It might be, I whispered, it might be a way for us to get out of town. For good, I mean. And we could forget all about, all about the What makes you think its at the Old Dam? he asked. Well. Thats where the other money was. Dont you feel a little greedy? he said. I thought about that for a few seconds. That was a good question. No, I said. Not really. Never, ever, ever, he said, return to the scene of the crime. Unless theres good reason, I said. Then, Suddenly, He was pointing the gun at my head. Doesnt that place scare you? he asked. Joe, I said. . . . What are you doing? He chuckled. Do you remember the time, he said. Do you remember the time I beaned you in the head with a BB gun?
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Well . . . yeah, Joe. I remember it, I said. BB gun battles, he said. We were pretty young, then. Yeah. How about pointing that the other way? I suggested. Hammers aint cocked. Great! I laughed. Then his thumb reached up and pulled back on the hammers. I heard them click into place, one after another. Click. Click. Now they are, he said softly. I tried to swallow, but just sort of gagged instead. He had a kind of happy look on his face, a little smile, as if he were recalling a fond memory. You know what I was thinking about yesterday, C. J.? What. I was thinking to myself, you know, Joe, now you done it. Youre a murderer. You up and killed somebody. In cold blood. That right? I said. Yup, he said. I was starting to get very nervous. I thought about the bird shot that was sitting at the end of the tube, the gunpowder that was behind the shot, the primer that was behind the gunpowder, the hammer that was poised above the primer. It was all pointed at my face. The holes in the muzzle looked a little too perfectly round, and sitting side-by-side like that, they formed the symbol for infinity. Yup, he repeated, a little louder, a little wistfully. And I was thinking to myself, its a terrible thing. You know what I mean?
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Yes I do, I said, watching his trigger finger. I hear what youre saying. Probably not the way you think, he said. Ol Marinetti had it comin. I mean, he was a little bug of a human being, when you get right down to it, dontcha think? I mean, who the hell is he to say whether or not you can drink lime vodka behind the Market Basket or wherever the fuck it was, when he caught you that time, do you remember? I mean, what the fuck? I mean, okay, sure, I guess I shouldnt have reacted like I did. But you know . . . no use crying over spilt milk. Or brains. Right, I said. Milk. Brains. Over his shoulder, the fresh splintered wood of the tree hed just blasted reminded me of just how earnestly the pellets did their job. What I really mean is, he said, scratching his head, its terrible because I was so sloppy. So sloppy. I shoulda been thinkin better. I shouldnta left any witnesses, you know what I mean? I didnt say a word. I could kick myself, he said. I know myself, I know what I can take. I wont break, I know that. But I dont know about the weak links. A chains only as good as the weakest link. You know what I mean, C. J.? Yes, I said. Are you a weak link, Seej? he asked softly. No, I said. Should I plead? You were thinking about turning me in, werent you? he said. Saving yourself? Of course not, Joe, I said. You lie! he hissed. No, no, Joe, I said hurriedly. Were friends, arent we? Cause I woulda, if itd been me, he said.
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Yeah? I said. Well . . . well . . . . I was getting confused and not sure exactly how to answer. His eyes narrowed and his finger tightened on the trigger. I was trying to think about how to escape. I knew what Id do. Id duck down real quick, faster than he could pull the trigger. Then as the blast went off over my head Id roll over and over like they showed in the movies, roll over to that little hill over there, get behind it. Id have a bit of cover and then hed let loose the other volley, and then hed need a little time to reload, so Id have a chance to get away, run like hell out of the woods, back to the road, flag down a car, get back to other people. Where he couldnt kill me. Not a bad plan, I said to myself. Considering the circumstances. Might be your only hope. Go go go! I told myself. But I couldnt get my feet to move. I could only stand and shiver. My body was frozen. Exceptfunny. I seemed to be getting an erection. Then Joe broke into a chortle, a chuckle, a giggle. He lowered the barrel. He pointed it at the ground. Then he laughed and laughed and laughed. Oh, C. J., he said, when could finally speak. Oh, he said, wiping the tears from his eyes. Man, he said. You should see your face. I didnt know what to say. Oh, C. J., he said, still laughing. Jay-ster. My man Seej. I sure had you goin, didnt I? I struggled to make my voice work. I cleared my throat. Yeah, I said in a voice that sounded like Mickey Mouse. Joe. You sure had me fooled. I wouldnta been surprised if youd pissed yourself, the way you look. I wouldnt be surprised, I said, looking down to see.
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I guess it aint every day you get a twelve gauge pointed at your head. No, I said. It doesnt happen very often. There was a metallic taste in my mouth. Did you think I was going to pull the trigger, buddy? No, Joe, I said. I trust you. Thats good, my man, he said, smiling, patting me on the back. Cause you know? I trust you too. Thanks, I said. Thanks, Joe. We been through a lot together, he pointed out. Yes we have, I agreed. Youre like a brother to me. Mein brooder. Hey, he said. Whats up with your hand? I slowly lifted my hand and held it close to my face. To take a look. I stared at it without really seeing. Kind of looking through it. Jesus, he said. Is that the cut you got? Wow. Huh. Whats with all that yellow goo and junk? I dont know, I said. Man, thats gotta hurt! he said. Hoo boy! You should really get that thing checked out. Thats a heck of a boo-boo. Yesss, I said slowly. It looks like shit, man, he said. Dude. It really looks like doo-doo. Doo-doo, I echoed. Boo-boo. Yeah. Its like a battalion of army ants marched in and ripped the skin clean off, he said. Well, he said, sighing, scratching his head. Anyways. Look. About this million bucks. Look,
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if you want, give Schaffer a call, well head out to the dam and, I dunno, look around. Like I said, Im not sure what were really gonna accomplish. Whatre we gonna do exactly, look under rocks? Dig holes or something? What? But, if you want to gowe go. No, I said. This time, lets not call Amy. Well, theres a change, he said. I shook my head a trifle. I dont think its a such a good idea. Okay, he said. I sort of agree with you. Anyway, when do you want to go? Its getting kinda dark for tonight. I was feeling very shaken. My heart was thumping way loud. My legs were all rubbery. I guess we could take flashlights, he said. Why rush? I said calmly. We can go tomorrow. Remember, he said, giving me a wink. Today is never yesterday. Unless its tomorrow. Yes, I agreed. But. Still. Tomorrow is more convenient. Okay, he said. Tomorrow it is, then. ***

It took me a long time to get home. No one wanted to stop to pick up a hitchhiker that night. Then it started to rain. After what seemed like forever, someone finally pulled over. A metallic gold Lincoln Continental. Thank you, God. I opened the door. It was some old dude. Not from around here. Probably just passing through. White-ish hair, kinda pudgy. Patsy Cline on the stereo. Hop in, he said, turning down the volume.
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Thanks, I said. I appreciate you stopping. No problem, he said. Where you headed? Just a couple miles up the road, I said. Theres a green building on the left. Right, he said. Been waiting long? Forever, I said. He clucked his tongue. Pretty wet out there. Yeah, I said. People nowadays, he said. No one seems to want to help out the other guy. No one seems to want to give the other guy a break. I guess not, I said. I was so tired. I didnt want to talk. Say, he said. He sniffed the air and glanced quizzically down at the dash, at the seat. Do you smell something? Something rotting? No, I said, hiding my hand under my leg. Nope. He sniffed once or twice more, looking around. Thats really strange. Thats really odd, he said. Well, he said. I guess you cant really blame em. Hows that? People nowadays, he continued. I guess you cant really blame em. Yeah, I said. I guess not. No telling whats gonna happen when you pick someone up these days. Right, I said. The worlds turning into a scary place!
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Scary place, I said. Yep. You pick someone up, you dont know who he is. He could do something crazy. He could pull a knife on you, a gun. He might hit you over the head with a pipe, take all your money. He might be a serial killer. A murderer. No tellin what might happen. Hmmmm. Yeah, I said. No telling. Not like in my day and age. That right? Yep. Back then you couldGLORP! And he had a tiny little convulsion or something. His body stiffened, his head snapped to the left, and he yanked hard on the steering wheel. The Lincoln swerved over the yellow line and into the other lane which, fortunately, was empty. Then it slowly drifted back again. I found myself holding onto the dashboard, my knuckles white, my eyes wide, wide open. I was suddenly completely, entirely, absolutely, one hundred percentawake. I used to hitchhike all the time myself, back when I was young, he continued, as if nothing had happened. But back then it was safe. I used to catch rides all over hell. Pennsylvania, New York, Ohio. It was a good way to see the world. That so? I said, now watching his hands on the wheel, now glancing out the window, wondering if I should jump from the car. Yep, he said. I had a backpack and a pup tent, and I used to hang out at the truck stops and catch rides with the truckers who wereGLORP! And the car swerved into the left lane again. That was a long ride home. With thirteen GLORPs in all.

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When he finally dropped me off at my green house by the side of the road, I said a silent prayer of thanks as I made my way to the entrance. If Id been tired before, nowI was exhausted. What a day itd been. What a week. What a life. Scritch scritch scritch. The sound of metal on metal reached my ears as I entered the back door. My mother was cleaning the grill, scraping the grease off its surface with a spatula, the same as she did at the end of every day. I tried to sneak inin and up the stairs, to where our living quarters werewithout her hearing me. But the steps squeaked. Scritch scri The scraping stopped. C. J.? I paused on the steps. Yes? Mom? A moment passed. I just wanted to know if it was you. Oh, criminy. How many times did we have to go through this little ritual? How many times did we have to go through this little routine? I sighed. Its me, Mom, I said. All right, she said. I was just checking. The scraping started up again. Scritch scritch scritch. I started to climb the stairs, but something made me stop and say: Just like last night. And the night before that. Its ALWAYS me, Mom.
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The scraping paused again. Your father stopped by today, she said. He said that the paper mill might be looking for part-time laborers. Not now, Ma, I said. He says he ran into a guy who works at an oil company. He says theres some openings in Saudi Arabia. Saudi Arabia?! What the I said. Mom, I said. Im really tired. Can we talk about it tomorrow? Well, she said. All right. I began creeping up the steps. But she spoke again. C. J.? she said. WHAT! I shouted. Jesus fucking Christ. Couldnt I just go to bed? Silence. Er. Maybe that had been a little . . . harsh. I tried to calm down. Mom, I said, more softly. What is it that you wanted to say? Well, she said. I just wanted to tell you . . . . A pause. Yeah? I just wanted to ask you . . . to remember . . . . Another pause. Remember? Remember what? That the toaster oven had mutinied and was electrocuting unsuspecting breakfasteers? That the blender was attempting to slice, mutilate, and maim? I mean, lets face it, my mom was just plain going batshit crazy, wasnt that what the bottom line was here? I mean, lets get down to brass tacks and not mince words.
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Remember? What was it I should fucking remember? That the ice cream machine was on a mission to search and destroy? Couldnt I please just go? Couldnt I please just fucking go upstairs and go to sleep? Just remember, she said. When you get older . . . just remember, that I always loved you. I stood there in the shadows, on the stairs. I could hear the water dripping from the faucet in the bathroom above. Well, I said. Well Just remember, she said. Just remember that there was someone who worried about you. Someone who cared. I fell back against the wall. Okay, Mom, I said. Its important, she said. Ill remember, I said. Thanks. The scraping started up again. Scritch scritch scritch. I placed my palms over my eyes, just stood there a minute in the dark. And when I took my hands away, they were wet with tears.

***
The day after Joe pointed the shotgun at my head, I woke up and looked out the window. The place was entirely surrounded by cops. Police cruisers crowded around the building like piglets at the teat. Snipers had their rifles trained on my head, and as I experimentally moved back and forth, I saw the muzzles all move in unison, the little red dots of the laser sights tracking my movement. Megaphones were pointed at the building, screaming out orders for me to surrender. No they werent.

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Each day when I woke up, I looked out, expecting to see some of that stuff, to see all that stuff. But so far, none of it had appeared. Not a peep. What the hell?! Didnt anyone notice that Marinetti was missing?! Why wasnt there a whole bunch of fuss and commotion, with news bulletins interrupting the Polka Fest on the radio? Why werent there road blocks, jack-booted militia kicking my door down in the middle of the night, their brilliant white flashlight beams probing into closets and the attic and under the bed where I lay whimpering, pathetically trying to hide? I hadnt a clue. Well, what I needed to do was . . . calm down. Keep my head down, keep a low profile. Dont call attention to myself. Just ride this thing out. If I wanted to survive. If I wanted to live. Maintain. I looked across the valley to the other side of the railroad tracks, at the dark greens and rustic reds and earth browns of the hillside. Winter would soon be here. The leaves would fall leaving barren branches, snow would come and carpet the countryside, and ice would cover the Old Dam. I hated this time of year. I hated the way the woods got all overgrown with vines and brush and weeds and stuff, late in the summer, the way things were all humid and damp and wet in there all the time, with mosquitoes swarming around you and the poison ivy and stuff. They matched my thoughts, all twisting into one big mess. Easy to get lost in. Hard to pick your way safely through. And there was always this kind of nervous anticipation, that soon everything would change greatly for the worse, that winter would come, and everything would be desolate and dark and stark and bleak for another half year. I hated having to give up the warmth and brilliance of the summer.

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Yesterdays episode with Joe, the shotgun, and my forehead . . . thatd been downright, downright . . . I couldnt think of a word that described it. Spooky. Obscene. Evil. Maybe Joe was going crazy. He seemed like he might be a little dangerous. What on Gods earth was I SAYING?! Of COURSE he was dangerous! Hed smashed Marinettis skull like it was a ripe cantaloupe! Id watched him do it! Obviously he was dangerous! He was a nutcase! A lunatic! As for Amy, well . . . well . . . . Id give her a call. Soon. But not just yet. It was hard for me to even think about her. I felt guilty avoiding her, but . . . something inside of me shrank at the idea of having to face her. I didnt know why. Maybe it had something to do with my memory of the last time I saw her, when she still had little bits of Marinetti stuck on her hair and clothes. Maybe it was something else. Id give her a call. Soon. But not just yet. I mean, Id thought about visiting her. On my way to visit Joe yesterday, Id thought about stopping in and seeing her, talking with her about this whole mess. Id even walked up the railroad tracks, a little out of my way, in the direction of the trailer park where she and her mom lived. But I stopped as soon as I heard the sound of her accordion. She was playing a sad, mournful melody of some sort. The notes flew out over the wind, lilting, echoing through the valley, reminding me of . . . little birds on the wing. Im not so sure what she was playing. Im not so good with names. I think it might have been Lady of Spain, but Im not so sure. Id listened for a while, and then Id turned and run in the opposite direction, towards Joe and his shotgun up at Andersburg Airport. Yes, Id give Amy a call. Soon. But not just yet.
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I looked out at the wooded hillside again. The idea of a million bucks sitting out there somewhere . . . just waiting to be found . . . had a certain . . . appeal. So maybe I should go take a look myself. Without Joe. Screw him. He was fucked in the head. Yeah. Yeah! So, with more energy and gumption and purpose than Id had for weeks, I threw on some clothes and went out the door, heading for the Old Dam, my sneakers getting soaked as I strode through the dew-covered grass. But when I got there, there were . . . people. What? I said. Lots of people, wandering around. Like it was the middle of buck season or something. Lots of people, like Id never seen at the Old Dam before. Swarms of people. Well, okay, there were only two. Which seemed like a lot. It was surreal. They were out of place here, in my private spot. They were invaders. I wanted them to go away. Dick Bendik was there. He was sort of poking around, looking under trees and behind rocks and things. Squeaky Moyer was there too, wearing his red hunting cap, the flaps hanging down around his ears. The thing about Squeaky Moyer was, even though everyone referred to him as him, to me he always looked like he could be a woman. He was short and fat and somehow vaguely matronly. He seemed to have breasts.

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But he was bald on top of his head like a middle-aged man and he always had a five oclock shadow. I just didnt know. His voice was high and shrill. He shouted at me. Hey! he said. You! Kid! What, I said, my heart pounding. What do you want? Find anything? Squeaky asked, and spit. What, I asked, although I thought I might already know the answer. Find what. The gold, he said. I just looked at him. Well, he said. Didja? I took a moment to consider if it was worth trying to get Squeaky to elaborate. Whatwhich gold is that? I faintly asked. What goldoh, Jesus man! Squeaky said, in a tone that indicated that he thought I was something of an idiot. You know, the gooold! The gold thats hidden! The hidden gold! Hidden gold, I repeated. The hidden gold. Yes sir! he said. The sons of bitches hid it and now they cant find it. The sons of bitches! Who, I wondered out loud. Who hid it? Who hid the hidden gold? The sons of bitches, thats who! Squeaky said. Theres a big crate of it hidden out here, they say. Somewheres in the woods here, they say. They say, I repeated slowly. They say. You betcha, Squeaky said. You seen anything like that?
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No, I said. I havent. You sure? Yes, I said deliberately. I am sure. Hmp, Squeaky said, and spit. Its out here somewheres. You betcha. So if you find it, you let me know. Right away. Of course, I said. You hear? he said, getting much closer than I wanted him to. If you see sumpin, you give a holler! Oh I will, I will indeed, I said, my heart pounding. He was getting much too near, and it was making me nervous. Very, very nervous. Its goddamn drug money! Squeaky suddenly shouted at me, from like two inches away, saliva spraying from between his dice-like teeth. Knocked outta the jaws of crack whores! Melted down to make gold pesos! I didnt know how to reply to that. But it didnt matter anyway. I had other things to worry about at the moment. I was havingI was having an episode. I think Squeaky yelling at me set it off. An inner panic. It was because of how Squeaky looked. As I stood there looking at him chewing his tobacco and talking about hidden gold pesos, I felt something inside me . . . move. Something that felt big, something that wasnt supposed to movedid. All of a sudden. Like a dam abruptly giving way to the weight of the water behind it. All of a sudden, Squeaky didnt look so human anymore. I wasnt sure what he looked like, but it wasnt human. His face, his face was . . . . well, it was a sort of an awful fleshy thing. Not like a face at all.
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A face was supposed to be warm and friendly. His wasnt, no more than a head of cauliflower is friendly. This was like some alien had walked up to you and you werent even sure which part of its body you were supposed to talk to. Looking at him, I realized just how damn silly the human face really was. With the hairy part stuck on top and the ears and mouth and nose just sort of hanging on there, little holes leading into the inner juicy red regions, filled with ear wax and spit and boogers and all sorts of nasty stuff. Really weird. An unlikely collection of parts. Looking at him, I suddenly saw all the things I wasnt supposed to. Like the pores and the zits and the saliva dripping down his chin. If you stopped and thought about it, the human face was really a bizarre and awful thing, with its fleshy cheeks and hairy stubble and disgusting odors and everything else. I guessed, I guessed, the only reason we didnt run away in horror and revulsion, screaming and gagging whenever we ran into another person, waswas because we were used to it, I mean them, I mean it. But the thing that was absolutely the worst about Squeaky Moyers face wascan you guess what it was? No, you wont be able to guess. Ill tell you. It was his tongue. When youre thinking normally, when youre thinking right, you dont notice peoples tonguestheyre just one of the things that blend into the workings of life, things that you take for granted, things that you should take for granted, things that are part of the world you live in. When youre thinking normally. When youre thinking right. I wasnt thinking right. Squeakys tongue was like a little animal hiding in his mouth, the way it moved, the way it wiggled, the way it squirmed. It was like a parasite living within his skullSqueaky himself was just the outer flesh packaging that nourished and protected that thing. It was like some kind of fat wet maggot hanging from the inside of Squeakys mouth, squirming and twisting about. It made me want to . . . grab it. To make it stop, stop it from moving. To keep it from wiggling.
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I mean, what do you do with a fat maggot, anyway? To stop it from squirming? You grab it with both hands and you dont let go, no matter how slippery and disgusting it is or how much it wiggles. Then you throw it to the ground and you step on it. To feel it bulge, then pop, beneath the ball of your foot. To see the guts squirt out all over the grass. Those were the sorts of thoughts that ran through my head as I stood there looking at Squeaky Moyer. He didnt seem to notice, though. He didnt seem to notice that I was watching his tongue in rapt fascination. He didnt seem to notice my hand reaching out for his face. As he stood there and talked. I wanted to catch that fat maggot. Squeaky was rambling on and on. I could see his lips moving rapidly. I could see that tongue dancing about. Those sons of bitches! I heard him scream. And, giving a final spit, he shuffled off. Which had the effect of breaking the trance I was in. Just in time, too. Otherwise I slumped down onto the grass, put a hand over my stomach. I . . . wasnt feeling well. I watched as Dick Bendik ambled around a bit near the water, then walked down over the hill, disappearing on the other side of the spillway to . . . to . . . to do whatever Dick Bendik was doing over there. Looking for gold pesos, I guess. Jesus. What craziness. How had that rumor started? The bikers? Joe? I scanned the water nervously to see if there was any sign of our . . . recent activity. Nothing seemed out of place. But that didnt mean it wasnt. The water lapped gently at my toes, just a few inches away. On top of the water, some water striders skated. And at the bottom of that water lay a couple of, couple of Whaddya say we get out of here, I said out loud to myself. If there was a million bucks here, theyd probablyve found it by now.
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That was just an excuse. I was just making excuses. But I didnt care about money right now. Maybe Id come back later. So I turned around and walked out of the woods. Back to the silly green building by the side of road. I went inside and shut the door. Went to my room, locked the latch, turned off the lights, pulled down the shades. Sat down in my chair, ran my fingers through my hair, and then through my pile of money. It comforted me. Every night before I fell asleep I told myself: tomorrow will be the day. Tomorrow will be the day that I get my act together and start doing the things I need to do to BLOW THIS PLACE. Buy a car, get a map, plan a route. And every day the hours just passed by, so quickly, with me sitting next to the Victrola until the sun fell below the hill. And after a time I realized that yet another day had gone by without me making even the slightest bit of progress toward my goal of BLOWING THIS PLACE. It seemed so complicated, getting a car. You had to look through the ads on Craigs List, pick a couple people to call, set up a time to meet, look at the engine, hem and haw and kick the tires, dicker with the guy, make an offer and then a counter-counter-offer, agree to a price and get the registration transferred, call up the insurance guy and blah blah blah. The thought of starting the process just left me feeling . . . tired. Real tired. Sit-down-in-your-chair-and-dontwant-to-get-up-again tired. Anyway, if I bought a car, how suspicious would that look? If I left town. Would that attract attention? Would they come after me? Would they hunt me down? What would I tell my mom? What would she do here, all alone through the winter? Why hadnt anyone missed Marinetti yet? Were the law enforcement officers in this town that lame? What the fuck was going on? And what about Amy? What would happen when they found her body? When would they find her body? Joe and Id tried our best to hide it, but every time Id thrown a shovelful of dirt on
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her face, shed just open her eyes, look up from within the shallow grave wed dug for her, shake the earth out of her hair and smile her pretty smile at usthat radiant, buoyant smile that could catch you by surprise, I guess maybe because she didnt choose to use it very often, that smile which when it appeared could change the whole mood you were in, that could turn a bad day happy cause you were suddenly struck with it, like the sun suddenly coming out from behind a storm cloud. So shed smile, and then after plucking the carrion beetles from her nostrils, shed close her eyes again and wait for me to shovel dirt on her some more. Id tried my very best but I couldnt hide her body, no matter how much I tried burying it. How long until they found her? Wait wait wait. Hold on a second. I rested my eyes in my palm. Okay. Right. Now I remembered. That was a dream I had. I didnt remember exactly when Id had it, but that was a dream. It hadnt actually happened. Thank God. I was having a hard time distinguishing dreamland from the waking world. I was having a hard part remembering what was real and what wasnt. I rubbed my eyes. My thoughts were jumping around, skipping like. . . drops of water into a hot frying pan. Scattered, so scattered, I told myself. I started grabbing handfuls of money and stuffing it into my pockets, into my socks, down my shirt, into my underpants. Id never allow myself to be far from it again. It was my only certainty, the only promise, my only chance. There was a knock on the doora short staccato rap. Shave and a hair cut.
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That was Joes knock.

