Anything You Say Can and Will Be Used Against You (25 page)

“She started coming out here with me about a year ago,” Doris
Whitehead continued. “She loved the solitude like me, liked takin' pictures of the water, sunrises, trees. Simple stuff. She kept tellin' me we could really fix this place up, wanted to try with one room, so 'bout three months ago, I told her go ahead. Do the bathroom. Figured if I didn't like it, I wouldn't have to look at it all that often.”

“And did you?”

“Like it?” Deep lines appeared around her mouth and eyes. “I loved it,” she whispered. “She always had a way of makin' me see things in a new way. See the beauty in things, in people. That was Jeannette.” Her eyes went distant. “I loved her like she was my own daughter.” She laughed gruffly. “Not that she didn't have her faults. She could be stubborn. Bad with money, petty sometimes. Often,” Doris Whitehead stopped, searching for words, “dense. She was simpleminded, not real smart, you know, far too trustin', but she could see, my God could she see, things you and I wouldn't, in everything and everyone.”

“Except for Vince,” I pointed out.

She seemed to fold into herself then, deflate. “Yup. Him she was blind to. Never could figure that out.”

We sat there quietly for a while. It was warm, and, despite all the coffee, my eyelids kept drooping. Once I was so close to the edge of sleep that I jolted upright, reaching for my gun. I looked at my watch: 3:23.

“Go on, get a few winks. I'm wide awake. I'll watch him,” Doris Whitehead said.

“Not if you keep drinking that whiskey.”

She smiled, got up and tucked the bottle in a cabinet, came back and put the shotgun across her knees.

I scooched my chair around closer to the bedroom. “I'm just going to rest my eyes,” I said, and closed them to one last view of Vince's body, listening to her steady breath, Vince's jagged snoring, the ceiling fan, and underneath all that, the rustle of trees and occasional splash of water.
Can I let him go?
The thought swirled around like a twig caught in an eddy, twitching this way and that.

Despite my best intentions, I drifted off to sleep.

 

I dreamed the usual dream, the recurring one.

A gun, pointing at me. I never see the person holding the gun. Just the hand and the gun. Terror so raw I can taste it, my limbs heavy and dense, my throat constricting, breathing quick and shallow. Pulling my own gun up slowly, too slowly, out of my holster, like my arm is concrete, so very slowly the gun comes up. My index finger thick on the trigger, absent of bone and muscle; I can't pull the trigger, and then, with great effort, I do, the hammer flying forward, but my gun dry-fires, no bullet comes out, and the other gun, the one pointed at me, fires. Slow motion the bullet comes toward me, mind screaming at the body to move, but the body doesn't respond. The bullet enters my chest, hard heavy whoosh of pain, air gone from my lungs; I'm thrown backward with the impact. A cold white light grows from that place, rippling through the pond of my body, my limbs going cold, dissolving, and then it's dim, I'm floating in a milky grayness.

Usually the dream ends there, and I wake, disoriented, the residual taste of death and terror in my mouth. But this time I keep bobbing along in the sea of gray, a sense of aching loss and regret but a kind of acceptance too, when the scene shifts abruptly and I'm in a precinct, one I've never seen before, but there are the usual battered desks and chairs, the institutional green on the walls, filing cabinets with cockeyed drawers, the floor pitted and gritty, everything not quite clean, not quite new, an undertone of sweat and cigarettes and stale coffee, a hint of mildew, cops moving about and talking, noise like a distant beehive.

I'm standing in front of a one-way mirror, facing a lineup room. There are people behind me, but I can't see them.

Six females walk into the lineup room, right to left. They are a mixture of young and old, tall and short, black and white, children and adults. I'm confused; you don't mix age and race and height like that, not for a lineup. They turn and face me. I gasp. A black woman is missing half her face; a young girl's face is bloated blue and purple; an elderly woman has empty eye sockets and a torn ear; a teenager's arms and legs have deep gashes and burns.

“They're dead,” I say. “These women are all dead.”

