suddenly irritated with him. But he’s already gone, left her alone in the dead man’s sideways kitchen. (The decedent, she remembers; the perpetrators, the incident, the decedent, the suspect.)
LYLE’S SOUL
Tina thinks it’s bad luck to stay here, remembering what the Indians said: the souls of the dead are always looking for a body to ride. Stay away from the houses of the dead. She remembers this from public TV.
Although she hasn’t smoked in two years, she takes an open pack of Lyle’s Merits from the side of the refrigerator and lights one, taking the smoke deep into her lungs, welcoming the familiar pain and the faint dizziness that comes a momentlater. I’m not sorry he’s dead, she thinks—and then she’s surprised when she feels that thought echo inside her, yes, yes, yes, a bone-deep satisfaction. A nameless, inappropriate anger, the anger she felt at the doctor as he laced up her arms, at Mr. Beveridge, at Bobby. Most of her is still horrified, making excuses, pretending this never happened, but somewhere inside, a voice among others, she hears herself:
Motherfucker, I’m glad you’re dead
.
Then she realizes this is Lyle’s soul, taking her over: helplessness turning to anger, anger turning to rage, rage turning to violence, violence turning against anyone who’s handy. Not that Lyle was a bad target, exactly. But she feels herself turning into a thing she hasn’t been before. “Bobby,” she calls out, still sitting behind the refrigerator. “Bobby, can we get out of here now?”
No answer.
She stands up and finds herself alone, neither Lyle nor Bobby, only the spray of blood across the wall behind the sofa, or the floor. The window at the far end is open, blowing cold salt air, and she’s alone, at the end of this road, waiting for the police. “Bobby,” she says; then screams it: “Bobby! Bobby! Bobby!”
After a long, dull moment of panic his head pops into the window, sideways, upside-down relative to the floor, so that Tina just gives up. She doesn’t know where she is.
“Let’s go,” Bobby says. “Bring the gun.”
“Go where?” she asks, but he’s gone again. She takes the crumpled pack of cigarettes, and some matches, and finally the gun (carrying it gingerly between two fingers, as if it might come to life again if she held it the right way), and follows him out the window, out into the relief of solid ground, of treesthat grow from the bottom up and cars that sit on their own four wheels. Bobby’s leaning against the trunk of the blue Monte Carlo, staring off into the low, soft sky. He won’t look at her.
“Why?” she asks.
“Why what? You want to go to jail?”
“What are you going to do with him?”
“What are
we
going to do with him, you mean.” Bobby glares, but he still isn’t seeing her. It’s all for effect, to keep her away. “We’ll take him to the ocean,” he says. “Maybe they’ll never find him.”
Tina tries to make herself think. “What if they catch us?” she asks.
“We’ve got to do something. You think of something.”
“Maybe we should just call the cops,” Tina says. “We didn’t do anything. I mean, it was just an accident.”
“You think they’re going to believe us?”
“I don’t know. I just want this to be over.”
“You think it’s worth that chance? What if they don’t believe us? What happens then?”
“What happens now?” Tina asks, feeling soft and white and weak. The corridors of her body seem to echo with empty space, the night around her seems no more substantial. Nothing matters but Bobby’s anger.
THE SEA
Restless in its banks, the Atlantic surges against the shore. The horizon is lit by the first faint difference of morning, far away on the metallic surface of the water.
The Monte Carlo sits a hundred yards from the edge of the water, buried up to its axles in sand. “You stupid—fucking—bitch,” Tina says, resting her forehead against the cool plastic of the steering wheel, eyes
LYLE’S SOUL
Tina thinks it’s bad luck to stay here, remembering what the Indians said: the souls of the dead are always looking for a body to ride. Stay away from the houses of the dead. She remembers this from public TV.
Although she hasn’t smoked in two years, she takes an open pack of Lyle’s Merits from the side of the refrigerator and lights one, taking the smoke deep into her lungs, welcoming the familiar pain and the faint dizziness that comes a momentlater. I’m not sorry he’s dead, she thinks—and then she’s surprised when she feels that thought echo inside her, yes, yes, yes, a bone-deep satisfaction. A nameless, inappropriate anger, the anger she felt at the doctor as he laced up her arms, at Mr. Beveridge, at Bobby. Most of her is still horrified, making excuses, pretending this never happened, but somewhere inside, a voice among others, she hears herself:
Motherfucker, I’m glad you’re dead
.
Then she realizes this is Lyle’s soul, taking her over: helplessness turning to anger, anger turning to rage, rage turning to violence, violence turning against anyone who’s handy. Not that Lyle was a bad target, exactly. But she feels herself turning into a thing she hasn’t been before. “Bobby,” she calls out, still sitting behind the refrigerator. “Bobby, can we get out of here now?”
No answer.
She stands up and finds herself alone, neither Lyle nor Bobby, only the spray of blood across the wall behind the sofa, or the floor. The window at the far end is open, blowing cold salt air, and she’s alone, at the end of this road, waiting for the police. “Bobby,” she says; then screams it: “Bobby! Bobby! Bobby!”
After a long, dull moment of panic his head pops into the window, sideways, upside-down relative to the floor, so that Tina just gives up. She doesn’t know where she is.
“Let’s go,” Bobby says. “Bring the gun.”
“Go where?” she asks, but he’s gone again. She takes the crumpled pack of cigarettes, and some matches, and finally the gun (carrying it gingerly between two fingers, as if it might come to life again if she held it the right way), and follows him out the window, out into the relief of solid ground, of treesthat grow from the bottom up and cars that sit on their own four wheels. Bobby’s leaning against the trunk of the blue Monte Carlo, staring off into the low, soft sky. He won’t look at her.
“Why?” she asks.
“Why what? You want to go to jail?”
“What are you going to do with him?”
“What are
we
going to do with him, you mean.” Bobby glares, but he still isn’t seeing her. It’s all for effect, to keep her away. “We’ll take him to the ocean,” he says. “Maybe they’ll never find him.”
Tina tries to make herself think. “What if they catch us?” she asks.
“We’ve got to do something. You think of something.”
“Maybe we should just call the cops,” Tina says. “We didn’t do anything. I mean, it was just an accident.”
“You think they’re going to believe us?”
“I don’t know. I just want this to be over.”
“You think it’s worth that chance? What if they don’t believe us? What happens then?”
“What happens now?” Tina asks, feeling soft and white and weak. The corridors of her body seem to echo with empty space, the night around her seems no more substantial. Nothing matters but Bobby’s anger.
THE SEA
Restless in its banks, the Atlantic surges against the shore. The horizon is lit by the first faint difference of morning, far away on the metallic surface of the water.
The Monte Carlo sits a hundred yards from the edge of the water, buried up to its axles in sand. “You stupid—fucking—bitch,” Tina says, resting her forehead against the cool plastic of the steering wheel, eyes
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