*** I opened the screen door a crack. What do you want? I hissed. He was eating a Little Debbie snack cake. Chocolate. With the white fluffy creme inside. Come on out, he said, chewing away. Come on out and take a look. Why? I asked. Why do you want me to come out? I was suspicious. Was this a set up? Whats with the Little Debbie cake? I craned my head to try to get a look behind him, to see if there were cops sitting in unmarked cars. Or something like that. I didnt see a gun. Come on out, Joe said. Ive got something to show you. I can see from here, I said warily. No, really, he said. Just come on out. So I opened the door and reluctantly, carefully, stepped out. Blinking. The sunshine was hot against my shoulders. Joe, I said. What the hell is that? Huh? he said. That, I said, pointing. What the hell is it? He looked down. Its my smoking jacket. Your smoking jacket. Your smoking jacket? My smoking jacket, he repeated, holding out his arms and looking approvingly at the sleeves. Like it? I got it over Tambine. They had to special order it. I considered. It was an odd pajama-top-like garment with some sort of iridescent green leopard print.
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Well, Joe, I said. Its . . . different. Pretty suave, huh? he said. Pretty classy, dont ya think? I mean, the jacket dont smoke or nothin. It aint like its a magic trick. Youre supposed to wear it while youre smoking. Tobacco, I mean. Like, cigars and shit. Think Ill light up right now, matter of fact. Well, maybe in a minute. Anyway, he said. I brought you a present. And he handed me a small package. I looked at it in my hand. It had a little bow on top. Gee, Joe, I said. Its to make up for the little, ah, incident at the Airport, he said. Go ahead. Open it up. Well, uh, I said. Okay. It wasnt the most careful of wrapping jobs. It looked like a big balled-up chunk of gift wrap. I began unraveling the papercarefully, as if I were defusing a bomb. Cant you just rip the goddamn thing? he asked. I like to save the gift wrap, I explained. You can always use it again later. I hate it when people always try to save the gift wrap, he said. Just rip the goddamn thing. Well, uh, I said. Okay. So I ripped it open. Inside was . . . a bright yellow plastic container. The kind you put a bar of soap in. But it was heavy. Jeez, Joe, I said. How nice. You brought me a bar of soap. And something to store it in. No, no, he said. Take a look inside. Take the lid off. I struggled to open the cover. It was sort of stuck. Joe got a worried look on his face. Ah, he said. . . . You might not want to jiggle it so much.
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The lid popped off. Inside was . . . a bunch of wires. A battery. Some other things. And some black putty-like material. Joe, I said. What the hell is it? You know what it is, he said, with a sly smile. Is it . . . . I said, blinking. Is it a bomb? Joe was always making homemade bombs. It was kind of a hobby of his. He liked to set them off in the woods. Yes! he said. My latest creation. Didja ever think you could pack so much explosive in such a small space? Totally new design. I call it Little Mr. Big Bomb. Cause its like, you know, little. But its big, in terms of power. And mister cause its got like some major cojones. Little Mr. Big Bomb, I mused, putting the cover back on. Little Mr. Big Bomb. Thats good, Joe. Its got a ring to it. Little Mr. Big Bomb. Then I placed the yellow box on the ground and backed away. Ha! Joe said. Look at you. You dont gotta worry. Its got a failsafe mechanism on it. I was just foolin about not jigglin it. Its a timed fuse. Here, he said, stooping over. He picked it up and tossed it to me. See? Perfectly safe. I looked at the bright yellow box in my hand. Okay, Joe, I said. Thanks. Thanks for the bomb. Aw, shucks, he said uncertainly. Dont mention it. We can try it out later. I mean . . . I figured . . . well. It was the least I could do, after . . . well, he said. Hey, he said. So, what dya think? What do you think of my new wheels? He took a step back and motioned toward the vehicle behind him, pointing with his snack cake. Its a Renegade, I said, blinking. A Renegade Jeep. I just picked it up this morning, he said proudly. It took a couple of seconds for his words to sink in.
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Holy Jeezus! I said. The sticker was still in the window. Its brand new! Yep, he said proudly. Fifty miles on the odometer, a little over. Just took it for a bit of baha in the woods. Its the special edition! I said. It mustve cost like a zillion bucks! He took a bite of his snack cake and shrugged. You like the seat covers? I looked. The material was some sort of iridescent green leopard print. It matched his jacket. I was flabbergasted. Joe, I lamented. Joe. The way youre going, youre not going to have any money left at all! Oh, well, Joe said. Thats just the way I live. I have it, I spend it. Do you have anything left? I said. How can you afford it? Meh, he said. Youre gonna call attention to us, Joe, I said. You got to think smarter than that! I needed something, he argued. I needed something to haul my boat. Joe, I said. Joe . . . . How could I make him understand? Joe . . . listen to me. Some things arent so easy to fix. Some things, I said, you gotta be a little subtle about. You gotta be a little smart. He just looked at me, puzzled. Joe, I said. Not every problem can be fixed with a rock to the head. He just stood there, then, silently holding what was left of his snack cake. Looking kinda forlorn and crestfallen. Like a kid whos accidentally let go of his balloon and is sadly watching it float up into the sky. You understand me? I said. Some things arent so simple.
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You make it sound like I dont care what happens, he said sadly. You make it sound like Im some sort of asshole or something. I gave up. Okay, I said. I was too tired to try to pursue it any further and anyway, standing here talking to a murderer like this was giving me the creeps. Never mind. Forget it. I do care, you know, he said. Im right with you, bro. Right, Joe, I said. Whatever. There was an awkward silence. For a few seconds. Listen, he said. Why dont you take it for a spin? He held out the keys. No, Joe, I said, wearily waving them away. Not now. Come on, he said. No, I said. Too tired. You should get out, he said. You just sit inside all day, man. Aint good for you. Its okay, I said. Your mom said I should try to get you to go somewhere, he said. He shoved the keys into my hands. Go on. Just take it for a little test drive up the road. Ill wait for you here. So I sat down in the seat. Oh, yeah, and hey, he said. Keep an ear out for the left front tire. Theres a weird noise comin from it. Ill be pissed, he said. Ill be pissed if my brand new Jeep is messed up already. I pushed in the clutch, turned the ignition. And instantly was barraged by the blast of death metal that pounded from the speakers. Jeez, Joe! I said, fumbling with the controls on the dash. Jeez . . . .
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I turned knobs, pressed switches. The windshield wipers started up and I accidentally turned on the four-ways. Finally I found the volume, turned the music down. I paused a moment to make sure that everything that was supposed to be off was off, everything that was supposed to be on was on. Then I pulled out of the parking lot and onto the highway. YOU FORGOT LITTLE MR. BIG BOMB! I heard Joe shout. I glanced in the rear view mirror. Joe was standing there, smiling and waving with the bright yellow box. I cruised on down the highway. Eased on down the road. Slowly at first. But then I shifted gears, picked up some speed. Say. This was a nice Jeep. Had a ton of torque. A bit of pick-up. A bit of get-up-and-go, you know what I mean? It felt good to be behind the wheel again. I looked down at the little gauges and dials, all bouncing and spinning and jiggling and earnestly doing their jobs, and they were like little familiar friends, little road companions. Hm. I had to admit, this Jeep was pretty nice. Nice comfy seats, and everything had that new car smell. Maybe Joe had the right idea. Maybe I should be looking at buying a new car, not a used one. Fuck the pre-owned shit. I pushed the clutch and shifted into high. The trees and houses and cows and animals and people and everything else just turned into a blur. I was leaving it all behind me. What if . . . . What if I just . . . kept on going? Just took off and didnt come back? That sure was tempting! That sounded swell!
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I tried to imagine what Joe would do. I giggled at the thought. Hed probably sit there and wait for like fifteen minutes, twenty, a half an hour. Maybe after an hour or so hed get a clue. Hed kick around the parking lot for a while, wondering what to do. What hed do after that, I wasnt sure, but Id be long gone. Heh. Should I do it? Seize the day. I leaned back in the seat and stepped hard on the gas. The speed felt great, almost like I had wings. The wind whipped through my hair. I rounded the curve that led away from town. Yes, I thought. This was the way it was supposed to be. This was good, it felt right. This was Holy SHIT! Someone in the road! Right in front of me! My foot jerked reflexively and I jammed on the brakes. The Jeep went into a long skid, turning sideways in the road, the tires bellowing out a resonant howl like that of a wounded animal. It seemed to take forever before the Jeep came to a stop, and I could only watch as the figure loomed near, grew larger and larger, could only sit and gape in open-mouthed astonishment as I was thrust closer to that that . . . person I was trying to avoid. It was Amy. The Jeep stopped just a yard or so in front of her. Then there was a silence, a disorienting pause, as the Jeep sat there, stalled, silent except for a bit of a squeaky sound as it rocked back and forth on its springs. The sun was bright in my eyes and a turkey buzzard made a slow graceful arc in the blue sky above. Amy peered into the Jeep. Her eyes were full of disconnect.