“Yes,” a voice says behind me, one I don't recognize. I try to turn my head to see him, but can't. “Which one?” he says.

“Which one what?”

“Which one did it?”

“None of them did anything!” My voice is shrill with indignation.

“Next,” the voice yells, and the females turn, shuffle out the door on the left. Six more females enter from the right. They turn and face me. Bile chokes my throat. I want to run screaming from the room. But my feet won't move. My body won't respond.

“Which one?” the voice says again.

Letticia Baldin is dressed in pink shorts and a blue T-shirt; she's chewing gum and having a hard time standing still, all wiggly energy and curiosity. The skeleton woman, Val, cuts her eyes up at the ceiling, a smile dancing around her mouth; her hands tap lightly against her thighs. Jeannette. Jeannette in her hiking boots, the Guatemalan shirt and khaki shorts, her hair pulled high on top of her head, looking straight at me, calm and steady, that mole between her eyebrows catching the light. Gwen looks pissed. Doris Whitehead looks grim. And me, this mirror image of me in the other room is red-eyed, my hair in disarray, my fists clenched tightly. I am looking at myself about to burst out of my skin.

My stomach rearranges itself into a throbbing braided knot. “You've mixed the dead with the living,” I whisper.

“What's the difference?” says the voice.

And then my body does respond. I turn, launch myself at the voice, rabid with fury, but midleap I am hurtled toward consciousness. I fight it, fight to stay there, to understand, to finally understand.

But it's too late.

 

I opened my eyes, disoriented, dry-mouthed, my heart thudding hard in my ears, my neck sore. Weak light filtered through the kitchen window. Early dawn. Doris Whitehead's chair was empty. I squinted
toward the bedroom, then stumbled forward, gun in hand, to the bedroom doorway, saw the rope and one set of cuffs lying there on the bed, but the other set of cuffs and the gag and Vince gone. I moved quicker, dread coming up from my stomach along with disbelief that I hadn't heard them leave, to the front door, threw it open, and a great whoosh of relief came out of my lungs.

I could just see them through the trees and overgrowth out on the dock, Vince facing the water, his pants down around his legs, Doris Whitehead pointing her shotgun at his feet. He just needed to piss again. I sagged against the door frame, giggled weakly. Poor Vince, having that woman pull his pants down, eye his privates. I could only imagine what she'd said to him, the look she'd given him.

Vince turned around, and I saw his hands move, out in front of him, and Doris Whitehead said something. I frowned, looked down, and saw the cuffs glinting on the dock beside Marge's red bandanna, looked back up quickly as Doris Whitehead's shotgun came level to his chest, and I knew.

I pushed off running, hard, my legs stretching long, the fierce “NO!” I wailed, deep and hollow, drowned out by the KA-BOOM of the shotgun. Still I kept running, branches slapping at my face, tearing at my clothes, kept screaming “NO!” as I cleared the trees, thinking even as I ran that somehow I could stop this—the blotched red hole appearing in Vince's chest, his legs buckling, his slow tumble back into the water, Doris Whitehead turning to look at me, a grim, knowing stare. Running faster, my shoes hitting the deck, each thud of my foot traveling up my legs, the sick realization that this was what she'd always intended if she had her chance. And I gave it to her. She knew I couldn't, wouldn't, do anything once it was done.

I stopped at the edge of the dock and looked down into the thrashing palette of water—white, green, pink, brown, red—Doris Whitehead's quiet, satisfied voice coming from a great distance through the roaring in my ears, “Gators'll get him. Won't be anything left for us to worry about.”

I looked up, away from the wet, choked screams below me, tears clouding my eyes. Fingers of light stretched out and danced on the
water as the sun crested the trees. A figure appeared, hovering just at the water's edge on the far bank. It was Jeannette. She was bathed in light, her face serene. And in that instant before she vanished, she looked right at me, her eyes shining, but whether from sorrow or joy, pity or compassion, I can never say.