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C. J., she said matter-of-factlyas if I hadnt just about mowed her down. Whats the matter? What? I said. What do you mean? Why have you been avoiding me? she asked. I was shocked to see how much shed changed since I last saw her. She was very thin. Her face was all square-ish, her jaw sharp and angular. It didnt really look like herit could have been someone else, her sister or cousin or something. Her nose seemed too big and her cheekbones were jutting out like Id never seen before. Her hair was all messed up and there were lines on her face, dark crescents under her eyes. She was wearing the denim jacket that Id given her and it was all faded and torn with stringy holes and rhinestones and patches that shed sewn onto it and it looked really cool but it hung off her in a weird sort of way and looked like ten sizes too big and her shoulders and elbows jutted out all pointy and sharp and angular and ugly and everything. I laughed heartily. I havent been avoiding you! I said. Dont lie, she whispered. Its been weeks. No, really, Amy, I pleaded. Where, where have you been? Well, Amy, I said. Ive been . . . busy. And stuff. She gazed down at the Jeep, laid a gentle hand on the door as if to make sure it was there. Is this yours? she asked. Did you pick out the fabric for these seats? My God, she said. Look at your hand. What did you do to your hand? Its nothing, I said, trying my best to hide it. Just a little scrape. Let me see. She leaned close and grabbed my hand. She peered at the wound, inspecting it intently. She shook her head in disbelief. You need to have this taken care of, C. J., she said, very slowly, very deliberately. You need to have this looked at.
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I know, I know, I said. Im going to. By a doctor, I mean, she said. It looks really bad. Its getting better, actually! I said brightly. Its a heck of a lot better than it was! Before it gets any worse, she said. If it can get any worse. She looked at it for a moment longer, in sort of fascination or horror, and shook her head again. For a moment shed regained her poise. For a moment she was her old self again. Then she dropped my hand and lapsed back into her . . . isolation. The energy seemed to drain away, her shoulders slumped, and she closed her eyes. As if she were sleeping. Standing up. Right there in the middle of the road. Amy? I said. When are you leaving for your little trip? she asked, opening her eyes halfway, not really looking at anything in particular. She seemed to sway a little. My trip, I repeated. My little trip. Yes, she said. Toronto. And the Rockies. I was puzzled. How do you know about that? I asked. You told me, she said. Over and over and over. I did? You wouldnt shut up about it, she said. When are you leaving? Well, uhpretty soon, I guess, I said. When are you starting taxidermy school? Im not. Youre not? I said. How come? I cant.
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You cant? I asked. Why not? You had it all planned out! She put her face in her hands. The money . . . . she said. What, I said. What about the money? Its all gone! she wailed, and burst into tears. All gone?! I said, astonished. What the hell? You were so careful! My . . . my mother . . . . Sobbing. Your mom? What? What happened? She found it. I told her where we got it! You did, I said. That wasnt exactly what I wanted to hear. Yes. I was afraid she was going to say something to someone, but I ended up telling her anyway. She just took it. Did she, I said. Yes. And she used it to buy cocaine! Cocaine! Yes. Well, crack, actually. My mothers addicted to drugs. I was stunned. How . . . how long has she been using them? Oh! Forever. Years and years. I mean, its only been crack for a couple years, but its always something. Alcohol, heroin, meth Meth?! Yes. Its always one thing or another. Thats why my brother ran off to join the Marines. Thats why my dad left. For good, I mean. He was tired of always coming home to find her zoned out and like . . . the TV missing or something. Shed sell stuff for drugs.
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My God, Amy, I whispered. Why didnt you ever tell me?! You mean you never noticed? No. The scabs on her legs? The sores on her arms? No! She turned her head a little. Its something Ive had to live with every second of my life, she said. It started years and years before I was born. I think, she murmured, her voice dropping low. I think thats why my leg is like it is. Amy, I . . . I just never knew! Well, she said. I never really told anyone. I guess I never really told anyone because . . . becauseoh! I guess because Im ashamed! she said, the teardrops falling like perfect crystals from her eyes to shatter on the concrete of the highway. I mean. Its hard to talk about, even with you, she said, sniffling. But it wont last much longer, I dont think, she said, wiping her eyes with her fingers. I dont think her body can take much more. I know I cant. I was baffled and appalled but more than that, I was disgusted. Disgusted at Amy for revealing our secret to her mother. Disgusted andscared. How did it happen, I asked. How did your mom find the money? She leaned in close, her face next to mine. There was an unfocused look in her eyes, like she were hypnotized or drugged or something. She spoke to me but she didnt look at me. She found it, she said. I hid most of it in my Scooby Doo lunchbox but she found a couple of hundred dollars in my purse. She took it. She gathered it all up and shouted at me, told me to tell her where it came from. At first I wouldnt tell, even though she hit me. She called me a whore. She wanted to know if you gave it to me. Sheshe doesnt like you, you know. She says youll never amount to anything. She calls youwell, she calls you awful things. So she
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wanted to know if you stole it or if I . . . I . . . prostituted myself for it. I said no, no, Mama! Listen to what youre saying, listen to yourself, I could never do anything like that, Im practically an angel! How can you say such things, Im your daughter! But she wouldnt listen, she slapped me and forced me to lie down and she hit me on the bottoms of my feet with a pair of flip-flopsthey dont leave a mark. She hit me again and again and again. But every time the pain got so bad and I was about to tell, I thought of you, and the trouble it would cause you, and so I just clamped my mouth shut, and I pretended the pain was actually pleasant, it actually felt good, I imagined that her slaps were actually your kisses, and that gave me strength, it gave me hope. But then she locked me in the closet. Just like in the old days. It was dark, she said, her eyes growing wide as she remembered. There was just that little crack of light at the bottom, and then when my mother turned the light off in the room, even that went away. And I didnt have any of my flashlights with me. They were just on the other side of the door, but I couldnt reach them. I thought about them and I imagined what each of them looked like, and I tried to remember how comforting they were when they were on and shining bright, but I couldnt hold them or touch them or even see them. And it was so dark. I stayed like that in there for like hours and hours and hours, and then the things start to come out of the dark, slow at first, kind of shy, but I knew they were coming, I remembered them from the old days. And at first I tried to remind myself that they werent real and that I was just imagining them and that they couldnt really hurt me, but then one of them touched me and I couldnt pretend that it wasnt real any longer, because . . . how could something that cold not be real? And then more came and we were all in there together, and I was all mashed up against them and there was no air to breathe and their skin was like . . . rough . . . oily . . . scabs and blisters . . . rubbing up against me . . . rubbing their things all over me . . . it felt like snakes just wriggling around my body, cold slimy scales, around my neck, under my arms, between my thighs. And then I think I went a little crazy because I dont remember so well after that. All I remember is the door finally opened and I fell out, and I was all soaking wet and smelly because I had peed all over myself, and Wiener was licking my face, and my fingertips were bleeding, and I had all these splinters underneath my nails where Id tried to scratch through the door. And thats when I told my mother where I got the moneyhow we got it, about the thing with Sheriff Marinetti, about the rest of the money in the lunchbox and under the porch. And after I told her about it, she just looked at me for a while, then started
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to laugh, and then she walked out of the room. And then later, when I looked for the money in my lunchboxit was gone. I turned the keys in the ignition. Theres a car coming, I said, starting up the car. Ill talk to you later. I had a friend once, she said. I stopped and looked up at her. What? I asked. What did you say? I had a friend once who told me, she said. Well, she was just a pen pal, somebody who lived in Italy that I got in touch with. We exchanged email for a while. We talked about everything. She told me what it was like to live there, all about her family and things. She told me once, that she was so glad to get to know me, how wonderful it was to talk about things, how happy she was to get one of my emails. But then one time she told me how sad it was for her too. Because, you see, because her religion was different than mine, how sad it was for her. Because, she said, she was never going to have a chance to see me in heaven! She put her hands on my arm. Clinging. And thats kind of how I feel about you, C. J.! she said. Like Ill never get a chance to see you in heaven! Well! I said, putting the car in gear. Okay, then! Please, she pleaded. Let me go with you. Ill come back for you, Amy, I said. You know I will. I cant believe Im here talking to you now, she said. Ive been waiting so long to see you. Ive been waiting so long for this moment. Oh, I said. C. J., she whispered. I think Im going insane. I really think Im just going bonkers. Whenever I meet someone, I start to hyperventilate. I always feel like Im going to throw up. I
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keep seeing Sheriff Marinettis face in the patterns of the wallpaper. And I had this real weird dream the other night where I singing in a musical but he wandered onto the stage blindfolded and kept knocking over the scenery. There was a lot more to it than that but thats all I can remember right now. Theres no one else I can talk to about this and I dont know what to do. IIm so alone. Theres just you, me, and and and Joe. And Joes crazy! Right, I said, adjusting the rear-view mirror. I feel so awful, she said. I just feel all dead and black and hollowed out inside. Yeah, but, I said. Look at the bright side. Its not too late! she cried. We could still turn ourselves in. I dont know what they would do to us, but its got to be better than this! We shouldnt have listened to Joe. We shouldnt have ever listened to him. He starts talking and talking and he just talks and talks and talks until he wears you down and before you know it youre doing things you wouldnt ever in your right mind do. Hes . . . dangerous! Hesmessed up! Weve got to stay aWAY from him! The tone of her voice struck me. I looked up at her. She was staring intently back. Her mascara was all smeared and there was a crazy look in her gleaming eyes. Amy, I said steadily. I cant talk right now. But I will give you a call. You will? Dubious. Sure. When? Well . . . tomorrow? She peered into my face, scrutinizing it. Then she shook her head. I dont think you will, she said. I think youre just saying that. I think youre just saying that to get away. I dont think you care about me anymore.
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Amy! I said. Thats not, thats not Oh, C. J., she said. I miss you terribly and I feel so awful! So hideous. So dirty. So ugly. So alone. Its like Im dying inside. Ill call, Amy, I said. I mean it. I will. She just looked at me. Theres a car coming, I said, releasing the clutch. Im sorry, Amy. And I pulled away. Man, I thought, looking in the rear view mirror, watching her figure recede in the distance behind me, her small broken face growing smaller and smaller. And smaller. As she looked out after me. As she watched me drive away. Man . . . that sucked. Boy, was she distraught. I mean, wow. It was like she was like falling to pieces or something. Right in front of me. Wow. Too bad. And as I rounded the corner, as I watched in the rear-view mirror, she turned and began limping off the highway. And then she disappeared from view. But, you know what? What was it to me? I mean, who was I? Could I save the world from its problems? I mean, I had plenty enough of my own. I mean, jeez, sure I was sorry. But why should I feel guilty? Why should I feel responsible? You know what I mean? You know. I dont have all the answers. I shook my head. I was worried about her mom and the whole money thing. What was gonna happen with THAT? I glanced in the mirror again. Something else, here. Curious. There really was a car behind me. And it was picking up speed. Itd gone from being a little dot on the road to quickly covering the distance between me and it.
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It was a little Volkswagen Beetle. A Love Bug. Like Herbie in those movies. Except Herbie was painted white. This one was a bright cheery yellow. But that wasnt the curious thing about it. The curious thing was that there seemed to be someone leaning out of the side window, making a megaphone out of his hands, hollering at me. Now the car was tailgating, practically kissing my bumper, kind of swerving back and forth on the road. And now I could see who it was leaning out of the window. I could tell by the iridescent green leopard print. It was Joe. He was waving. He was excited. Maybe he was worried about his Jeep. Criminy. I hadnt had it that long. So I pulled into the entrance of the Joy Gardens Roller Rink and turned off the ignition. And watched in awe as two big guys I didnt know jumped from the Beetle and before I could say anything, before I could do anything, before I could even wonder what was going on, yanked me out of the Jeep and hustled me into the back seat of the VW. It tore out, its wheels spinning in the gravel, back onto the highway. It was hot in the back seat, even with the windows open. There wasnt much room, and the top of my head poked into the roof. I had a hard time finding a place to put my legs. Joe was sitting in the front passenger seat, just staring straight ahead. Joe? I said. He just shrugged without turning around. There was a guy to either side of me, and of course a dude was driving. I was mashed into the guy to my left, who was big and fat. He had straight black hair that stuck to his greasy forehead and he was wearing an Hawaiian shirt with big colorful flowers all over it. He had this weird skin problem, like, little scars in his cheeks like hed once had a bad case of acne, but they werent little craters, they were more like deep crevices in his flesh, all twisty and
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winding together. His Adams apple, if he had one, was buried somewhere within his fat, fleshy neck. The look on his face was that of a dead pig. He was sweating. He was sweating a lot. There were huge stains under his armpits, and he smelled real bad. Not as bad as a dead decomposing body of course (now my special area of expertise) but not so great for a live one. And his teeth. Id never seen a mouth such as his before. He had too many teeth. They werent like normal teeth. They stuck out of his mouth at all different angles. They were like all sharp and pointy and crooked and gnarly. They were like white vines climbing out of his mouth, like ivory roots extending out looking for a place to dig into. They blossomed from his mouth like some grotesque dental flower. I didnt want to touch him. I tried to wiggle away from him but the back seat was awfully crowded, since it seemed to be built for two and there were three of us in it, one of whom could almost be counted as two, and there just wasnt any room. It wasnt much fun. It wasnt much fun at all, what with my face stuck into his sweaty armpit. I opened my mouth to, to . . . to ask questions, to scream, to shout. But the fat toothy man interrupted with a wave of his hand. Ive been asking around town, he said. I hear you boys been buying some pretty playthings. Playthings, I repeated automatically. Playthings. He didnt reply, but just reached into his pocket. Or, rather, he tried to reach into his pocket, but his elbow kept bumping the door and he couldnt quite get his hand in. Jesus fucking Christ, he said. Oh my fucking God. Phil! he called to the guy behind the wheel. Next time, you remember. Four doorsgood! Two doorsbad! You got that? Got it, Giggles, the man behind the wheel said. I got it. I mean, Jesus, the fat man muttered. He looked at me and shook his head. The Mercedes is in the shop, he explained apologetically. This is a loaner. His mutant teeth made it hard for
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him to talk and he spoke with . . . not exactly a lisp, but something close to it. I had to listen hard to understand what he was saying. It was the only thing they had left, Phil explained. There wasnt anything I could do. I felt like maybe I was expected to say something. Not a bad little vehicle, I said. A little tight in the back maybe. Just terrible, the fat man said, lifting his butt off the seat, still trying to get to his pocket. Im not a small man, as you can see. Imagine driving all the way from Youngstown in it. At the word Youngstown, my throat clenched up. I mean, really, Giggles said. Theres craziness, and then theres insanity, you know what I mean? Hed finally managed to get his hand into his pocket and he pulled out a little notebook, along with some reading glasses. He put them on and started flipping through the pages. Boat. TV. Motorcycle, he recited, after a pause. I snuck an evil look at Joe. That crazy bastard! I knew his extravagant buying was going to get us into hot water! Hadnt I tried to warn him? Why didnt he ever listen to me! Goddamn! A two-basket 220-volt commercial deep fat fryer, he continued. The only one sold in the entire county for a whole year, as a matter of fact. A Strato-Lounger from some place called Polpelskis Furniture World, he read. Joes head turned and his eyes met mine. I stared grimly back. The guy to the right of me took out a pocket knife and started cleaning his fingernails. A brand stinking new Renegade Jeep, special edition, with twelve point two miles on the odometer, he read. I guess we just got a look at that, huh? Well, theres more, he said, tossing the book into my lap. But you get the picture. Yes. I was starting to get the picture. Very clearly.

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I was looking at the dude from Youngstown. The drug dealer. The one whose girlfriend wed robbed and sunk in the Old Dam. I was looking at a man who knew about the money. The money that wed divided up. The money that wed spent. And you know what? He didnt care. He wasnt gonna want to hear excuses. He wasnt gonna want to hear explanations. He wasnt interested in hearing the reasons why Id done the things I did. He wasnt interested in hearing about how confused I felt or how unfair things were or how desperate I may have been. He didnt care that Amy was wandering back there on the highway like a zombie and that her mom had locked her in a closet and stolen all of her money, not to mention her dreams. He didnt want to philosophize or discuss what wed done or what had driven us to it. He didnt care about all those things because he lacked the ability to empathize. I mean, thats what being a sociopath is all about. Here was a man who saw things only in black and white. Who was only concerned with how things affected him. Here was a man who was the center of his own Giggles-centric universe. Oh shit. The VW abruptly rounded a curvea little too fast, a little too close. Whoa whoa WHOA! the fat man said. Jesus, Phil, take them corners a little more easy, for Christ sakes! Sorry, Giggles, he said. I was just trying to make a point. For our guests. You just drive, Giggles said. Ill choreograph the histrionics. He looked at me and shook his head. He drives way too fast, he said. He drives way too crazy. I have to keep after him all the time. Hes going to kill us someday.
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The man to my right just kept on doing what he did bestbeing utterly silent, whittling away at his fingernails, and scaring the living shit out of me. Wherewhere are you taking us? I managed to ask. Giggles just laughed. Hey Phil, he shouted up to the front seat. Yeah, Giggles? He wants to know where were taking him! Giggles said. Aint that a hoot? Hilarious! said Phil. They all want to know that, Giggles said. They all want to know where were taking them. Phil shook his head. Youd think theyd have better things to worry about, he said. Wouldnt you, though? Giggles said. Where are you taking me? he mimicked. Where are you taking me? Then his smile abruptly vanished. Actually, he said. Were not sure where were taking you. Fact of the matter is, were lost. Im just driving around in circles, Phil explained. Its a miracle I found your house at all. These . . . fucked up little hick towns! Giggles bemoaned. How do you get back to the interstate, anyway? he wanted to know. Anyway, he continued. If Phil is done with his . . . vehicular homicidedid you hear that Phil? Vehicular homicide!I guess we can get down to business. Now, it comes to my attention, I have it on good word, that you guys have some money that belongs to me. Sothat was it, huh? Finally.

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Finally it was out in the open. Finallyhed said the word. Hed named that thing that we were all upset about. About which we had all this fuss and bother. That word that everything revolved around. The thing that was on everyones mind. The center of all this fuming and fury. And that thing was Money? I asked. What money? I wondered what Joe had already told them, what hed confessed to, how big a fool I was making of myself. He winced. Ill pretend I didnt hear that, he said. Ill pretend that you didnt just insult my intelligence. Not that I blame you, he said. If I were in your shoes, Id be lying . . . Id be lying my . . . holy shit! What the hell happened to your hand? Reflexively I clenched it into a fist and tried to hide it, tried to shield it from view. Got a little scrape, I said. Jesus, he said. It looks like ground beef. He leaned over and peered down at it through his glasses, his forehead furrowed, his eyebrows knit. He took his glasses off to get a better look. He started poking, prodding my hand with one of the stems. Oww, I intoned. Yep, he said, wiping the stem of the glasses on my sleeve. Just like ground round. Jesus. You got a hanky or something? Id rather you didnt drip on the seat. Phil, he said. You got a tissue or something? In the glove compartment, maybe, Phil said. The fat man looked at my hand for a moment more, then shook his head. Just like grade-A chuck. Truly disgusting, he said. Well, he said. Anyway. Look. Heres the thing. I dont know if you know this or not, but two of my boys are currently residing in the county clink. Oh my, I said. Yep, he said. William and Robert. I believe you met them. Two gentlemen, very similar in appearance? Two gentlemen, motorcycles their preferred method of transportation? Theyve
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been scouting this place for a while now. Two guys, two good guys. Theyre both in jail. You know what for? I didnt make a sound. He put his face close to mine. Booked on suspicion of killing some cop, he said. Some local law-enforcement buttcrack who was found floating face down in a pool of water somewhere. With his head caved in. Oh, I thought to myself. Well, that explained the people at the dam. And why there werent any snipers at my window. Jailed without bond, without mercy, without compassion, he said. Imprisoned on trumpedup charges manufactured in the small minds of hicks in backwater towns. Who have no conception of habeas corpus, of the right to a speedy trial, whore suspicious of anyone with a full set of chromosomes. Frankly Im amazed they didnt just take em out and shoot em. Perfectly innocent men! The key! Phil said, shaking his fist. Locked em up and threw away the key! The fat man turned his gaze to me. He scowled at me, displeased. Dont you know, he said with a kind of . . . restrained fury. Dont you know how to get rid of a dead body? You got to weigh them down with lead or something. Otherwise they start to float. Oh, I thought to myself again. Its the gasses, he said. The gasses of decomposition! They bloat up like Thanksgiving Day balloons! I mean, it aint brain surgery, kids! This is basic stuff! Body Hiding 101! And he turned to look out of his window for a while. A little time went by. I watched the back of Joes neck as we bumped along. A few drops of rain suddenly hit, spattering hard on the windshield. The car slowed and took a turn, onto a dirt road.
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Then the fat man leaned back and gave a little shrug. Eh, he said, sighing. To be perfectly honest, I dont really give a fat rats fart what happens to Billy and Bobo. They can rot in jail for all I care. I just brought em on board cause theyre my sisters kids. She asked me to give em gainful employment. A little more time passed. I looked out the window and saw the trees passing by. I mean, I tried to tell them, he said. But they wouldnt listen. Im sorry? I said. I tried to tell them that they should pick something other than zoology, he said. My nephews, I mean. I meanjumpin Jesus on a stick! What kind of job security is that?! Anyone could see the markets saturated. I mean, why not accounting? Or financial planning? Or something to do with computers? You can get certified in that shit. But no, he said, shaking his head sadly. They wanted zoology. They said it was what they liked. They said it was what they wanted to do. They . . . liked animals, they said. Gotta listen, Phil said, turning the wheel, navigating another corner. Gotta listen to your dreams. Gotta follow where your heart says go. So I said, Giggles continued, so I said, okay, well, how about veterinary school, then? Theres always a sick parrot or a mangy over-priced leg-humpin crotch-sniffin poodle that some old rich bitch is willin to shell out some bucks for. But, turns out, they didnt want to doctor animals, just study em. Itd be a terrible world, Phil remarked. Itd be a terrible world without animals. Animals are natures foot soldiers. Plants are more like natures armored personnel carriers. You know where youre going, Phil? Giggles asked. Not really, boss, Phil said. Giggles nodded, as if that were the answer he was expecting. And he continued to gaze out of the window.
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Its like, barren, around here, he mused. Theres like absolutely no one here. Like a motherfuckin wasteland or something. Like post-apoplectic or something. How do the people around here live? he marveled. What do they do? How do they live? I wasnt sure if he was just wondering out loud or if he really wanted to know. I wouldnt really know what to tell him anyway. It was kind of hard to explain to city folk what we did to pass the time. I didnt think he really wanted to hear about how we made pipe bombs to set off when we were feeling a little bored or about the late night drives through the woods with your arm hanging out the window and a searchlight in your hand, spotting deer, or about the venison we poached to roast over the spit for our beer parties in the woods or about how we drove around town, back and forth on the same two streets, over and over and over, to see who was hanging out by the pop machine under the towns only traffic light, or how we hung out by the pop machine at the towns only traffic light to see who was driving by, over and over and over, on the same two streets. On the other hand, I didnt want to be impolite, either, so I tried to find a way to answer his question. I opened my mouth towell, I dont know, to say something, try to explain, make a joke, anything. Butabruptly there came a sound. It was shrill. It was piercing. It was intense. It was an incisive droning that filled the inside of the car. Giggles hands flew to his ears and his eyes got crazy. Phils head jerked forward a little and his neck muscles got all stiff. His knuckles tightened on the wheel. AAAAAH! Giggles said. THERE IT IS AGAIN!! Darn! Phil said. I was confused. But, I said. Its just a little cricket. Youve got a little cricket in the car.

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I know its a cricket! Giggles said. The little fuckers been with us ever since, ever since we pulled off at the tourist information center back at the PA border! I thought I got him! Phil said, shaking his head sadly. With my shoe. Two hours ago. I thought I nailed his ass! Chirpy chirpy chirp, Giggles lamented. Cricky cricky creeky. For two hundred and fifty miles! Oh dear, I said. And the WORST thing about it is, he said, with sudden explosive fury, spit flying from his mouth. You go looking for himto squash him, pull off his little legs, cut off his little head, slit his little throat, rip out his little tongue, set him on fire, drown him in acidanything to get the little fucker to shut the fuck up, you spend fifteen minutes tracking him down and figurin out where the sound is coming from, and he clams the fuck up as soon as you get anywhere near! Silent as a mouse! Not a peep! You can never find him! Motherfuckin little FUCKNUGGET! He seemed really angry. He seemed quite upset. It was like he was frothing. His face was red, and his jaws worked furiously, as if he were eager to bite through an I-beam or something. There was a little vein by his temple that was throbbing. And so we all were silent for a while, as the VW bumped along the road, as the cricket sang happily on. BLRLRLRLRLRLRLRLREEEEEEE . . . . The man to my right was still engrossed in his grooming, still inspecting his fingertips carefully, peering at his cuticles closely, his blade glinting in the light. Then Giggles sighed. He leaned back in his seat. So, he saidmore calmly, now. You see the problems I got. Billy and Bobo are in prison. My sister wants to know when Im gonna get them out. The Mercedes is in the shop. Were driving around in the middle of nowhere with Phil at the wheel. I got a cricket that wont shut the fuck up. And Im out a whole lot of money.

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Im trying to tell you, I said sweetly. Lying never came easy to me, but my ass was on the line. Im trying to tell you. We dont know what money youre talking about. We dont know anything about any money. We dont know where it is. His eyes narrowed. I think you do, he said. And heres why I think it. And he reached down and grabbed a brown paper bag that was sitting on the floor next to his ankle. He turned it over and dumped the contents onto my lap. Out tumbled: A stick of gum, some lip gloss, a couple of tampons, a pack of Camels and a lighter, two crumbled joints inside a plastic baggie, a few other items. It was the stuff. The dead womans stuff. That we looked for and couldnt find, that day with Marinetti. Recognize these items? he asked, his jaw muscles clenching. Billy and Bobo found em, right before the long arm of the law reached out and yanked them into la-la land. How about this thing? And he tossed into my lap a, a, a . . . A gross, disgusting, decaying thing. It was black and hairy. It was all stringy and matted together, and there were bugs crawling around in it. And it smelled real, real, bad. It was hair. It was the dead womans hair. Still attached to her scalp. Joe turned around, took one look, then turned back and stared out the window again. I just looked at it, miserably, as it sat on my lap, as the bugs leapt off and wiggled their way down between my legs and into the seat. Itd been a bad day to wear shorts.
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I . . . I, I stuttered. I . . . I My sweet Lucinda, Giggles murmured, giving the hairy mass a fond look and a little pat with his hand. This is all I have to remember her by. Its all I have left, he explained mournfully. Then he started to giggle. His belly started to jiggle. Then he burst out laughing. Thank the sweet Lord Jesus! he said. Sis-boom-bah! Rooty-toot-toot! What a bitch that woman was! Good God, did she make my life a living hell! And this is all thats left! I could click my heels, Im so damn happy! Hallelujah! I just sat there, with a big hairy thing on my lap. The smell made me want to puke. Then Giggles smiled at mea skewed, toothy, coy smile. And he said: Well. You kids are all right. I like the way you take care of business. I was looking down at my lap, at the thing that lay there. Yeah, he continued. I like the cut of your jib. Sure, youre a little sloppy. A little inexperienced maybe. But you boys are all right. You remind me of me when I was young. Thank you, I whispered. Thats very kind of you to say. I dont know about your career aspirations, he continued. But maybe you should consider my line of work. I dont I said. Wait . . . what? Yeah, he said. I mean, I started a little earlier than you, but youve got time to catch up. On the body count, I mean. You got a pretty good start, he said, pointing at the hair in my lap and winking.