When I left, I drove for days: east until the taste of salt was heavy on my skin, north up the coast avoiding large cities, then a hard left through the twisted hills of West Virginia, following the dash compass west/northwest. When I slept, which wasn't often or for long, I parked in campgrounds or church parking lots; never at rest stops. Sometimes I drove all night and well into the morning and then found a cheap, local motel for a shower and a real bed until nightfall came again. I wore the same clothes for days, rarely turned on the radio, ate raw vegetables and fruit and crackers, drank gallons of water and coffee. When I hit the far shoulders of Idaho, I circled back south, down through the blistered red of Utah into New Mexico.

I drove aimlessly for hours, well below the speed limit, following two-laners with little traffic, passing through dusty, anonymous towns separated by long, uninhabited stretches, until whatever had propelled me this far left me wrung dry inside, unable to muster the energy to continue.

I didn't know what I was looking for until I saw it: a small, hand-lettered rental sign resting against a
POPULATION
986 welcome marker. The town was a clump of adobe and stone—tired buildings squatting close to the ground on sagging foundations—with a small plaza and two traffic lights.

I found the house on a pitted, faded street on the far outskirts of town. It was a perfect square set back from the road, with weathered wood once painted some shade of gray and an old metal roof the color of rotten apples. Twisted, stunted trees reached toward the wide front porch, half hiding the sun.

My flesh seemed absent of bone or muscle as I walked up to the front door and found it unlocked. Inside, one large, worn-looking room was broken only by a half-wall between the kitchen and another large area with a closet of a bathroom and a door that led out back. Behind the house, open rocky spaces crept up small, uneven hills, and high grasses—bleached brown and burnt yellow—rippled in the hesitant, late-afternoon breeze; a large stand of what looked like cottonwood trees hunkered in the distance. I stood there a long time, both dazed and comforted by the harsh bleakness, by the near absence of green. It seemed as good a place as any.

The
FOR RENT
sign directed me across the street and two houses down. An elderly Mexican woman opened the door. I'd never seen so many wrinkles or eyes so black. Two huge braids, more silver than black, wrapped her head twice around. Her chin looked like a swollen knuckle; her ears were small and as translucent as a newborn's. She stared at me a long, painful moment after I asked about the possibility of a month-to-month lease. At first I thought she didn't understand English, but then she smiled, nodding, revealing three missing front teeth, two on the bottom and one on the top.

“No, no,” she said in a thick accent. “
Docientos por un mes
. Two hundred, one month.
Si
? Stay long you want.”

I paid three months rent in advance. She shook her head as she took the money, her whole manner signaling displeasure.

“
Quieres mucho
,” she said. “In you,
el miedo tiene hambre,
” and walked barefoot beside me back to the rent house, leaning into me and gripping my arm with surprising strength. My knowledge of Spanish was dismal; I'd studied French long ago in high school and
picked up the Cajun patois. But I knew that
mucho
meant much. The rest of what she'd said was a mystery. Much what, I wondered. I wanted nothing but a shower and sleep.

“
El aire 'tá bueno
. Air good,” she kept repeating. “
Los arboles recuerdan las memorias
. Trees…” she brought her cupped hands together, “remember.
Si
?”

I wasn't sure what she meant about the trees, which I was grateful stirred no memories for me, but after ushering me into the house with a short gesture and handing me a small silver key, she turned and made her way slowly back across the street, talking in Spanish, one hand cutting a graceful arc in the air. For days afterward, I felt the heat of her energy.

 

I unloaded the car, opened the windows, turned on the ceiling fans, then drove back into town and found what passed for a Goodwill in the main square and bought fold-out furniture—couch, table, chair—a cast-iron skillet, an old library lamp, and some silverware from a listless woman who was content to let me tell her the price marked on each item.

A man with narrow hips and a lean, deeply lined face was unloading an oven from his pickup out in the parking lot, and after he watched me maneuver the table and chair into my car and then stand, stumped by the couch, said, “Want some help?”

“No, thanks.” I didn't bother looking at him.