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It took a second for what he was suggesting to sink in. Oh, no, no, I said. No, no, no. That wasnt us, we didnt Of course not, he interrupted, picking the hair up carefully and dropping it back into the bag. Of course you didnt. Who could execute such a foul, excretable deed? Certainly not I. I mean, you didnt do the cop, either, right? Er. I mean, theres a MANIAC out there somewhere, he complained. Theres a killer on the loose. I dont know why the law dont do something to find him instead of spending all this time persecutin us out-of-towners, he said. Big waste of time, if you ask me. Big waste of taxpayer dollars. But. Gettin back to what I was saying. Maybe you oughta come work for me. Theres a couple of openings, what with Billy and Bobo in the jaws of the Mayberry RFD legal system. No no no no no. This was starting to get weird. This was starting to head off in a direction I did not want to go. In all my days of wondering what I was going to do with my lifein all my days of fretting over my career, my future, all my planning, my worrying, my scheming, my hoping, my dreaming, my praying (Please, God, send me anything, any kind of job at all, just as long as I dont wind up working at the mill. Anything, anything at all. Please God. Just so I dont have stand in a room full of hot builders lime, shoveling it into wheelbarrows while it pours down the tops of my boots and eats away at my toes. Just so I dont have to come home every night and blow the coal dust out of my nostrils. Please, God . . . .)I never once imagined my first real job offer would come from some Youngstown underworld drug dealer. (Er. Gee, God, thanks, but, ermmm . . . .) Still. It wouldnt do to sound ungrateful. It sounds like an excellent opportunity, I murmured. Hows that? he said, cupping an ear.

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I said, thanks! I shouted over the chirping of the cricket. It sounds just great! A win-win situation for everybody, he said. You got a resume or something? Where do you see yourself in five years? My head was kind of swimming. Pursuing new challenges, I mumbled. I like working with people. He nodded. This is right up your alley, then, he said. You and your redolent friend. Its a very generous offer, I said. Ah, he said, waving his hand magnanimously. I take an interest in todays youth. Think about it. You can shake the dust of this little town off your boots and Hey! Phil interjected. Thats from that movie! Giggles persisted. . . . Town, shake dust, boots You know, Phil said. The part where the kid tells the girl hes goin out to see the world. And then later the angel gets his wings. Phil, Giggles said. Yeah, Giggles? Phil said. Giggles just sat silent. Sorry, Giggles, Phil said. Giggles pressed on. Shake the dust fromoh, fuck it, you know what I mean. You can get the fuck out of bumfuck and live in a real city. Eddie! The knife-wielding man next to me looked up. Giggles looked me straight in the eye. Let em have it, he said. Goodbye!
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The knife was like a burning red hot branding iron as it slid between my ribs. I gasped and coughed and while hiccupping a bloody bubble to my lips I marveled at just how much pain the human body was capable of feeling. I clawed at my side where the searing blood-flower was blossoming and then lifted my hands to my face to watch the cherry stain run down my wrist and arms. I was bewildered, astonished, confused. Why? Who would design a body this way, so frail and so imperfect? What was the reason that we were forced to push ourselves through such a silly, futile existence, against all odds and with such fragile equipment, in such a terrible place? It didnt make any senseit had never made any sense. Had we . . . had we done something to piss the Designer off? Was he . . . trying to wreak his revenge or something? Was he trying to get even? That I could at least understand. I wouldve liked to have known and wouldve pondered it longer but there was no more time to wonder because the light grew dim and things started shimmering with a sparkling aura and a glorious hum filled my ears and the last thing I saw, as my hearts rhythm began to go all syncopated and the Escalator to Glory began to ascend, was the cricket crawling on the back of Joes neck. No. That didnt happen. Actually, nothing happened. One second passed, two. And after ten had gone by, I opened my eyes again. Eddie had a small slip of paper in his hand, was holding it out to me, smiling. I took it, looked at it. Benjamin Giggles Malone, the card read. Hearing Aids and Imports. My card, Giggles said. Its got my number on it. You call when youre ready. Or find me on Facebook. Im not afraid of losing track of you. Then he frowned. But we still gotta get that money back, he said. Dont get any bright ideas. And so we bumped along for a time more. I clutched the card in my hand. I wasnt sure exactly what to do with it. I didnt have any pockets in my shorts and anyway I was afraid to
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put it away. I didnt want it to look like I wasnt interested. So I held the card in front of my face and pretended to read it. Over and over again. Benjamin Giggles Malone, the card read. Hearing Aids and Imports. Benjamin Giggles Malone. Hearing Aids and Imports. Over and over again. While I contemplated where I was going to come up with one million dollars. Its the head gasket, Giggles said. Pardon? I said. On the Mercedes, he said. The head gasket blew. Thats why its in the shop. I see, I said. Its in for repairs, he explained. As we climbed to the top of Lendigo Hill, something about the way Phil was driving set off danger signals in my brain. Um I said. Yep, Giggles said, gazing out the window. A real city. Good restaurants. Culture. Sophisticated women. Indoor plumbing. All the pleasures of civilized life. Yessir, I said. But Someplace that dont stink so much, he said. Dont that sound like a treat? It sounds really good, I said. However, theres something I think you should PHIL! Giggles shouted. LOOK OUT FOR THE BRIDGE! OH MY GOD! Phil screamed. And yanked on the steering wheel as hard as he could. And drove right into the side of the bridge. There was a sudden blur of things in motion, a whole lot of bouncing, a great number of objects flying through the air. A stick of gum, some lip gloss, a couple of tampons, a pack of
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Camels and a lighter, two crumbled joints inside a plastic baggie, a few other items. All were flying, ricocheting about. The first thing I noticed, after everything that was moving stopped moving, everything that had been jerking stopped jerking, everything that had been shaking stopped shaking, was . . . that . . . there was a little bird tweeting outside the window. A red-winged blackbird, by the sound of it. Happily singing. Singing a little song. I looked around, dazed and addled. Giggles was yet looking out of the window, his face turned away from me. His head moved just a little. Ohhhh, I heard him say. Oooh. His voice sounded like a creaky gate opening. Phil was leaning back on the headrest. He seemed to be resting his eyes. Eddie wore a strange expression. His eyes were open wide. Very wide. The cricket was quiet. Very quiet. Joe was already out of the car. I could see him through the windshield. Which had a big circular crack in it. Where I guess his head hit. Eddie began making a noise. It sounded like this: . . . . EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE . . . . His mouth was gaping open. I could see down his throat. I could look down and see the little pink thing that hangs down back there. I could see it wiggling. And it just went on and on. The sound was very loud. It hurt my ears. I clasped my hands over them. Joe was making some motions with his hands. It was like he was trying to get my attention. As if he were trying to communicate. A transmission of data. An exchange of meaning. Something important, by the way he was waving emphatically. I struggled to understand.
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It was hard to concentrate, what with Eddie screaming and all. . . . . EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE . . . . Joe, I said through the window glass. Joe. Um. What? . . . . EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE . . . . Joe rolled his eyes in frustration. He gave me a dismal look. Patiently, then, Joe pointed to himself, tapping his chest. He nodded with a smiling, indulgent look on his face that . . . seemed to mean . . . could it mean . . . that . . . that . . . he was asking . . . asking me to acknowledge him in some way? . . . . EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE . . . . Um, I said to Joe. You? Something about you? He smiled and nodded vigorously, pleased that I understood. Next he rapidly and repeatedly jabbed a finger in my direction. That could only mean . . . . . . . . EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE . . . . Me, I said. Me! He nodded happily once again. Then he pointed his finger back at himself. Then back at me. Him, me, him, me. Er, I said. . . . . Us? He smiled and nodded once more. Now Joe performed a little pantomime, sort of jogging in place, kickin his heels high, as if he were running down the road or something. He turned toward me and, still jogging, held up his hands to suggest: Gee, what do you think? How bout it? Whaddya say?
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Ah, I said. You want to leave. Got it. I climbed over the front seat and out Joes door. No one tried to stop me. I turned to say goodbye but everyone seemed so . . . busy. We ran through the woods as fast as we could, tripping over sticks and rocks and roots and things. The sound of Eddies KEENING grew more distant and finally faded entirely. . . . . EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE . . . eeeeeeee . . . eeee . . . eee . . . . We hunkered down in the grass on the side of a hill, gasping for breath, in a spot where we were hidden by maples but could still see the car. It was a little bit of yellow in the distance, somewhat below us. Steam rose from the hood. That was amazing, I said. Movement down there. The VW appeared to vibrate, to tremble. Then it lurched into motion. Slowly it backed out, away from the bridge. Once in the road, it paused, as if assessing injuries. Then it began rolling down the road once more. Slowly. Painfully. One wheel was wobbling in a goofy way. The hood was all smashed in. One headlight was missing. It looked like an eye had been poked out. If they want to find the interstate, I observed, theyre heading in the wrong direction. Eh, Joe said. Who gives a shit anyhow. Bunch of assholes. It was the first thing Id heard him say since back at the house. The car gingerly limped around a corner and disappeared from view. Biggest bunch of assholes I ever met, he continued. Well, he said. Its gonna be a long walk home. Jesus! I said. Where are we, anyhow?

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Somewhere on the other side of the east wood yard, Joe said. Right squat in the middle of nowhere. Well, he said. I guess we better get moseying. If were gonna get back before Hannah Montana. Sorry about your shoe. I looked down. My sneaker was missing. Itd come off, either during the wreck or as I was climbing over the seat or while we were running. Sometime. Andholy, holy shit! My GOD, Joe! I screamed. I panicked. I started clawing at his belt. Say, he said, retreating. Just what dyou think youre doing? I need a TOURNIQUET! I shouted. Im BLEEDing! Dude, he said. Dude. Chill. He reached into his shirt pocket and extracted something. He held it up so that I could see. It was . . . um . . . . Oh, I said. See? he said. It aint yours. The blood, I mean. So justchill. Well, I said. All right. We started walking. Didja see me signaling you? he asked. What? I said. Signaling? What the hell you talkin about? Back in the car, he said. With those assholes. I was blinkin out a message with my eyelids. In Morse code. I was transmittin an escape plan. No, Joe, I said. I didnt see you.
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Shoot, he said. We continued walking. I glanced at my cell phone. No bars. But anyway, he said. Im proud of you, pilgrim. You didnt crack. I could feel the black flower blossoming inside. Joe, I said, shaking my head. Dude. We got troubles. Big time. Eh, he said. Weve seen worse. What? I warbled. Joe, what worse? Whats worse than this? We got a guy from Youngstown who just picked us up and gave us a little ride in a gangster car, just like in the movies, except it was in a yellow VW instead of, instead of . . . . He made some . . . threats, I guess youd call em . . . while the guy next to me played with a knife, just like in the movies. He knows weve got the money and he thinks we killed his girlfriend and hes GRATEFUL, for Gods sakes. He wants to give us a job and though I need a job, Im not sure I want this one, exactly. Its a big problem and one that up to this point I mightve gone to the police about, but we cant really do that now, can we, cause we KILLED the police. And and oh dear oh dear oh dear, probably what he thinks were hiding is something along the lines of a MILLION bucks instead of the shitty little thirty-five grand we DO got, much of which is already gone, I remind you, because like I keep trying to tell you, YOURE BUYING SHIT LIKE A CRAZY PERSON. Meantime, theres two guys in jail for a crime they didnt commit, which WERE actually guilty of. And, you know, Joeit aint exactly jaywalking were talking about here. Were talking about . . . were talking about a very serious offense, Joe. And somehow they got their hands on the dead womans SCALP and he just DUMPED it in my lap, and there were bugs crawling all over it, and I think maybe some went down my pants. Joe just looked at me. Kind of puzzled-like. Joe, I said, grabbing his arm. Im serious. I got bugs in my underwear. Theyre crawling around down there right now. Im afraid to look.

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He pursed his lips, kinda scratched his forehead with a fingertip. He was silent for a moment, thinking. You remember in tenth grade? he said. The time we snuck into the senior center? In the middle of the night? We found their food closet and we made peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and watched TV. The janitor found us and chased us all over hell. You tore your pants trying to climb back over the fence. That was pretty bad. But we got through it. It turned out okay. I opened my mouth but didnt know what to say. I wasnt getting through. I searched for the language, but I couldnt think of how to express what I needed to say. How to make him understand? I needed to tell him about . . . about loneliness and suffering, despondency and futility, irrational hope and numbing, illogical pain. There was so much that needed to be said, but my words were failing me. Anyway, Joe wasnt like that. He wouldnt understand. And my hand was leaking again. So I just shook my head and limped along, like some wounded soldier hobbling back from the front. While Joe played with . . . the thing. Tossing it up into the air and catching it. Tossing it up into the air and catching it, as if, well . . . he were flipping a quarter or something. Joe, I said. What the hell did you pick that thing up for, anyway? I didnt! he said. It just bounced into my lap. I looked down and there it was. I was in a foul mood. A black humor. Its goofy, Joe, I said. Kinda weird and goofy. Kinda goofy andsick. Yeah, he giggled. I guess. What exactly you gonna do with it, anyway? I grumbled. Well, he said. Good question. He scratched his head. Dont rightly know. I think, well, I think, maybe . . . maybe put it in plastic, make a paperweight out of it. Or somethin. Mount it
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on a birch panel maybe, put it up on the wall. Next to the eight-point I shot last year. Or somethin. Maybe make it into one of those little water globe thingies so that when you shake it up you can watch the snow fall around it. Or somethin. He held it up proudly, into the light, regarding it from all angles. It was a finger. It was Eddies finger. I guess the knife mustve slipped. When we wrecked, that is. I admired the manicure. The nail was very clean. Its kind of a little trophy, he explained. Kind of a little souvenir. Joe, I said grumpily. They probably couldve sewed it back on. A little bonus, he continued. Like when youre almost done eatin yer order of french fries and all of a sudden, out of nowhere, down at the bottomwhee hoo! Theres like this lone onion ring you didnt expect starin back up at you! What a treat! I mean, I dont know why I was so angry with Joe anyway. About the finger and all. What can you expect from a murderer. We hooked up with a gravel road that Joe said he remembered from hunting. We passed some big construction vehiclesa bulldozer and a backhoe, things like thatsitting by the side of the road, like slumbering yellow dinosaurs. And as we rounded the first bendme limping along without a shoe and with an oozing, aching hand, Joe wearing his new leopard-print smoking jacketit started to rain. There was a sudden flash of light, like a camera going off. And through the woods came a sharp, loud, clap of thunder. It echoed through the hills. When I looked up, Joe was smiling.

***
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I was back at the house, sitting by the Victrola, listening to the old blues tunes. The singers, the songsthe pain they sang aboutall seemed to dwell in a place so distant, so remote, so irretrievable, so lost. But it all came alive again for a brief moment, as I listened. I loved listening to those old 78s. I mean, you people got your mp3s and such, but give me scratchy old 78s any day. Full of character, full of soul. I loved listening to the voices, listening to the lyrics, trying to understand the meaning behind the words, trying to see how they might apply to my life, listening hard to see what kind of advice, what kind of guidance, what kind of comfort they might give: One of these mornings Youre gonna rise up singing Youll spread your wings And youll take to the sky But till that morning Theres nothing can harm you With daddy and mamma standing by. I lost myself in the music for a very long while, pausing only now and then to wind the machine or put another record on the turntable. Hours went by in that fashion. It was a pleasant way to pass the time. Finally, though, the last record ran out, and then there was nothing left but the click click click of the needle, over and over and over again. I listened to the clicking for a long time. I found it almost as comforting as the music. But. You cant sit listening to a clicking old record forever. Kickapoo Joy Juice. I reached over and lifted the needle, put it back on the hook. Then I opened the door to the walnut console of the Victrola and reached deep inside.
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I pulled out the box of bullets. Then I reached in again and pulled out the pistol they belonged to. A Walther PPK. The same model that James Bond used. World War II vintage. My grandfather had taken it off a dead German in the Battle of the Bulge. So the legend went. Id become a pretty good shot with it. Joe had showed me the right way to stand and take aim, out in the woods. Left hand in your pocket, body sideways to the target, dont yank the trigger, just gently squeeze, squeeze. I pulled back on the slide, checked the chamber, looked down the barrel, clicked the safety off and on, pulled back on the hammer, contemplated the butt end of the firing pin, tested the tension on the trigger. I pushed the little button that ejected the clip, looked at the clip, slid it back into the grip of the gun. I liked the way it fit so snugly. Then I lay the gun on my lap and regarded it for a while. The big question. God, my brain was working so slow. I rubbed my eyes. No using avoiding it, though. It had to be addressed. The big question, that was sitting there in front of me. The big question, about this pistol on my lap. The big question was: Should I use it on myself. You see, things were looking pretty black. I was surrounded by darkness. There didnt seem to be any way out.

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There was this drug guy from Youngstown and theyd found Marinetti, andoh, I just didnt want to go through it all again. Id thought about it all over and over for hours and hours, till I thought my skull would just crack open and my brains would ooze out. Kill the pain. Oh, Lord, kill the pain! Kickapoo Joy Juice. God, it was hot in here. All the windows were open, but it was still hot, hot, hot. The heat was making it hard to think. I was sweating something fierce. The water was just dripping off my face. There was this itchy spot in the center of my head that I just couldnt get at to scratch. I mean, if I thought sticking a coat hanger or something up my nose to scratch it would make that itch go away, I would. A coat hanger or a screwdriver or, I dunno, a stalk of celery, maybe. Something. On the other side of the room, a hornet was bouncing against the window screen, buzzing angrily, trying to get out. Bzz bzz bzz tap tap tap. Outside, a car streaked by on the highway. Kickapoo Joy Juice. Kickapoo Joy Juice. I didnt know why, but that phrase kept running through my head. Over and over and over again. I just couldnt seem to get rid of it. It wasnt very much fun to have it running through my brain like every two seconds. Didnt I have enough troubles already without that phrase running through my head like every two seconds? It made it really hard to concentrate. It made it really hard to think. Kickapoo Joy Juice. Kickapoo Joy Juice. Oh, how I wished I could just unZIP my head and let the madness out! Well. I couldnt unzip my head. But I could poke a hole in it.
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I picked the gun off my lap, held it loosely in my hand. It wasnt just the . . . the . . . trouble. Should I call it that? Yes, it seemed to fit well. Yes, Id call it The Trouble. It wasnt just The Trouble. The trouble with the money and Joe and the dead woman and everything. There was more to it all than that. Something else was bothering me. Something that I was just beginning to realize. Something that was greatly disturbing, that had been sort of lurking in the background for a long time. And that something was: I was a loser. Should I call myself that? Yes, it seemed to fit well. Yes, Id call myself The Loser. It was hard to admit it, it sounded bad to say, but there it was. I was a loser because, because . . . well, where to start. I was a loser because Id flunked out of college. I was a loser because I didnt have a life, I didnt have a future. I was a loser because I was living at home with my mom, not in her basement exactly as the joke goes but something close to it. I was just a loser leading a tiny existence in a dying backwoods paper mill town that ninetynine out of a hundred people couldnt find on a map. I couldnt even get my shit together enough to buy myself a car and blow the place. And I couldnt even put the blame on lack of money. No. Not anymore. And . . . it went deeper than that. Deeper than those things. My GOD how hot it was in here! I wasburning up. I drew my hand across my forehead and it came away just dripping with sweat.