“Don't think it'll fit on your roof.” There was an undertone of laughter, but when I turned to him, his face was expressionless. His nose was small and sharp; a dimple rested on his chin, almost like an afterthought. “It's no problem, really.”

I hesitated. He grinned lopsidedly around the toothpick he twirled in his mouth and said, “I'm not the biting kind.”

“No?”

He gestured back toward the store with a tilt of his head. “They don't deliver.”

“No. I don't suppose they do.” I looked at the couch, thought maybe I should try hunting for a futon, but this didn't look like a town that would even know the word. Maybe a mattress? It was hot, and I was tired.

“Thank you,” I finally said, the air sucking all life from my words. He tossed his toothpick, and we lifted the couch into the truck bed. I gave him my address, which made him start and turn to stare at me, his pale green eyes hidden deep in a tanned squint.

“Well, you must be something,” he said. His brown hair was cut short, with the faintest touches of white at the edges.

I raised an eyebrow halfway.

“Place's been empty nearly two years,” he said. “She's turned down the last three people who tried to rent it.”

I shrugged, avoided his gaze. As I pulled out of the parking lot, he stood at the back of his truck, watching me.

The heat was sharp and relentless, and I was acutely aware of my own tired smell. I'd been in the same sleeveless white T-shirt and jeans for three days. The thin line where my watch used to rest was sunburned. Looking down at my arms, hands clenched on the steering wheel, I thought it seemed remarkable they were a part of me, these strange clumps of flesh, and I was unsettled by the momentary feeling that I was separate from my body, that it was merely a shell.

Back at the house, an ash gray cat crouched in the middle of the room. It stretched out its front paws in greeting, then huddled up again, purring.

“Aye,” said the man behind me, “you got yourself one a Tommy's cats.” When his face relaxed out of the sun, tiny sugar lines appeared around his eyes. He was younger than I'd initially thought, maybe in his early forties.

“How'd it get in?” I demanded, checking the back door, then moving swiftly past the row of windows across the near wall looking for openings.

“Tommy's cats have their ways. They're always welcome hereabouts.” He stomped his boots on the wood floor. “Still solid, no termites. Clean too.”

“Well, how do I take this back?” I asked.

The man looked at me. “What?”

“The cat? I don't want it. I don't do cats.”

“You don't do—” The man gave a low chuckle. “You're a funny one.”

I moved toward the cat, put out a leg to sweep it encouragingly
toward the door, but it arched its back, hissing, and swiped a paw at my hiking boot.

“Jesus!” I stepped back as it resettled into its crouch, staring, tail twitching with short snaps. I looked back at the man.

He shrugged. “Squatter's rights.”

The cat didn't move out of its tense crouch as we brought in the rest of the furniture.

“Where to?” the man asked, tilting his head toward the couch just inside the front door. Even wearing jeans and a button-down shirt with the cuffs rolled back, he'd barely broken a sweat. Hair bleached gold from the sun ran up forearms corded tight with muscle. He smelled faintly of manure and something medicinal.

“It's fine, leave it,” I said. “You've done enough, thank you.”

“Pick your spot,” he said firmly. “Then I'll leave.”

We looked at each other. I was struck by how at ease he seemed, how his presence filled the room, and this perception made me edgy. His hand rested on the arm of the couch, waiting.

I nodded toward the far wall, then bent to move boxes, bulging garbage bags, a loose tarp, and sleeping bag out of the way. I liked that he didn't offer to help. After I pushed everything to one side, we put the couch against the inside wall. I wanted to face the windows when I woke.

I held the screen door open for him, but when I turned around, he'd slid the toe of his boot up underneath the tarp. He looked at the shotgun and bulletproof vest, the revolver still in its holster, then dropped the tarp back down.

The guns weren't loaded—at least those weren't—so I let the screen door bang closed, walked down the steps and out into the yard. It was cooler out here; the sky had softened to a bruised apricot. Seconds later the screen door banged again, and I heard his boot steps. His faint shadow passed me first, headed toward the pickup.

“Hey,” I said. “Is there any work to be had around here?”

He looked at the house briefly, then back at me, one boot resting on the running board. “What can you do?” he said, his smile more tease than genuine.

I didn't answer.

He shrugged one shoulder, got in the truck, and put it in gear.
The truck was rolling slightly when he leaned out the window. “They're looking for a driver at the UPS next town over. You look like you could handle it, if you're interested. It's either that or a waitress job at Maria's back on the square. Take your pick.” Metal screeched as the truck bottom scraped the dip between driveway and road. He didn't wave or acknowledge me again as he drove off.

Next door, two Mexican children hung on the fence, their toes curled over the bottom rail. Their straight hair was long and even darker than their wide, round eyes. I thought one might be a boy, but I wasn't sure. I held their gaze, each of us measuring the other, when the yard behind them wavered into a flicker of light and shadow, and I saw water churning, heard babble, white noise connected to nothing. And then the smaller of the two children waved, a slight wrist movement from a hand held stiffly upright at the chest, and I returned, a gentle slide back into my body. I nodded briefly in acknowledgment.

That night I fell asleep under the watchful gaze of the ash gray cat, her body hunched tightly against the floor near my bed. Thunder rolled in the distance. I kept waiting for the edgy panic of nightfall, for the muscle memory of where I came from, yet I woke only once, to rain drumming hard on the roof and the slight sweet smell of pine. I slept again, dreaming of many disembodied hands dancing in trees, mother-of-pearl fingers playing a trill against one another only to separate and dance and swoop again through rustling golden leaves.

 

The place I had come to seemed governed by heat, a transparent, shimmering blanket of hot that smothered the lungs. This world seemed to go quiet between noon and four. Even the birds' chatter hushed, though I frequently saw hawks soaring open-winged across the cloudless sky, lazily riding the air currents. Nut brown beetles buzzed along the ground, their hard-shell bodies making futile attempts against screens and glass, falling back with a dull thonk. Dogs dug shallow pits in the dirt under porches or at the base of trees and lay panting, not bothering to raise their heads when anyone came near. Only their eyes moved; occasionally a tail thumped.

The paperwork to apply for the UPS job was minimal, and I
passed the physical easily. It was a temporary job, which was fine with me. Three months, they told me, maybe five; the regular fellow had tripped and shattered an arm and wrist. I endured a week's on-the-job training from a burly Mexican whose gestures were impatient and words were curt. The training basically involved a set of rules—always run to and from the truck, don't accept food or drink from customers, smile at everyone, complete and turn in all paperwork at the end of the day, wear your back brace. I started work two days later.

The branch I worked for was in the largest town UPS serviced in the tricounty area, with thirty-five hundred people, a one-screen movie theater, and a Wal-Mart. Two and a half hours north/northwest, according to my map, was a city of 250,000. I asked for a route that would take me in the opposite direction. The fellow in charge politely told me that this wasn't the sort of place where you could make such requests and reminded me that I was filling in for someone else and that his was the route I was getting, which ran south, mostly farm roads and blue highways.

I made a mental note to talk as little as possible, get in, do my job, and get out. I wondered how long the information on my application would take to make the rounds of coffee shops and barber chairs, then decided it didn't matter. I didn't plan on staying long.

I liked the job. I could wear shorts; no hats required. I enjoyed the preciseness and simplicity: you picked up packages, you dropped off packages, you filled out paperwork. There were no surprises—except for a few growling dogs—no partners, no one to be responsible for, and no supervisors per se. Just me and my truck and the landscape. Cars were sporadic, and once I got out of town, which took about three minutes, they were practically nonexistent. I had the roads to myself. I liked to go fast, changing gears hard on the hills, letting the air sweep in through the open side doors of my brown panel truck, drying the sweat that had formed in layers all over my body. I imagined my skin presented a modern geological specimen, each stop adding another layer of sweat that dried crusty as I got the truck up over forty again.