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I was a loser because . . . . Because I thought I was special. Because I wouldnt accept the inevitable now that Id grown up, join the rat race that is, put my nose to the grindstone, get myself an annoying boss at an annoying job. Like Joe Six-Pack. Like everyone else. Because I was a dreamer living in a fantasy world of my own creation. In there I was a god but out in reality where it mattered I was a nothing, a nobody, a sick little person with a confused sense of self-importance. A little guy sitting in a falling-apart building on the side of the road to nowhere. A little boy who didnt want to grow up. I was a loser because I chose to sit dreaming away inside this junk heap of a house instead of picking up a hammer and paintbrush and start workin to fix things up. I chose to sit dreaming away inside this junk heap of a house instead of picking up a hammer and paintbrush and start workin to fix things up not just because I was lazy, but also because . ... . . . if I started, if I started to do it, if I began something real that wasnt just all inside my head, if I tried to do something positive in earnest . . . . I might be successful. I just might actually start to make things better. And that would pop the bubble. Id be starting at the bottom, with a hammer and a nail, fixing the part of the siding where the German Shepherd pup chewed the shingles away. And starting at the bottom was so inglorious, compared to my dreams. Toronto. The Rockies. Id rather sit and mope and bitch and gripe about how impossible it all was rather than take a chance on making things better. Why hadnt I realized this before? Why hadnt anyone told me? Why did you all let me make such a fool of myself?
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I guess . . . I guess . . . . All I ever had to do was look around. The answer was all around me, all the time. The thought made me laugh a little, chuckle a bit, and I spun the gun on my finger, twirled it like a toy. I popped the clip out and started loading it up with cartridges. It held eight, with one in the chamber. I really only needed one, but . . . what the hell. I liked the way the rounds fit so neatly in the clip. The little slugs felt sleek and special in my fingers. I had a hard time holding onto them because of my hurt hand. The fingers curled toward the palm in an obscene sort of claw-like way, although I could extend them a tad if I made a big effort, steeling myself against the pain. The swollen skin was so taught it felt like wood when I tapped on it, and it was the purple-red color of asphyxiation. Swollen as it was, it was more like a club attached to the end of my arm than any sort of . . . tool . . . that could be used to grasp and clutch and manipulate things with. Not very useful for tasks requiring dexterity, and I fumbled a shell here and there, had to pause to pick them up again and painstakingly, painfully, push them into the clip. But, I mused, slapping the clip back into the gun. To continue. There was one other thing that made me a loser. Itd been bothering me for a while now. It was the thing that I most despised. That I most regretted. Hadnt I had let her down. What with her mom and everything, all that crap on her shoulders, you could see what it was doing to her by the way her body was just withering away under the strain. When she needed me the most, I hadnt been there.
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Hadnt I forsaken Amy. I thought about it all for a long time as I sat there with the gun in my hand, my head slowly drooping, my chin coming to rest on my chest. You see, Id had dreams. Id had dreams of going out and exploring the world. Id had dreams of meeting new people, glamorous people, of doing neat and exciting things. I hadnt wanted to get hooked up with the girl who lived practically next door, the girl that Id known from kindergarten. A girl who couldve been my sister, we were so close. The one who worried about me when I went off to college. The one who played accordion in the middle of the orchard, who played waltzes and polkas, just for me. I guess. I guess that she really loved me. I remembered the time that I gave her my denim jacket, how she looked, so happy putting it on for the first time, sitting in the woods among the wildflowers. I reached down for the bottle of Kickapoo Joy Juice that was resting where Id set it by my feet. I raised it to my lips, but it was no use. My tongue was stuck to the roof of my mouth, my lips were dry and pasted together, I couldnt drink, it wasnt possible, I couldnt suckle. So I set it aside and thought some more. Shed trusted me. Shed cared for me. Shed believed in me. She needed me. She was like my only real friend. And Id just blown her off. Like a precious stone, an emerald or whatever, just tossed away as if garbage, thrown into the gutter. Like a delicate flower crushed under the heel. The fate, it seemed, of most delicate things in this world.
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I could see her very well, in my mind. It was almost as if she were with me now. Her face was soft and becalmed, sort of floating above me like an angels face, and, hey, there, she just blew me a kiss. Silly brain. I tapped on my skull with the muzzle of the gun, thinking, thinking. Eyes closed. It was a little too late now to be realizing this now, but maybe I had it all wrong. It seemed, maybe, that growing up meant abandoning your dreams. Some dreams, at least. The ones that featured you as the star, the ones that discounted the importance of other people. Maybe growing up meant not scoffing at something just because it was easy to get. Thinking that it was worthless just because it was there. Maybe it meant understanding that its other people who give your life meaning. That its your responsibility to other people that gives your life its worth. Understanding that when its all said and done the only thing that matters is whether or not, when you die, you have someone to cry for you. Like the woman Id found floating. Who had cried for her? I closed my eyes. My God. All this thinking. All this thinking and mourning and guilt and crap. It was enough to weigh a body down. Heh. Heh heh. Hee hee hee. Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha! Weigh a body down! Ho ho ho ho ho ho ho! Enough to weigh a body down! Get it? Get it? Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha! Oh, dear. Lord, that was funny! Oh, hold on a second. Wait while I wipe the tears from my eyes!
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Kickapoo Joy Juice. I balanced the gun on the arm of the chair and, still chuckling, rose to my feet, fished my cellular device out of my pocket. Weigh a body down! I thought, punching in 911. Oh, my. That was precious! I heard the phone ring twice. Someone picked up. Andersburg Police Department. I gripped the phone tightly, held it to my ear, listening, listening intently. Hello? I listened to the static on the line, my brow furrowed, listening hard to see if maybe I could hear the message being whispered there amid the noise, in the background. In the static, in the noise. If only I could make it out. Hello? Hello? I hung up. In the city, in the civilized lands, there are highly trained technicians who pounce immediately on a call such as this, who leap into action, putting on a trace, collecting screenfuls of data, figuring out where it came from. A siren sounds and a big red light flashes and the SWAT team is activated, the men sliding down the pole firemen-like right into their form-fitting jumpsuit body armor. They lift off in black helicopters, triangulating radio signals to converge on the exact location, to see what type of emergency, what kind of crisis, could prompt a desperate citizen to dial the sacred numbers 911 and hang up immediately thereafter. Here, however, I knew that it was probably just Mugsy Borschardt on the other end of the line, down at the station. Hed hung up his phone with a look of puzzlement briefly passing over his cookie-dough features and then gone back to watching reruns of I Love Lucy and munching on his chocolate Ding Dongs or whatever snack hed managed to liberate from the vending machine today.
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Well, it didnt matter. Nothing mattered. What difference did it all make now. Tomorrow I wouldnt be here. It would be a . . . sweet release. A sweet, cool, release. A kind of sleep, as I think someone once said. I picked up the gun again, held it in my hands, gazed at it without really seeing. At the door to the sun porch there came a scratching, rustling sound, and then the door slowly creaked open a few inches. A few seconds went by during which nothing much happened, and then my moms cat walked in. Did I mention that she owned a cat? She did. A tabby. It padded silently over to where I was, pausing once to stretch, and then it sat down elegantly, blinking up at me with sleepy curiosity. Something different, here. Something was different about that cat. It was the same tabby it alwaysd been, but at the same time it wasdifferent. I struggled to figure out exactly what was different about that cat. I thought . . . maybe it was in the way it looked. For one thing, its eyes were glowing red like molten metal. And it had this aura that radiated from itan intense ultraviolet sheen that emanated from somewhere within, from the center of the cat, maybe from its liver or something. Funny, I could hear that aura. It was like a chorus of angels singing rapturously. Above the pounding of its heart. I could hear the pounding of that cats heart. It was loud, it filled the room. A fast, a syncopated beat. The feline as it sat there stood out dramatically against the drab furniture of the room, shining brilliantly, almost like it was a miniature sun hovering, combusting, glowing with such a cleansing brilliant light that I figured it just must be holy, it just must be. It tilted its head just a tad and broke out into an evil grin as it leered up at me, its teeth sticking out menacingly like barber-pole scythes and candy cane pickaxes.
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And then the cat gave a little cry, a small meow, but to me it sounded as if the sky had rent in two, allowing the cries of a million suffering souls to slip into this world fromthe next. Well, I thought. That was a little different. That was a little strange. But so fucking what. So I had a glowing psychedelic cat sitting in front of me. So fucking what. What the hell did it matter. What the hell did it matter to me now. Amy had a cat once. Itd come to her window in the middle of a freezing winter night with a deep cut on its leg that was terribly infected and the leg was all unnaturally, grotesquely swollen and it was really nothing but a wild, feral cat, with a torn ear and one eyelid that drooped all the time so that when it looked at you it seemed to be squinting up with angry suspicion, like some pissed-off sailor. It was a big cat, a tough cat, all scarred up from years of fighting. But it mewed at her window gingerly holding its hurt leg high and she took it in and kept it in her room even though it wasnt housebroken and it shit and pissed and puked all over her carpet wherever it wanted. But she just cleaned the mess up and didnt say a word and took the cat to the vet and they cleaned out the leg and bandaged it all up and while they were at it they dewormed the cat and vaccinated it and gave it a little tag to wear on its collar and all that stuff and it cost a ton of money, money that Amy didnt really have, but she found a way to pay for it and she wouldnt even give the cat a name but called it Cat in a grudging sort of way and it seemed to be getting better and its fur started to get soft and shiny and it seemed to be getting used to Amy and no longer ran away as soon as she opened the door and even purred once or twice in a clumsy, awkward, broken way and let her pick it up but still it was shitting and pissing in the corner and wouldnt use its litter box and her room stank real bad and then one day when she opened the door, there it was in the middle of the floor, cold, hard as a rock, and very dead. Why it died, we didnt know, and they dont do autopsies on scraggly street cats. Amy didnt cry or anything, just made little sounds of sorrow and pity as she stood there looking down at the package of stillness on the floor. Oh, she said, oh in a low, quiet, helpless, hopeless kind of voice Id never heard her use before, a voice that sounded like it was yanked from the very depths of her heart, the kind of voice that, I thought, people must use when they wake up in the hospital and find that their legs been
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amputated, or maybe learn that theyre the lucky ones, still moving, still breathing, still alive, while their kids have died in the accident. So we took the cat to the back woods and dug a hole and put it in, sort of like we were planting a seed, and shoveled dirt on top, and then Amy put a rock on top of the grave, and we left. And then, a few months later, she got her little dog. My finger curled around the trigger of the gun. I lifted it and held it high, pointing it towards the heavens. Like I was holding a sword aloft. Charging into battle. This sure seemed a sad way to end things, but the world would be a better place without me. It was the way Id been built. I hadnt been made right. I was just some sort of experiment that hadnt worked out. A recipe that hadnt turned out so well, undercooked, maybe, or left in the oven too long. I was just too sensitive for this world, too much of a coward maybe, I dunno, Id always been that way. I shouldnt have ever been born, not like this, I never really had a chance, and to continue to struggle was just stupid and useless. I hated the universe for creating me. For the sole purpose, it seemed, of toying with me, crushing me under its heel. Yes, there certainly was a GodI could feel His divine Power. The bad news was . . . he wasnt on my side. You know, life didnt seem so hard for other people. Maybe cause they were built right in the first place. I guess I should have tried to . . . bury that broken thing in me, whatever it was, so that I too could be normal. Like everybody else. Quit whining, quit struggling, give up the fight. No! It WASNT right! It didnt have to be this way! It WASNT fair, and theres no way in hell I could just pretend that it was! Because I had too good an imagination. Because I could see how it all couldve been different. I could imagine a world in which there was no goddamned gaping hole in the side of the house, a world in which we lived in a pretty little house on a nice little street with tidy little potted plants sitting on the porch rail and flowers and all and with everything fixed up and
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painted and fresh and clean. A world in which I had a dad who played baseball with me after school and drove me to Pittsburgh every summer to visit the museums and look at the dinosaur bones because it was important. Where there were no engine fumes drifting into the windows, no trucks idling under my ass all the time as I tried to listen to scratchy old records. A world in which Amys cat wouldntve died like it did after shed tried so hard to save it, to care for it, in fact as long as were dreaming, a world in which Amy had a real cat, not some damn raggedy stray, maybe a fluffy purebred like a Siamese or something that was all clean and healthy-looking and soft and stuff and had a nice pink ribbon tied around its neck and that purred all the time. A world in which she didnt have a mom who took drugs and did bizarre things like lock her in the closet for hours on end, but instead one that helped her with her homework at night and liked to bake brownies with her on weekends. Maybe if things had gone her way, if shed had a mom who cared, a dad who didnt throw her bed and clothes and things out the door into the snow in a insane fit of fury before leaving forever, maybe she couldve . . . I dont know, gone on to do something good, maybe be something great, who knows, discovered a cure for cancer maybe, started a school for special needs children, maybe been an Olympic gymnast, run for school board president, been an ambassador to the U. N., an undercover C. I. A. agent or God knows what. Maybe she would have had a chance. Maybe it couldve been the same . . . for me. I gripped the gun in my hand. Clutched it, caressed it. This world was not made for people like me. For people like Amy, me, and my mom. The world was made for people like Joe. Callous, clumsy, bumpity, simple Joe. Joe, who had no dreams or ambitions to get all disillusioned over when they didnt come to be. Joe, of limited imagination, Joe, who lived in the present moment only, Joe, for whom interest in the world extended to nothing more but a sort of hazy curiosity about exactly when and where his next beer was gonna come from. Joe, who was at his absolute best when things were in crisis. Other times he was kind of a goofball but he seemed to think most clearly when push came to shove. The more pressure he was under, the cooler he seemed to get. Like when we were riding with Giggles. Like after hed performed brain surgery on Marinetti.
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Like that day out at the Old Dam, when wed found the floating woman. Id been sitting at home, listening to old 78 rpm records on the Victrola, drinking a Kickapoo Joy Juice. Then Joe had called me. Just callin to get a pulse out of you, hed said. Just callin to get a pulse. He told me that he and Amy were going down to the Old Dam to swim. And he wanted me to come along. Man, its a hot one today, hed said. Dont you think its a hot one? I didnt feel like going. All I felt like doing was sitting inside. With the blinds drawn. I was feeling depressed, so depressed, my brain hurt so bad it was like there was a wound bleeding in my head. I had flunked out of college and I was stuck. I had flunked out of college and had no where to go. Nothing to do with my life. And no one seemed to care. There was no one who could help me. You should get out, Joed said. Just sittin inside all day, man. Aint good for you. He kept pestering and wouldnt stop. I finally gave in. I met up with them and we walked down to the Old Dam. Past the rifle range. Through the woods. Under the canopy of trees. Just like wed all done when we were young. Just like wed done as kids. I wasnt a kid anymore. Down at the Old Dam, Amy got ready to go swimming. But I wandered off down to look at the granite stones that made up the spillway. I wanted to be alone. A few minutes later, I came back running. As fast as I could. I had something important to tell them. Something interesting to show. Joe was leaning back against a tree, smoking a cigarette, and squinting up into the sun. Amy was doing a lot of . . . excited waving. DUDES! I said as I got near. HOLY FUCKING SHITBALLS THERES A
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C. J.! Amyd interrupted excitedly. Lookit! Lookit lookit lookit! She was pointing at the ground. I was putting on my bathing suit, she said. I looked down and it was all just sitting there, all stacked up, like, and I said to myself, Amy, girl, now just wake up, its time to wake up Joe, I said. Whats going on? Whys she acting this way? He shrugged. Well, he said. You see. While you were gone, we had a little, we found a little C. J., Amy said, all serious and awed and wide-eyed now. Look what I found. Look what we found. On the ground. I looked, then, and saw what theyd found. On the ground. Money. A whole lot of money. Neatly stacked. Seriously stacked. On the ground. Jesus, I said, taking a quick step back, my heart thumping wildly. Jesus, I said again, dropping to my kneespartly to get a better look, but mostly because it felt like my legs were gonna give out from under me. Thats . . . thats a BIG bunch, I said, thats a BIG bunch of Mucho dinero, Joe said, nodding. How much? I babbled. Howmuch? Aint counted it yet, Joe said. Well, not real good anyways. But I guess its pretty close to thirty-five grand. I just stared up at him. I felt a tic start up in my eyebrow. Yep, he continued happily. Thirty-five grand. Or thereabouts. Theres thirty-four packets in all, and something like a grand in each one. And then theres some loose Thirty-five thousand dollars? I interrupted.
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Thirty-four, actually, he said. Plus some loose Thirty-five thousand dollars? I said. Are you SHITTIN me? It looked so strange, the money did, so out of place, sitting there man-made among the natural things like weeds and sticks and things. Just incredible, I said. Can I touch it? Of course you can touch it, Amy babbled. Why wouldnt you touch it? Where did it come from? I wondered out loud, lifting a pack or two. I found it over there by that tree, Amy said. I was changing into my bathing suit. I looked down, and, and . . . . It was just sitting there? I asked, trying to comprehend. Have you ever seen so much money? Amy asked, reaching out to touch the bills. Have you ever held so much in your hands? Its been out here a while, looks like, Joe said. It looks like its been rained on. Theres slugs and bugs and mud and shit. It was in that bag, Amy said, nodding to where a blue bag, a kind of a duffel bag, lay on the grass. Theres other stuff in there too. I looked inside. A stick of gum, some lip gloss, a couple of tampons, a pack of Camels and a lighter, two crumbled joints inside a plastic baggie, a towel, a t-shirt or two, a few other items. Huh, I said. Someone must have left it here, Amy said. Obviously. But who in the world? Who in their right mind would? I remembered, then, what Id come to tell them. What Id discovered. Joe. Amy, I said. Now Ive got a surprise for you.
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I led them downstream. To where Id found the dead woman. She was in the main part of the dam, floating somewhat near shore. GodDAMN, Joe said. How did THAT get there? Oh my GOD! said Amy, covering her mouth and nose with her hands. It smells horrible! Its making my . . . . Who is it? she asked. Can you see who it is? Just some woman, I said. I dont know who. Poor thing, Amy said. Shes decayed, pretty much, I reported. Its like shes dissolving. Theres lots of . . . things . . . crawling around on her. You think thats where this came from? Joe asked anxiously, holding up the duffel bag, in which wed restuffed the money. You think it came from her? Huh? You think? Where else?, I said. Lemme check the pockets, Joe said, wading into the river. Oh my dear God, Amy said. Are you crazy? Are you nuts? We need to call the Sheriff! Well, yeah, Joe, I shouted out after him. Dont you think we ought to be calling the cops? Joe turned his head to look at me. Dude, he said. Dude. Think. Whats gonna happen when you call Freddie Marinetti? Well, uh, I said. Think think think, he said. Im thinking, I said. Well, I said. Hell come out. Hell call the V. F. D. or something. And then theyll pull her, it, her, it What Im getting at, Joe said. And he turned about and gazed into my eyes.
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And his eyes had this intense look to them, a bizarre sort of seriousness, craziness and bewilderment all wrapped up in one. What Im sayin is, he continued. The money. If we call the cops . . . do you really think theyre gonna let us keep any of it? Bzz bzz bzz tap tap. The hornet was still trying to get out. See, now, Joe liked to pick hornets up. With his bare hands. Hed find one crawling on a wall or something and hed just pick it up and squish it between thumb and forefinger. It always amazed me, how he could do that. Dont they sting, Joe? Id ask. Sometimes. Doesnt it hurt? Eh. You get used to it. Here, you try. No thanks, Joe. Its not our money to keep, Amy said dully. Joe stopped and looked up at her. He spit into the water. I dont want to hear no more talk like that, he said. Not our moneyoh Jesus Christ. Its not our money to keep, Amy said again. Its really not ours to take. Joe I said. He shook his head. Not our money? he said, peering up at her, squinting. You fucked in the head or what? Who fucking worries about shit like that? I think, he continued quietly. I think we all understand that we all could use a few extra dollars in our pocket. Each of us here. Amy and I looked at each other. I mean, I know I could, he continued. I cant speak for you billionaires. Now cmon! he shouted, wading into the water. Seej, I need a hand here. Lets see what we got. Schaffer! Give me a hand! Im not supposed to get my cast wet. Quit yer yammerin, get your asses in the water, and help me with this thing! So I waded in. And, after a moment, Amy did too.
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Lemmee check the pockets, Joe said. For umID. How can you stand to touch her? Amy asked, still covering her nose with her hand. How can you stand to touch it with your hands? But in the dead womans pockets wasnothing. Nothing much. Just a soggy old bit of paper, a tissue or napkin or something. Which Joe angrily ripped up and threw into the water. Now, Joe said, wiping his hands on his pants. We hide it. Amy sighed. Yeah. Yeah! Joe continued, muttering to himself. Gotta hide it. If they find her, therell be a billion questions. Cops swarming all over the place. People lookin for the money. Snoopin all over. Like flies on a dead shitpig. And thatll be all she wrote. All aboard the fast train to Fucksville. Bury it? I asked. Nah, he said. Theres a better place. He pointed with his hand. In the middle, he said. In the middle of the water. Deep. I mean, he continued. Its better than burying it. Howre we gonna bury it? We dont got a shovel. We aint got a pick. We stood silent for a few moments, gazing down at the body. Which one of us is going to take it out there? I asked. We looked down some more. Which one of us is gonna swim out there with this thing? I asked again. No answer. I looked at them. Joe, with his wrist in a cast. Amy, with her hand over her nose.
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I sighed. And said: All right. Ill go. Let me take it now and get it over with. My man Seej, Joe said. Steppin to the plate. C. J. Amy began. Pull! Joe said, grabbing the corpse, maneuvering himself into position. Pull! Shes caught up in these damn branches, I said. The hairs all twisted up. Screw it, Joe said. Just pull! He reached down and grabbed an ankle, yanked hard. Joe, I said. Bud. Look at the situation here. She aint going anywhere with her hair tangled like that. I DONT NEED THIS SHIT! Joe said. I GOT A LOT ON MY PLATE RIGHT NOW! And he lifted his foot, and he brought it down on the corpses face. Hard. And then he did it again. Again and again and again. Goddamn you goddamn you godDAMN YOU! he shrieked. Water splashed all around. Fuck you fuck you FUCKITY FUCK FUCKITY! he said. Amy and I looked away. And when we looked again, the corpse was no longer stuck to the branches. Well, most of it was free. The hair still was twisted up. Joe, I said, a lump in my throat. Joe. Good God, Joe, Amy whispered. God. Jesus! he said, looking at us with a crazy eye. It aint fuckin rocket surgery! A fly was crawling on his nose. We looked down at the corpse. Reflecting. Joe panting.
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Imgoing, I said. Imtaking it out. Now. Hold up, Joe said. We gotta weigh it down. Its gotta sink to the bottom. It cant float. He looked around. Then he picked up the bag. Here, he said. Thisll work. And he dumped the stuff inside onto the ground. It was easy to find the rocks we neededthere were a ton of them, large and small, jutting out of the sandy bank. We filled the bag and zipped it up, and then Joe showed me how to push the handle over the dead womans face, sliding it around the neck. Whatre we going to carry the money in? I asked. How we gonna get it back home? Eh, Joe said. Just wrap it up in a towel or somethin. I pointed at the maggot-encrusted face. Theres no way I can swim out there carrying that thing, I said. Its way too heavy. Itll drag me down. So use your inner tube, he said. He shook his head. Man, he said. What would you two do without me? The right thing? Amy said in a fretful voice. It isnt too late! We could still call the Sheriff! But Joe just grinned. As he and I began pushing, pulling, rolling the body onto the inner tube. I was trying not to touch the bare skin. Too much, at least. And trying not to look at the bits of flesh and things that came off and got left behind. You want to give her a little kiss? Joe asked me. You want to give her a little kiss goodbye? No, Joe, I said. Are you sure? he asked. A little peck on the cheek, maybe? Im sure, Joe, I said.
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Well, he said. All right, then. And he PUSHED the inner tube off the shore and out into the water. Annn-chors a-weigh, my boys, Joe sang. Ann-chors aweighhh . . . . I got into the water and started swimming, pushing the inner tube in front of me. This is going to turn out bad, I heard Amy say as I swam away. This is going to turn out real, real bad. I just know it! Look at the bright side, I heard Joe say. Can you understand at all what were doing? she asked fretfully. Are you able to understand even a little bit what were doing? All I know is, he said, Im missing I Dream of Jeannie right now. The water, though cold, was calm. It was an easy swim to make. But I was face to face with a dead person for the entire swim. With its jaw askew, the eyeless face appeared to be wearing a disappointed expression, as if saddened at the indignities it was forced to suffer. I tried not to look at it. When I got to the middle of the dam, I paused for a moment to look around. I saw Amy and Joe standing on the shore. Joe gave a little wave. I could see the pile of money at their side. It looked very small. I had the briefest of flashes of clarity or absurdity, I dont know which, and then it was gone. With Amys tense and anxious face looking out at me and the little pile of money by Joes side, I was suddenly able to understand what we were doing. How odd it seemed. Here I was, neck-to-neck, face-to-face with this lifeless abomination, which, as if in some nightmare, I was trying to hide.

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It was such a bizarre thing, what I was doing, that I couldnt possibly accept it; but here it was, here I was, and I was doing it. I had the briefest of flashes of clarity or absurdity, I dont know which, and then it was gone. It was time to let herit?go. I tugged experimentally on her arm, tried to slide her off the inner tube. She it?didnt budge. I pulled harder. And harder. And Oops. Er. Maybe I shoulda pushed instead. OW! As she tumbled off the tube her arms and legs flailed around a bit and, and . . . well I didnt know WHAT it was, but something caught my hand and made a scratch, a little cut. Goddamn, it hurt! A toenail or an ankle bracelet or a toe ring or something, I had no idea, I didnt know WHAT it was, but it was a sharp pain, like my hand just got slashed with a knife or a razor or something. Goddamn, I didnt know WHAT it was, but it HURT. OW! I caught a glimpse of the womans white feet for a second or two as they spiraled down into the blackness, just for an instant, and then they were gone. I was glad that the maggot face was disappearing into the muck and mud of the depths below, where it wouldnt be able to stare accusingly at anyone anymore. Let the fish eat it. Let the carp kiss it gently as they plucked the worms from the sinuses. I looked at my hand. It was just a little cut, really just a scrape, but boy, it smarted! It stung! I put my hand to my mouth and sucked at the wound. It was over. I swam back to shore. Joe was already counting out the money. Seven hunnerd, seven-fifty, eight hunnerd . . . Were felons, Amy said. What we did has got to be a felony. Is it a felony, C. J.? I dont know, I said. Its one of them victimless crimes, Joe said. We saved someone the trouble of digging a grave. Joe, I said.
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Anyway, its only a crime if ya get caught. Eight hunnerd, nine hunnerd . . . . Joe, I said. Listen Nine sixty, nine eighty, one thousand . . . . The arm came off, Joe, I said. I was trying to get her off the inner tube and I was pulling. And then the arm just tore away. Joe just kept on counting. It felt like cheese, I said, my eyes widening as I recollected. It came right off the bone. It was real loose. It was like pulling a wing off a roast chicken. But it was cold. Yeah, okay, Joe said distractedly, working some rubber bands around his wrist. Well be done in a minute, and then well go get somethin to eat. Should I have brought the arm in, Joe? I asked worriedly. I dropped it and I looked for it but I dont even know where it is. . . . Eleven hunnerd, eleven fifty . . . . JOE! I shouted. Huh? said Joe, looking up reluctantly from the money. What? Whadja say? The arm! I said. I think I fucked up! No, its fine, he said. Just let it go. Something will eat it. Where did it go? I said, gazing at the ground, rubbing my forehead with the palm of my hand. Itried to catch it, but it was all slippery and . . . I didnt. You did just great. Nowquit yammerin, will ya? Im tryin to count your money. Okay, Schaffer, were ready to count yours. One hunnerd, one-fifty, two, two-fifty . . . . I looked out over the water, thinking about the awful new secret it held. I wondered if Id ever be able to swim there again, knowing what was decomposing at the bottom.
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Even in the fading light, the dead womans hair could still be seen waving in the water, stuck to the branch. To me it seemed impossible to miss, waving like a pennant. Look at it, I whispered. Do you think anyone will notice? Meh, Joe said. Who ever comes here? Should we try to untangle it? I asked. Hide that too? Im not touching it! Amy said. Joe glanced at his cast. Too much fucking trouble, he said. Itll be gone in a day or two. What about the arm, Joe? I asked. He shrugged. I cant be concerned about every little part that falls off a rotting body, he said. Probly it sunk. But even if it didnt, it wont be round too long. Somethingll eat it. He scooped up a pile of money and gave it to Amy, dumping it into her arms. Theres your cut, Schaffer. C. J., heres yours. Just about twelve grand each.You can count it if you want. Amy looked at the money blankly, puzzled to see it there in her arms, cradling it as if she were holding a baby. I dont think I want this, she said. I dont think I want this money. Sure you do, Joe said. Think of all the neat things you can buy. I think its stealing, she said. Think of it as a gift, Joe suggested. Think of it as a gift from God. How could we ever live with ourselves? Amy continued. Fuck that noise! Joe said. You gotta take it. We all gotta take a share. Share the crime, share the risk, and that way none of us will narc out the other two. Amy turned to me. C. J., she said. What should I do? What should we do?
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I thought it over. I thought about the new car I wanted. I thought about my trip to Toronto and the Rockies. I thought about the new life I wanted to live. I thought about how much I wanted to get out of this godforsaken little town. Take it, Ame, I said. Go ahead. She turned her head slowly, hesitating, contemplating the money in her arms. Itll be okay, Amy, I said. You can trust me on this. Whaddya say we get out of here? Joe said, gathering up his things. Lets blow this clam bake. Weve had a very busy day, havent we? Yes, a very busy day. He headed off, whistling a little tune. I slung the inner tube over my shoulder and began following behind. Come on, Ame, I said. She walked dazedly, clutching the money, tripping over rocks and roots and things as she started up the path. A packet or two fell out of her arms. I stooped to pick them up. Hang on, Ame, I said, handing them to her. Youre dropping money all over the place. Who do you think she was, C. J.? Amy whispered. I have no idea, I said. Not from around here, I guess. How do you think she died? I dont know, I said. Do you think she was dead before she got in the water, or did she drown? Dont know. Arent you curious?
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Sure, I said. But Ame. I figurewhats the point in wondering? What difference does it make? I guess youre right, she said with a bit of melancholy. You better wrap that up in your towel, I said, nodding at her money. Before you lose some of it. Right, C. J., she said, suddenly intent, clasping the money close to her. I need to take good care of this. As we left the Old Dam with the money wrapped up in our towels, the sky turned orange turned to indigo turned to black, as the day gave way to sunset gave way to twilight gave way to night. The peepers were in full chorus now. I paused a moment to look back. There were fireflies blinking over the water. When I thought about it, it just seemed crazy. It just seemed insane, what wed just done. I just couldnt believe it. Was this a dream? But I squeezed my towel, and yes, the packets of money were snugly wrapped up in there. It was real, after all. I started wondering about what kind of car I was going to buy, and that helped me forget about what wed just done. Remarkably well. I lifted the gun, held it to my head, pressed the muzzle against my temple. Gingerly I tested the pressure on the trigger. Slowly, slowly, squeeze . . . it wouldnt take much . . . I knew just how much you had to pull in order to make it go off . . . . Slowly, slowly, squeeze . . . it wouldnt take much . . .. it wouldnt hurt much . . . . I hoped . . . a brief hornets sting, over in an instant . . . and then . . . it would be so . . . soothing . . . to forget . . . everything and everyone . . . the dead woman . . . Marinetti . . . Amy and her tears . . . Joe . . . and his dumbass new stuff . . . his new bike . . . his new boat. . . his . . . stupid new . . . pinball machine . . . . Say. I had a sudden idea. Hmmm. I scratched at the back of my neck with the muzzle of the gun.
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No. Was it possible? I think, I said out loud, breaking the silence, startling the cat. I think Id better have a talk with Joe. So I called him on my cell. Asked if we could get together, I said. Sure, he said. But lets go out into the woods. Lets try out my new shotgun. Im in the mood to do a little shooting. See. Our little ride with Giggles was already a thing of the past. A dim memory. For Joe. Hey, Seej! Joe said. Get this! The bad guy just tossed a hand grenade at Superman! Ha! Yeah, right, like thats really gonna do anything to him! Joe, I said. We already tried out your new shotgun. Oh yeah yeah yeah, the ol double-barrel, he said. Yeah, forget about that. I got a new one. You got another shotgun? Yeah. This ones a pump. I figured Id get a pump too. A pumps got certain advantages. I hesitated. After the shotgun-at-my-head incident last time, I wasnt exactly jumping up and down at the chance of strolling through the woods with Joe, particularly with him once again wielding a firearm. But also . . . I just didnt care anymore. I was tired. I was really really tired. How much more hiding could I do? How much more worrying? I needed some answers. This all had to end. Besides. Just five minutes ago Id been pointing a gun at my head. I didnt see any good reason not to let Joe do the same. So what I said was this:
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All right. Ill meet you down by the Old Dam. How soon can you be there? Well. I gotta drop something off at the post office. But thatll only take like a couple of minutes. Fine, I said. See you there. You know, Im really worried about my habanero pepper plants, he said. Theyve got buds on em, but theyre not blossoming. Its getting awful late in the season. Just be down at the Old Dam in an hour, I said, and hung up the phone. I sat and thought for a few minutes. I mean, you can kill yourself anytime. But the chance to solve a mystery doesnt come along every day. Kickapoo Joy Juice. I pulled on a t-shirt, some jeans, tied my sneakers. Then I stood up. Swayed a bit when I first rose to my feet; the heat was making me dizzy. The colors were dancing and there was an odd flickering sensation to my vision, like a fluorescent bulb was going on the fritz. Hey, wait a minute. I looked up. The fluorescent light was going on the fritz. It was flickering on and off. Id been meaning to replace it but hadnt got around to it. Well, maybe later. I reached up and pulled on the string. It turned off. As I left the room, I stuck the Walther in the waist of my jeans. Around behind my back, underneath my shirt. Where it was out of sight but . . . handy. I just might do a little shooting myself. If I was in the mood.

***
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When I got to the Old Dam, it was in the final minutes of the fading afternoon, in the last vanishing rays of the golden autumn sun, during that brief span of time when the day is irrevocably fated to give way to night but has not yet relinquished its grasp, in that conflicted and unsettled time between lightness and dark which communicates so eloquently that despite our wishes and intents, our dreams and ambitions to the contrary, the moments of our life are trickling away, one by one by one, like dandelion seeds in the breeze, like sparkling scintilla up the chimney flue, like the sound of distant voices carried on the wind from afar . . . and that with each passing moment the future, so ripe with potential, so laden with hope and promise, is slipping forever behind us. When I got to the Old Dam, the long dark shadows were stretching over the land like fingers encircling the earth, and the sun sat blazing on the horizon perfectly round, like a bullet wound in the sky through which Gods hot honey amber juices were flowing and oozing over Creation. When I got to the Old Dam, someone was already there. Facing away, looking out over the water, silhouetted against the red and yellow sky, juxtapositioned against the fiery glow of the sunset. At first I thought it was Joe, waiting for me. But then I got a little nearer and saw that whoever it was had onof all things, in these woodsa dress. It looked strange and out of place. As a matter of fact, it looked really out of place, because it wasnt just any old dress, but an evening gown. Quite magnificent, really. With the wind sweeping up the fabric and waving the long blond hair, it looked like a siren or something standing at the edge of the water. Who was it? Was it Amy? I squinted, trying to get a better look. Why was she dressed up like that? I walked nearer. Amy?

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But the siren turned around, and I saw she was . . . was holding a shotgun. Barrel in hand, butt of the gun resting on the ground. And her wrist was in a cast. Id been right the first time. Joe, I said. . . . Youre wearing a dress. Yes, Joe said. I am. His eyelashes were long and dark with mascara and his lips were carefully outlined in painted mauve. He wore purple eye shadow with just a hint of blush on his cheeks. There was a silence. You look good, I said finally. Thanks, he said. I like the wig, I said. Good, he said. You ready to go shooting? Sure, I said. I nodded at his shoes. Arent you going to have trouble walking in those? He was wearing a pair of high-heeled slingbacks. Nah, he said. Most people dont realize how comfortable these are in the woods. The spiked heels give you a lot of traction. You can really dig in when you need to. I never would have guessed, I said. I got em over in Tambine, he said. They had to special order them. He reached down, grabbed a handful of chiffon and hiked up his dress. I just need to watch out for the pricker bushes, he said. They snag at your nylons. Sure, I said. Of course. He gave me a funny look. Did you bring your pistol? he asked.
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Hmmmmm. Well, yes, Joe, I said. Yes, I did. Yes, I have it with me. And its loaded? he asked. Yes. He nodded. Good, he said. You might want to do some shooting. If youre in the mood. Well, then, he said. Lets get going. So we began walking through the deep, sweet woods. Nice new pump-action shotgun, Joe said to no one in particular, stroking his barrel. Lovely ordnance quality hardened steel. BAM! Joe let loose with the gun. And there a short distance ahead dropped what was left of a sparrow, permeated by pellets. Yes sir, Joe said, patting the barrel of his gun. Shes working just fine. Seems like a fine firearm, I said. I wanted to ask him about the dress and makeup but I was afraid. Where . . . where did you get it? Over in Tambine, he said. I got a pretty good deal. Very good, I said. Very excellent. There was something of an awkward silence as we walked along, the birds and squirrels and creatures of the forest utterly silent, the only sounds being our footsteps and the branches above our heads swaying in the breeze. I tried to figure out what I needed to say and how to say it. Joe I began. I know, I know, he said. Youve been thinkin. Youve been wonderin. Youve got questions, and youre looking for some answers. I didnt say anything.
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Aint that right? he asked softly. Well, Joe, I said. Yes it is. Good, he said. I been meaning to have a talk with you about it all. It, I said. What is it, Joe? Oh, you know, he said. The money, the dead woman. Amy. The killing. Everything. Right, I said. Okay. Suddenly he lifted his gun and BAM! There went a robin. He gave a sigha long, protracted, wistful sigh. The trouble with this world, he said, is that there just aint no empathy. You know what I mean? No compassion. I hear you, Joe, I said. I hear what youre saying. It seems silly, you know? he said. I mean, its like my dress. If a man feels more comfortable walking around the woods in a dress and high heels, is there any reason under the sun why he shouldnt? I mean, besides what other people think? I was silent for a few seconds while I considered the point. Well, is there?! he demanded. No, I murmured. None that I can think of. Damn right, he said. He raised his gun and BAM! there went a chipmunk. The little creatures of the woods never knew what smote them. Again he sighed. He reached into his purse and extracted some shells. But, he said, reloading his gun. Thats the way this world is. And it dont look like its ever gonna change. Maybe, he said glumly, maybe the next one will be better.
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And we continued walking. Now what is it, he abruptly said. What is it that you want to ask me so bad? Well, its not anything real important, I said. The power of the shotgun had intimidated me somewhat. Oh come on, he said. Come on out with it. We both know what youre going to say. Its nothing much, Joe, I said. Its just that something tells me, something tells me, Joe, I said, something tells me that you know more about the money than youre letting on. You think? he said, sighting down the barrel at a tree or animal or something in the distance. I mean, I said hastily. I dont mean to sound like Im accusing you or blaming you or anything. Im just kind of confused that things dont add up like I think they ought to. So I dont mean to sound like Im accusing you or anything. Silence. Right, Joe? I asked. No reply. I stopped, looked up. And he was gone. Oh, wonderful. Joe? I said. Joe! I called out. Where did he go? Was he behind me? I turned my head slowly. But as far as I could tell the woods behind me were as empty as in front. The image drilled itself through my mind: of Joe hiding behind a tree or a bush, aiming the shotgun at me. Right.
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Now. Any moment could be my last. Would the blast come from the front or rear? From the left or right? Would I even realize as the pellets drove home? Lord, let it be quick. I stood stock still, trying to get a sense of what was around me. I tried to open my eyes and ears, my senses, as much as they would go. I heard the sound of the water going over the spillway, in the distance. The branches rustled above my head. A little ways away, a tree, moved by the wind, creaked as it rubbed against another. Every little sound, every little motion, was magnified a million fold. The fall of a leaf, the haphazard chirp of a cricket. A sweet perfume hung in the air, a mixed scent of grass, leaves, water and things. The breeze across my body felt warm, silky, satiny. I turned my head slowly, eyes wide open. The leaves bounced, jittered and danced, this way and that. I tried to distinguish between woods and flesh, between impartial uncaring automatic mechanism and malignant designing malicious intent, tried to discern a human form hiding there amid the brush and the trees and the ferns, the briers and the bushes and encroaching darkness. I heard my breath, I felt my heartbeat. I put one clumsy foot forward, and I thought I heard a laugh, the click of a safety turned off. I froze in mid-step. Should I reach for my gun? Could I get it in time? What would I point it at?

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Joe! I yelled shrillya little girlishly, I thought with humiliation. Come on! Quitquit foolin around! No answer. I turned my face up and saw the great billowing marshmallow clouds pass over. I saw that they formed patterns in the sky and it seemed important. It seemed like the answers to all my questions might lie thereif only I could learn the language of the sky, read those lines, decipher the code, put two and two together. BANG! he shouted, popping out from behind a tree a little ways to my right. It came so suddenly I jumped, leaving one sneaker behind in the dirt. I tripped and fell and scrambled in the mud. I looked up and there he stood. With the shotgun pointed at my head. Oh my, I said. Oh dear. Not again. Close your eyes, he said. I have a little present for you. But Joe, listen Look, he said. You want your little present or not? All right, Joe, I said. All right. And there I sat. Eyes closed. Heart pounding. Waiting for my little present. And Joe laughed. Heartily. I opened my eyes. He lowered the gun. Cmon back, he said. Cmon back to the dam, and Ill tell you all about it. He held out a hand and helped me up, waited patiently while I put my sneaker back on. And we walked back toward the Old Dam.
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Yeah, he said. I got the money. All one mil, two hundred sixty thou, four hundred twenty bucks of it. Well, a little less now, after expenditures. I have it, and now Im gonna give half to you. Joe, I said. Joe Maybe I should back up and tell you the whole story, he said. From the beginning. How it all started. How it all began. And then he told me what happened. He told me about how, a few weeks ago, a few days before wed smacked into the bridge in his rusty old pickup, hed been out at a bar in Tambine. Hed just got pulled over for speeding on the way to the bar and got a hundred-fifty dollar ticket, a hundred fifty bucks he didnt have, and so he was feeling kinda down. Hed been feeling a little blue even before he got the ticket, because hed been thinking about how tired he was doing janitorial work at the Grant Hotel, moppin up the floors and all on Sundays when the place was closed, but he didnt really see what other kind of job hed be able to get anytime soon. He didnt really see any way out. The future wasnt looking too bright. Thats why he was headed to the bar in the first place, to try to get out of the black funk he was in. Funk, drunk. So he got very. He tried to laugh and joke and tell stories with the people at the bar but Joe wasnt very good at that and there really werent many people there anyhow, and the ones that were soon left. So then there he was, alone with his ill humor and foul mood. It was really unusual. He didnt know what to do. He wasnt used to feeling this way. He wasnt used to having a problem that didnt go away as soon as you pointed the end of a rifle at it.

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After a while, he noticed that . . . he wasnt entirely by himself. There was someone sitting in the back corner. It was a woman, an older woman, a woman with soft doe-like eyes, a woman who looked a little like Janis Joplin. He didnt recognize her. As he was staring at her, puzzled, she smiled at him in a lonely kind of way. He fumbled in his wallet for his little card of pick-up lines that hed prepared for just an occasion but hadnt ever had a chance to use. But he couldnt find it. Musta got lost or something. So he just went back and sat at her table, bought her a drink, another one. She had a little tattoo on her face in the shape of a tear and a rainbow-colored braided friendship bracelet tied around her wrist. He told her a couple of silly jokes and she smiled at them, but mostly she was quiet and sad. He tried to cheer her up. He showed her a little bar trick he knewthe only bar trick he knew. He picked up a paper napkin and held it between his first and middle finger. Then he wrapped the napkin back around his fingers and kept wrapping until it was entirely around his fingers. Then he pinched the napkin here, pulled the napkin there, reached inside the bowl of his palm and pulled on a corner of the napkin, forming a perfectly shaped origami rose. She laughed when he presented it to her, and she accepted it with grace. She wore it in her hair for a little while, and then she put it in her pocket. She seemed to be cheering up a bit. They spent some more time together, drinking some beers, but there came a moment when she whispered something in his ear. His eyes got real wide. They got up to leave. He noticed then that, along with a duffel bag, she had a small-ish suitcase, which she picked up and carried with her as they left the bar. The suitcase seemed heavy and he offered to carry it for her, but she wouldnt let him. He figured that she was visiting someone in town and that it was full of clothes. He couldnt take her home, not to his mothers basement in the faux-brick crap-colored asphalt shingle row house, and she didnt have a place to stay. So he took her down to the Old Dam, where he used to hang out as a kid. The night was warm. They got some blankets and stretched them out, then lay back to look up at the stars in the night sky, listening to the crickets and the bullfrogs.
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But according to Joe, after a sloppy kiss or two, she fell asleep before anything happened. So, feeling tired and drunk himself, he just rolled over and went to sleep too. The next morning when he woke up, she was gone. He found her under a tree, a little ways up the river. She was on her knees, face down and leaning forward, crouching in an upright fetal position, the crown of her head touching the ground, her arms stretched out above her head, her hands spread open as if she were trying to push the world away. One hand yet clutched an empty hypodermic needle. She wasntalive anymore. He didnt know what to do at first. He sat down, befuddled. Just looked at her, looked up at the sky, looked out over the river. For a time. After a while he got around to looking in the duffel bag, looking for something, a license or something, that told who she was. All he found was tampons and some weed, a change of clothes, that sort of stuff. So he opened the suitcase, looked inside. And there all that money was. If he was befuddled beforenow he was dumbfounded. He just sat on the grass. And gazed for a while. At all that money. Joe being Joe, he didnt think twice. He realized if he went to the cops, hed have to give it all up. The body. He didnt know exactly what to do with it. He was just going to leave it, but then he remembered a television show hed seen a while back where they used DNA to link a body with a killer. He knew that a single hair could link a person to a crime. He knew that there were probably his hairs and saliva and sweat and God knows what else of his all over her.

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He wasnt going to take any chances. He dragged the body to the water and tossed it in. The water would wash it off maybe, and anyway, out of sight, out of mind. The hypodermic needle he hid under a rock. The money. He started to happily haul the suitcase away, but then he realizedthis might be a little complicated. I was always telling him that some problems werent so easy to fix. This problemcouldnt be fixed with a rock to the head. So he sat down on the river bank and thought the whole thing through, as best he could. As the water babbled about him. Suddenlyhe was rich. Which felt great. Which made him feel good. Real good. He could pay that goddamn speeding ticket, now. His life was gonna change. His life was gonna change big time. But of course . . . the money wasnt his, exactly. If the cops found out he had it, theyd take it away. And hed go to jail. Because what he was doing was stealing. If you wanted to get technical about it. And um. He wasnt exactly known for having a lot of money. In fact, he was known for being dirt poor. So there was the problem. He had a lot of money but couldnt really use it. Not if people were going to notice that he was spending it. Not if it would land him in jail. What good was one point two million dollars if he couldnt use it? Well. He could always leave town. Move somewhere, start a new life. But he didnt want to do that. Where would he go? He liked where he lived. He was set in his ways. He liked being able to take his shotgun out into the middle of the woods in the middle of the night and blast off a few quick shots without anyone bothering him. He liked being able to hunt for deer and turkey and quail and to fish for trout and basshe knew all the best places. He liked knowing which back roads he could safely redline his truck on. Hed really
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really miss his beer distributor, if he moved away. Hed gone to that same beer distributor ever since he was old enough to hoist a six-pack. He felt secure and happy when he was inside, surrounded by all the stacked cases, standing there amid the blinking glow of the neon, smelling the pleasant, familiar aroma of stale beer, gazing at all the colorful pictures, reading the labels, comparing the price per unit of the twelve-ounce cans to the sixteen-ounce bottles, reading the fine print, seeing who had licensed whom to brew what. He felt better there than he did anywhere else. That was his home. And. Hed miss me. He said. Well. If he wasnt going to move, then he had problems. He might be able to hide his new wealth from most people. No one really paid him much attention anyhow. But Amy and I were definitely going to be an issue. We were friends. We knew each other too well. Wed grown up together. We hung out together. We didnt have anyone else to hang out with, reallyjust we three together. How could he possibly hide the money from Amy or me? Wed definitely know something was up. What with a new boat and a new motorcycle and a new TV and and Why not just tell us about the money? Well, he didnt trust Amy. He didnt trust her not to go to the Sheriff. Maybe shed want some of his dough. And could he be certain that I wouldnt either? No. Hed have to be more clever than that. Craft the situation the way he wanted. Much better to leave some of the money behind and have one of us accidentally find it. That way Amy and Id think that that was all there ever was. Wed split it three ways, each taking a share, including Joe. That way it wouldnt be a surprise when he started acquiring thingswed be buying things too. That way he wouldnt have to explain where the money was coming from. That way, instead of maybe turning into betrayers or turncoats, wed be complicit in the crime.
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And it hadnt entirely escaped his thinking that, if something went wrong, he might be able to push the blame onto me or Amy. Particularly Amy. But why, Joe? I asked. Why would you want to frame Amy? Well, shes, shes . . . . he said, fumbling for words. Shes a royal pain in the ass! he exclaimed bitterly. Real pushy. Always nagging. Big chip on her shoulder. And, besides, he said, stroking his wig, shes pretty. So, then. How much of the money should he leave for us to find? On the one hand, it had to be a big enough amount so that Amy and I would be tempted to buy things we otherwise couldnt afford and couldnt otherwise ever dream of owning and so wed be willing, would be wanting, to keep the secret. But, on the other hand, it couldnt be too much either. He didnt want to leave the entire suitcase behind. If he did, hed have to give up two-thirds of all that money when we found it. And, too, he was afraid to leave the whole suitcase just sitting there. What if someone else Joe Bendik, Squeaky Moyercame along and found it? Unlikely but possible. Then none of us would get any of it. But there was another reason too, a more important reason, for leaving just the right amount. If he left too much, the whole scheme might collapse. Too much money, and the whole business would seem overwhelming to Amy and me. Sort of out of our league. And maybe wed just freak and run straight to the cops. Which was pretty astute of him, I had to say. If Id suddenly found myself in possession of one point two mil like Joe had, one point two mil of money that I didnt really have any claim to other than I happened to be at the right place at the right time to find it . . . Im not sure Id woulda had the guts to keep it, ya know? Psychologically speaking. And thats where the difference between Joe and I lay, and Joe knew it. Joe was cool, cool under fire. And he knew I was, I was . . . .
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I was the weak link. He liked me anyway. So he pulled thirty-five grand out of the suitcase. That seemed like a good amountnot too much, certainly not too little. Mucho dinero. And he left it there, in the duffel bag, under a tree on the bank beside the river flowing to the Old Dam, along with the cigarettes and other things, left it there for us to find. He took the rest of the money and hid it. He waited a week to see if a shitstorm was gonna brew over the woman and the money, laid low, kept his head down. Everything stayed calm and happy, so he called Amy and me, that first day, and got us to go with him to the Old Dam. He arranged things so that Amy would see the money. Hed pretended to be all surprised and amazed about what shed found. He wasnt so happy that I found the body. That wasnt supposed to happen. It was supposed to sink out of sight forever, and it hadnt. He could probablyve done a better job making sure it stayed down. Joe didnt have very much experience with hiding dead bodies. The appearance of the body complicated things. It made Amy and me less willing to keep the money. It made us want to go to the cops. Butone good thing came of it. The origami rose. The one he gave to the woman. Thats why hed been so eager to get at the body, to check the pockets, once we found it. Hed been worried that the rose could somehow be used to link the dead woman with him, if her body was ever found. After all, it was his only bar trick, and he showed it again and again to everyone who was willing to sit and watch, no matter how many times theyd seen it before. It was something he shouldve taken care of and hadnt. So even though it was all mangled and soggy and unrecognizable he felt relieved when he got a second chance to take the rose from her pocket, rip it up and throw it into the water.
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And that was that, Joe said. You know the rest. And now, he said, Im going to give half of the money to you. But why? I wondered out loud, in awe. Why? he said. He thought for a minute, scowling, then shrugged. No reason, really. Cause I like you, I guess. Cause weve been friends forever. Cause . . . I dont need all of it. I really dont need any of it. You know, you can have a billion bucks and still not be happy. Because, he said. You figured it all out, and if I didnt give you half, Id have to shoot you. And I really dont want to shoot you. I thought about that for a few seconds. Sounds pretty reasonable to me! I said. I think so, Joe agreed. But Joe, I said. I wouldnt turn you in. With or without the money. Oh yes you wouldwell, maybe, Joe said. I dont know exactly. But I do know that you wouldve resented it. Maybe not at first, not with me pointing this gun at your head, not if I let you go. Youd be grateful. For a while. But after, after all was said and done, youd have time to think about it. Youd see all the things I was buying and youd say to yourself, how come. How come he got all the money and I aint got jack. How come he can go places and I cant. How come hes got a nice smoking jacket to run around in and I dont have any. How come hes driving that nice new Jeep and I aint got squat. How come. Youd get resentful. Who knows what youd end up doing. Blackmail, maybe? Oh, dont shake your head. You cant sit there right now and tell me what you would or wouldnt do. You dont know yourself. Money does weird things to people. It makes them act like idiots. Its just the way people are. But . . . I said, But Joe . . . .

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Now, he continuedwith just a hint of self-satisfaction. You take half the money, then were on the same team, you see? And then there aint nothing to worry about. And things can be just like the way they were before, between us. See? And I dont have to carve another notch on my gun, if you get my drift. He worked the action on his gun, letting a shell fly out from the side, to accentuate the point. Killin dont come so easy to me, he said apologetically. Joe, I said, holding my hands out in supplication. Joe . . . youre not gonna get any argument from me. No, he said wearily. I didnt think so. An idea suddenly formed in my head. But Joe, I said. If you have the money. We can give it back. We can give it back to Giggles. Wed be safe and out of trouble. He gave me a funny look. Yeah, he said. I guess we couldve given the money back. Thats certainly something we couldve done. We sure as shootin couldve given the money back. A chill ran up my spine. What . . . exactly do you mean, Joe? Im real disappointed, he said. Im real disappointed with you, C. J. Now, here I went and built you a nice little bomb as a present, the best, smallest, most blast-tastic bomb Ive ever made. Took me a lot of time. It was a ton of work. Little Mr. Big Bomb. And there you went and left it in the car with those dumbasses. You never asked for it back. You didnt even notice it was missing. I stood silent. You were right, though, he continued. You were right about one thing. You told mewhat was it exactly? Not every problem can be fixed with a rock to the head, aint that what you said? Well, you were right. Not every problem can be fixed with a rock to the head, it turns out. Sometimes it takes weapons-grade explosive.
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Jeez, Joe, I said. Jeez. One less thing to worry about, he said. On a rapidly shrinking list. Now lets go. Ill show you where I hid the rest of the money. Well, I said slowly. Well, I said, thinking things over. Well . . . . . . . . Okay, Joe, I said. Thanks! Hey, he said. Youre my buddy. My good pal. Fist bump, bro, he said, offering up his knuckles. I tapped them with mine. He started walking back up the bank, me tagging along behind like an eager puppy. Well get the money, he said. And then well celebrate. Take a ride over to Tambine. Buy some brew. Play a little pinball or somethin. Blow some shit up. And yet, I saidsort of thinking out loud. The only thing that bothers me, I said to Joe. . . . The only thing that yet bothers me . . . is Amy. He stopped dead in his tracks. And winced at the sound of her name. Amy? he said. What ABOUT her? Well, I said. It seems kind of . . . ah . . . sad. Sad? he said. What, sad? How sad? What do you mean, sad? Im not sad. Im glad! Well, I said. That shes not going to get any of the money. She got her cut of thirty-five thou, he pointed out. More than her fair share in my opinion. I suppose, but, I said. Thats nothing compared to a million bucks.
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Yeah, well, he said. Problem is, she cant know about this. She cant know anything about whats going on. She cant know about us sharing the money. She cant know about you and me. No? I said. Nope, he said. Shed narc. Shed end up telling somebody. I remembered Amy telling her mother about the money. I guess maybe youre right, I said. Still, shell never really understand what happened. What happened, he echoed. What happened. I mean, about the floating woman, the money, everything. What do you care, he said, suddenly angry. What do you care what she thinks. What do you care what she knows. What do you care what happens to her. I guess . . . I said. I guess I just worry about her. Well, dont, he said. You dont need to. Shell be all right. Schaffers gonna be just fine. You think? I said. Yes, he said. She knows how to look out for herself. I didnt reply. I didnt know what to say. I mean, whats with that girl, anyway? Joe said. Whats she got against me? How come she does all the shit she does? You remember, he said. I mean, remember the time she pasted those goddamn Rickie Tickie stickies all over my truck? Who does she goddamn think she is, anyway? It took me a week to scrape em off. Fuckin day-glo flower power shit! She said the stickers were like band-aides, I recalled. She said she needed to cover up the rust boo-boos. She said it needed a womans touch.
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Cant you just forget about her? he asked bitterly. Cant you just put her out of your head? You got like a half million bucks! Aint that good enough for you? I thought about it. I remembered Amys face, full of tragedy and misfortune, growing smaller and smaller in the rear view mirror as I pulled away in the Jeep, the last time I saw her. I thought about Amy wandering around in a daze, skinny and frantic, almost insane if not already insane. I thought about Amy, fragile and vulnerable, all bluster and piss and vinegar on the outside but inside really kind of shy, really kind of timid, sort of fearful, sort of sad. I remembered how she limped. I remembered about her mom and her trailer and the closet, about how she didnt really have anywhere to go. And, I dunno, for some reason I had this sudden mental flash of her, the way she looked when she was just lounging around, lying in the grass maybe, chewing gum and blowing bubbles, leafing through one of her fashion magazines that she liked so much, looking at all the glossy pages, at the pictures of the stylish, beautiful women dressed in expensive, sophisticated clothes, and, I dunno, maybe dreaming that someday shed be one of them. Shed never really understand what shed missed out on. Never really know how or why it all went wrong. A broken life. A stunted life. Shed never really have a chance to blossom, never have a chance to break through to the sun. I started to say something, but Joe interrupted. You cant, can you, he said. He shook his head sadly. You just cant help yourself, can you. I dont understand it. You cant let it go. I wish, he said softly, I wish it wasnt that way. Im sorry, Joe, I said. I felt confused. I didnt understand. Why was I apologizing? What was I apologizing for? What were we even talking about? Why, I said, why cant it be just like it was? In the old days? When we were all friends? Why cant it be like it was? He shook his head. Seej, he said. Youre pretty smart about some things, but other stuff youre just clueless.

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He paused, out of breath. Holdhold up a sec, he said. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a pack of cigarettes. Man, he said, wheezing. I gotta quit smokin. Those things are gonna kill you someday, I pointed out. He gave a short laugh. Yeah, he said. Probably. Suddenly, Joe pulled out a pistol. He aimed it at my head. And pulled the trigger. BANG BANG, Seej!! he said, blinking rapidly, the cigarette bouncing up and down on the tip of his lips. BANG BANG! He yanked on the trigger some more, making sparks fly. BANG BANG, Seej, youre DEAD! It was only the little novelty lighter in the shape of a pistol. That he liked to carry around with him. To light up his smokes. He shrugged. It was funny the first fifty thousand times I did it, he said glumly. With his little lighter in the shape of a pistol, he lit the cigarette that dangled from his lips had a bit of a hard time putting the flame to the tip because his hand was trembling some, but he finally got it going. Then he looked up into the sky. He smiled. And sighed. The sunset sure is pretty, aint it? he said. My gosh. It goes real nice with the periwinkle of my dress. Gosh, he said. Lifes never sweeter than when you think, than when you think you might . . . . His voice trailed off. I felt like I should say something, but I didnt know what to say. I mean, what were we gonna talk about? The weather? So I just kept my mouth shut. And struggled to think of something to say. Joe was still looking up in the sky. It sure is beautiful, he mused. Ya know, C. J., thats all I ever really wanted in life. I wanted to make beautiful things. I wanted other people to see them. He sighed, then turned his gaze to the ground. He took a deep drag on his cigarette, tossed it and ground it out with his foot.
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Then turned to give me a . . . hard look, regarding me with an air of . . . contempt. You know I screwed that bitch? he said, blowing out a cloud of smoke. Huh? I said. Schaffer, he said. You didnt know about that. Right? I was dumbfounded. Whaat?! Amy?! Yup, Joe said, hobbling up the bank, using his shotgun as a walking stick. It was a couple of weeks ago. I wasnt going to tell you, and she told me not to tell. But . . . . Joe, I said. Thats not funny. Even. I boffed her down by the Old Dam, he said wistfully. It was good. She was soft and warm and made all sorts of cooing sounds. She wanted it bad. Musta wanted it for a long time. I mean, being a cripple and all. I was speechless. There was a lump in my throat. I didnt know what to say. So I asked: Howhow did it happen? He shrugged. Well, he said evenly, calmly. This was after the thing with Marinetti. She called me up. Said she was lonely. Lonely and scared. She said she tried, but couldnt get hold of you. There was some some kinda trouble with her mom or something like that, some shit I forget. So I said okay, well go for a swim, what the hell. We went for a swim. The water was cold. When she came out her nipples were pokin through the top of her suit. You know, natures barometers, got me thinkin, I said to myself, HEL-lo!. So I complimented her on how beautiful she looked and shit and how special she was and how everything was gonna turn out just fine and how I didnt really mind her leg and before you know it, I got her pants down, and that was that. No, I said in a wobbly voice. Joe. I mean, he said. Dont get the wrong idea. She knew exactly what she was doin. She was just after my money. She figured it all out, just like you did. Only sooner.
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She I croaked. She did? I guess I shoulda been a little more smart, he said, scratching his head. Now that I think about it. I guess I shouldnta been so busy buyin so much junk. Likewhat do I really need so many shotguns for, anyway? When you get right down to it? And I mean, do I really need a mechanical bull? I never even use the thing. Probably I should have been a little more careful. Probably I shoulda been a little more smart. Probably I shoulda thought it all through a little bit better. Did she actually say that, Joe? I asked. Did she actually say that she figured it all out? Did she? Joe? He shrugged again. Well, he said. I mean, she aint dumb. There was a sudden bright flash of light, like a camera going off or a bolt of lightening or a bomb exploding in the distance, and when I blinked, it was as though I had x-ray vision or something. I could see right through Joes skin. I could see right into his skull. I could see his brain, the various arteries and veins pumping blood to and from. I could see the bones, the rows of teeth lining his mouth, the jaw swiveling on its hinge, opening and closing. I could see his tongue, moving within his mouth to form sounds. And he continued to talk. Anyways, he said, scratching his ear. Lemme see, what else can I tell you about it. After that, she called me up like a dozen times, just crying and jabbering and shit, I couldnt make out WHAT the fuck she was trying to say. I finally had to tell her to justshut the fuck up, dont call anymore, quit BOTHERIN me. I had to shut that shit down in a hurry. No way was I gonna get myself saddled with that kind of baggage, just when my life is finally startin to kick into gear. Yep. Into high gear. I mean, let her find her own goddamn suitcase full of money, if thats what she wants. Of course, he continued, giving me a sideways glance, his eyes narrowing, doin that, talkin to her like I did, I had to worry about her runnin to the cops. Schaffer dont like being talked to that way. She mighta squealed. I thought about it. It looked like I might have to kill her too. Might have to busta cap on that bitch. Let a little light shine into her brainpan. But then I

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figured, hey, no worries. If she did run to the cops, I figured, shed have to tell all about what you and her did too. About Marinetti, the money and everything. And she . . . she . . . . For a moment the expression on his face softened. She wouldnt do that to you, he said, gazing glumly at the ground. She wouldnt do that to you. She wouldnt do that to you. And, for a few seconds, all I could hear were the leaves in the breeze and the distant sound of water going over the spillway. So, he continued, sighing. And so. That got me thinkin. That got me thinkin about . . . a lot of things. About the dead woman at the bottom of the dam. And Marinetti there, too. About the money. And about . . . you and her. And I came to realize. I started to understand. I figured it all out. I saw how it was meant to be. And so I thought up . . . another way. So it wouldnt hafta come to all that. Buh I stuttered. But And Im happy with it, he said. I feel good about it. Though I had to try once more. Just to be sure. What are you talking about? I exclaimed. Why are you talking? He looked up at me again. The tender look was gone. His eyes were glittering. Like the hardest diamonds. I mean, you aint jealous or nothin, are ya? he asked. He laughed bitterly. Good ol Amy. Ol Anytime Amy, he said, grabbing his balls for emphasis. I slapped that bitchs naked ass and rode her like the wild animal she is. I rode her like a buckin bronco outta the chute at the OK corral. I mean, really, he said to me. Aint that the funny thing about us guys? We always gotta be the best at something, the best or the first. Well. I was first. Not counting the entire varsity football team, in double overtime, he laughed. That dont count. Anyway, you had your chance with her. Plenty of em. Dont know why you never took advantage. You

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look surprised. You aint surprised, now, are ya? What the hell you think she is, some kind of angel? Ol Amy. Ol Anytime Amy. Hey, now, he said. . . . . Whatre you up to? I realized I was pointing my pistol at him. My hand shaking. Just what do you think youre doing? he asked. I didnt reply. Careful, he said, with a smile. Thats how accidents happen. I didnt say a word, although I had a lot to tell him. I searched for the language, but I couldnt think of how to express what I needed to say. I needed to tell him about . . . about loneliness and suffering, despondency and futility, irrational hope and numbing, illogical pain. There was so much that needed to be said, but my words were failing me. Anyway, Joe wasnt like that. He wouldnt understand. So I let the gun speak for me instead. I pulled the trigger. Again and again and again. Its not often you hear a man scream. The gun leapt in my hand like a dove struggling to fly free. The shots were more eloquent than any poetry I couldve offered, any speech I mightve made. I was shooting with my bad hand and with each trigger pull a bolt of pain leapt from my finger through my hand up my arm up my neck straight into the core, the very center of my brain. Searing like liquid lightening, burning like electric fire. The crack of the gun echoed through the hills like a giant bone splintering. The rounds caught him in the chest, the neck, the face. As they struck he jerked and bucked as if in the electric throes of orgasm. They spun him around and threw him down the bank. He collapsed and rolled down, over and over in the muck and the sand, his lavender gown getting all muddy and dirty, before coming to rest at the edge of the water.
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I climbed down the slope to take a look. He was still moving, twitching a bit. His wig had come loose and was sitting sideways on his head and one of his shoes had come off and was lying half in the water. He turned his head and looked up at the sky, staring at everything and nothing at all, breathing very deep, gasping for air. I could see the reflections of clouds in the blue of his eyes. He was trying to say something but the slugs had done a good job of . . . breaking . . . the apparatus he needed to talk. His lips were slowly working but there was nothing but a little hiss coming out. Blood was dribbling from his chest. On the front of his dress a wet stain was growing where his bladder was emptying. But his mouth was still working, and then his eyes turned and gazed deep into mine. Then there were some scratchy noises in his throat, some jerking of the legs, a couple twitches of the fingers. And then he stopped moving altogether. I told you, I said quietly. I dont like it when you call her that. And for an instantjust an instantI thought I saw, I thought I saw . . . . A bit of fog or smoke or something leak from his mouth and nose. It floated for a moment above his face and then, with a small cry that sounded like a baby rabbit dying, rocketed up into the sky, into the blue. I think it was his ghost. I think it was his ghost rocketing up to Heaven. Now I was starting to feel a little bad. A little guilty. Im sorry, Joe, I said. His eyes stared up into mine. There was nothing behind that gaze. I prodded him with my toe. I wanted him to accept my apology. Joe, I shouted. Did you hear me?! I said Im sorry! No answer.

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A pair of little white butterflies fluttered by, twinkling on the breeze, circling each other, mating. Red wing blackbirds were singing in the trees. The sun was low in the sky, casting long shadows over everything. Already the minnows were touching their lips to the surface of the water, feeding on the drops of blood and bits of flesh that had sprayed about. I ran my fingers through my hair. See, now, Joe, I explained to him. Thats the difference between you and me. Im . . . Im . . . and youre . . . youre . . . . My voice trailed off. He wasnt really listening. I weighed him down, like hed shown Amy and me how to do and as Giggles recommended, placing the strap of his gun bag over his head and filling it with rocks. Then I swam him out to the middle of the dam. It should have been exhausting but I felt . . . strong. The water was cool and refreshing on my skin. I let him sink, him and his shotgun. And my Walther. His wig and purse. His high-heeled shoes. Down it all went. Some of it floated on the surface a bit, took a while to sink; some of it went straight down. But it all went. Then I swam back to the bank and looked over the scene. I tapped my chin with my finger. Something was bothering me. Something in the back of my mind. Hard to put my finger on it. Something troubling me. What was it, what was it . . . . Oh yeah. Joes cast had got wet. Oops. Oh well. Kickapoo Joy Juice.

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*** I rushed back to the highway and started flagging down cars. The first two wouldnt stop but third times the charm. It was some young kid in an old Mustang. Three-hundred thirty-five horsepower engine. Four-barrel carburetor. Quite a bit of rust. Yo, I said as he rolled the window down. Pal. How much you want for your car? For my car? he warbled. I want a thousand bucks! I reached into my pocket and brought out . . . money. Bills. The wads of dough that Id stuffed into my pockets and everywhere else. I counted out ten one-hundred dollar bills while he watched in amazement. Well, I tried to count them out, but I couldnt really hold the money very well so I grabbed a bunch that seemed about right and stuck them in his hand. For your car, I said. For the Mustang. This isnt my car, he said, blinking rapidly, holding the bills in his fist as if clutching a lollipop. My cars at home. This is my dads. I closed my eyes and tried to stay calm. I tried not to lose my temper. I tried to remember that this was just an innocent guy, someone who didnt understand he was talking to a person whod just spilled human blood for the first time. How much, I said, eyes closed. How much do you think your dad wants for this Mustang? Two grand. No, three, he corrected himself as he saw my hand start to peel off the bills. In fact, he said, in fact . . . Jesus. What happened to your hand? Never mind, I said. I handed him the money. Here. Now get out. He took the money carefully, trying not to touch my hand. He opened the door and climbed out. What about the title and registration? he asked. It all should be transferred over. I just waved him away.
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Can you at least give me a lift into town? he asked. No. I put the car in drive and started to pull away. He ran after me. Anything else I can sell you? he shouted. You like my shirt? My shoes? How about these pants? No, I said. Now, please get the fuck away. All righty, he said. Okay. Another moment and I was speeding down the highway. Passed a hitchhiker along the way. His thumb hanging out in a hopeful manner. Didnt even pause to think about picking him up. Fuck him. Then I pulled into Amys trailer park. It was dark in the park of course but even if I hadnt known by heart the way to Amys trailer it wouldve been easy to find. Because it glowed. It sat in the rear, away from most all the other trailers, and from the back windows, where I knew her bedroom to be, there radiated an odd sort of amber light, a strange sort of silent, shifting, ever-changing, almost undulating, aura. I switched off the ignition, hopped out of the car. Walked up to a bedroom window. Reached up and rapped on the glass. No response. Amy? I called. Amy! Its C. J.! No answer. Amy? I said. The front door was unlocked and that was good because now I wouldnt have to break it down but I could only open it about three inches before it hit something. At first I
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thought someone was holding it shut but then it seemed like whatever was inside was just dead weight. So I pushed and pushed and finally whatever it was slid enough so that I could squeeze inside. It was Amys mom. She was lying face up, staring at the ceiling. With a thin latex hose wrapped around her neck. And her face all swollen and blue-green and her tongue jutting out slightly from between her lips. And a hypodermic needle sticking up out of her left eye. Er, um, uh-oh. That couldnt be good. I found Amy huddled in a corner of her room, staring blankly up into space, looking out of the window at what was left of the fading twilight, as far away from her closet as she could possibly be. Shed surrounded herself with her flashlights and they all were on, some bright, some dull, some blinking red, some blinking yellow, some blazing, some very dim with batteries low, also camping lanterns, a lava lamp, incandescent lights, compact fluorescents, an oil lamp, LEDs, everything. There were some Christmas bulbs taped to walls and ceiling, sparkling and twinkling red and yellow and green and blue. There was a blinking yellow road construction light. Although the room was bathed in light, it was quiet, the only sound being a kind of soft insect clicking as some of the lights blinked on and off, shadows flickering on the walls. There were batteries and broken bulbs on the floor and just general clutter, which just made it harder to walk over to her. Glass crunched under my feet. Amy, I said, kneeling beside her. I put a hand on her neck. It felt scrawny, too thin, too light, like how a kittens neck feels when you stoop to pet it. Amy, I said. I unstrapped the miners helmet from her head and pulled her accordion from around her. It made some wheezing sounds as it fell to the floor.
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Amy, I said. Come on. Its time to go. It took a while to get her to her feet. I felt rushed and in a hurry, but I carefully wrapped hermyjacket around her shoulders and walked her down the hall, putting my hand over her eyes as we passed by her mom. And eventually I got her into the Mustang, placing her gingerly in the passenger seat like some fragile porcelain doll. I took a moment to gently push back her hair, out of her eyes. Then we pulled out onto the highway, into the blackness. Amy abruptly panicked. My lights! she cried out. I dont have my little lights! Its okay, Ame, I said, taking her hand. You wont need them. Ever again. *** We were somewhere on the interstatein the middle of flat, desolate, barren, farmland when Amy suddenly asked: What about Joe? Hes dead, I said. I killed him. I thought how crazy it was, telling her that. That was a secret that one should never tell, that no one else should ever know. I mean, Joe was my best friend. But Amy didnt seem surprised. She just stared out of her window for a few minutes. She seemed to be thinking. Im glad, she said at last. I never liked him. You never liked him? No. Never? No. Well, I liked him because he was your friend. Thats the only reason.
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I thought about that for a little while. There are a lot of people I want to forgive, in my life, she saidsort of thinking out loud. A lot of people who did me bad. I mean, what kind of chance did they ever have? But, I said. Amy, I thought you and he . . . . My voice trailed off. What, she said, Me and who? You and Joe, I said. I thought . . . I thought that you and he one time . . . he said that you . . . . Just say it, she said. I thought that you and he were . . . intimate, once. Silence. Right? I said. I took my eyes off the road for a second to glance at her. She was looking at me, her eyes demonic. Amy? I said. Youve got to be kidding, she said at last. No, I said. Thats what he told me. C. J., she said. Youre pretty smart about some things, but other stuffyoure just clueless. I stared at the road ahead. Ive never heard anything so ridiculous, she said angrily. Ive never heard anything so disgusting. I wouldnt have anything to do with him if you . . . even if . . . well, I dont KNOW what.

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Id only seen Amy really furious a couple of times in my life. It was a scary thing. It was a like there was a little sun sitting there beside me in the seat, blazing. Not much light but a whole lotta heat, sending it my way. I started to hem and haw and babble out an explanation but she interrupted me with a wave of her hand. Its absurd, she snapped. All these years Ive had to put up with my mom accusing me of such . . . things, and now you too? Im really quite disappointed. Im really quite appalled. Nowgood golly Miss Molly! Lets find an emergency ward and get your hand fixed up, why dont we? Before they have to cut it off? Oh my gosh, youre just like a little boy sometimes, arent you? And then she got into a mood and refused to talk at all, just took off her denim jacket and tossed it into the back seat (Too damn hot, she muttered) and then sat there in the dark looking out the window at the trees going by, kind of simmering, kind of stewing. Amy could be like that. A little bit . . . scary, sometimes. Then, after a while, a little light popped on over therewhere shed been keeping it, I dont know. And she began reading a Chiltons Mustang repair manual that was in the glove compartment. Which gave me time to think. To think and wonder. Feeling a little sick to my stomach. Why had Joe lied? Hed never lied to me before. What was I saying?! Hed lied to me about, about . . . the money, the dead woman, about everything! I guess, I guess, if he could he lie about that stuff, he could lie about anything. But maybe he hadnt lied. Maybe hed told the truth. Maybe Amy was lying. I turned my head to look over at her, her face lit by the occasional street lamp.
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This didnt seem like the best of times to propose the idea that she might be being a little less than honest. And from that moment on, it only ever got harder to talk about what happened, to the point eventually where it seemed impossible to do. And so I wondered. And still often do. If Joe had lied. Whether hed lied. Why hed lied. Maybe I will never understand exactly what happened. What happened between us, I mean. Between us three. We three. We had been friends together. In the old days. In the good, old, simple days. Before all this happened. Before we grew up. Before we found the money. I took a moment to pass a hand over my face. What was todays date? The thirteenth. Thirteenth of September. Friday the Thirteenth, as a matter of fact. I wondered what that meant. If anything. Tomorrow Id be twenty years old. We passed a road sign. It used to say Begin Interstate 87, but a truck or something had hit it and ripped most of it away. Now all it said was Begin. Begin. I thought about that for a long time. I thought about it for a long long time, as I watched the broken white lines in the middle of the road abruptly appear ahead of us in the flood of the headlights and then in an instant slip beneath, slip behind us, one after another after another, over and over again. Like the days of our future. Like the moments of our lives. Begin.

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And suddenly the realization pierced my brain. Like a spear of sunlight over the hilltop in the morning, flooding the valley with its golden light, the thought entered my head. Id had it all wrong. I hadnt been thinking right. A few hours ago Id been pointing a gun at my head. But I hadnt wanted to die. Id thought I did, but that wasnt what Id been feeling. Not at all. Id been yearning to start anew. Theres a difference. I thought: now Ive figured it out. Now I know. Now I know what Im supposed to do. Im supposed to . . . just live. Just get by. Just try to go as far as I can before I burn out, before my little light flickers, before the candle blows out forever. Im supposed to . . . use up my life til there aint no more. Live day by day and minute by minute, just dealing with things as they arise. Extracting a bit of joy, a little bit of pleasure, whenever and wherever I could. Just dealing with things. Even wondering what Im supposed to be doing with my life, thats all part of the reason Im living. Of course, I said, thinking out loud. I probably pulled the trigger a little too soon. I should have waited until he told me where the rest of the money was hid, then done the deed. It doesnt matter, Amy said. You can have a billion bucks and still not be happy. Theyll come looking for us, I said. Theyll find your mom and well be missing. Theyll put two and two together. Theyll come looking for us. Maybe, Amy said. I thought for a while, as the pretty colored lights passed by.
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I thought: Ive done a lot for someone my age. Ive been through a lot. Ive seen a lot. I mean, I hadnt ever been to war or anything. Hadnt seen hurricanes or wrestled rabid grizzlies or anything like that. That wasnt what I meant. I meant inside. Id seen some bad things. Inside. I thought about what had happened to me, in my life. So far. The events to which I bore witness. Dead women. Murder. I thought about the people Id met, the people Id known, the persons who I loved. My mother. Amy. And Joe. Joe. You know, I thought. I dont have all the answers. Some thingsjust cant be helped. Well be on the run, I said. Maybe forever. And in the end theyll gun us down. Just like Bonnie and Clyde. Maybe, Amy said. I kind of doubt it. You kind of doubt it?! I dont think anyone cares, she said. I dont think anyone really cares enough to chase us. I thought about Mugsy Borschardt down at the cop shop, chewing on his chocolate Ding Dongs. I remembered Joes mom, riveted to the TV, watching her game shows all day long. Maybe youre right, I said. I leaned back in my seat, lay my head back on the headrest. Steering wheel at arms length. I put my other arm around Amys shoulder. I felt good. I felt strong.
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The Mustang hurtled on down the highway . . . drilling through the darkness like a bullet through flesh. . . punching, puncturing . . . ripping, rupturing . . . before finally coming to lie, spent and still, at rest. *** Amy was a little over nine weeks pregnant when I got the letter. It had been forwarded on to me from my mom, to our new address in the city. Curious. C. J., the note written on the back said. So sorry, this came for you months ago, in all the excitement I forgot to forward it and just found it again. Hope you are well, hi to Amy, thanks for new hot dog roller, makes life so much easier. Call when you can. XOXO, Mom. I tore open the end of the envelope. I peered inside. No letter. I shook it once or twice, and something popped out, onto the table. Something that made my heart skip a beat. It was an origami rose. A little squished, from being stuffed in the envelope. I could see that it had something written on it. In blue ink. Carefully, I unfolded it. I hid it in the moose hed, it read. Also som in the prong horn mount. Grant hotel. Hidin in plane site rite above all them dumases. ahahahaha. Those dumases. My man Seej, hel-o from the next wirld, it is a better one I tell you. I glanced at the envelope. The date of the original postmark was the day that wed fled Andersburg. I reached up, lifted my pizza delivery mans cap, and scratched my head.

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I held that origami note in front of my face for a long time. Reading that message over and over. Reflecting on the spelling and grammar. Reading the message over and over. For a long long time. Then, at last, I called out, to where she was sitting painting her toenails: Amy, I said. Feel like a little road trip? THE END
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