The Best American Mystery Stories, Volume 17 (54 page)

Harvey has the only exit blocked, and the billiard table to Kenny's right is too far away, the rack of cues on the farthest wall. To Kenny's left, just a yard away, is the fireplace with its andirons and tools, the poker and the shovel and the fireplace brush, none ever used, never dirtied by ashes because the logs in the fireplace are made of ceramic, they glow but never burn. And the mantel is lined with Kenny's and Jennilee's trophies, hers for tennis, his for debate and State Band. He needs to work his way over there, he thinks. Needs to get something in his hands.

Kenny lets the rubber ball drop. It bounces three times, rolls across the floor. He holds up his empty hand, palm out, a gesture of surrender as he slowly rises to his feet. “If this were the middle of the day, Harvey, I wouldn't mind you coming into my house without knocking. But seeing as how it's, what, nearly twenty minutes after one in the morning—”

“Stand still,” Harvey tells him.

Kenny forces a smile. “I'm not going anywhere.”

“I saw that same smile on Jennilee not long ago.” And with that Harvey reaches toward his back pocket.

Kenny doesn't wait to see what kind of weapon Harvey will produce, revolver or knife. He knows Harvey's anger well, has in fact been waiting for it all these years, has somehow known it would come to this. Kenny doesn't wait but lunges in a ducking sidestep toward the fireplace, tossing his drink at Harvey so that he can seize the set of fireplace tools in both hands, can pivot and swing them in a heaving arc at Harvey's face. Kenny holds on to only the gold-handled shovel, letting everything else fly.

Harvey spins away, covers his face. The tools sail past him to bang against the wall, but the heavy metal base of the holder catches him in the chest, a sharp corner stabbing in hard, knocking him breathless. The thing he had been holding in his hand, the weapon he had reached for earlier, now falls clattering to the floor. A plastic jewel case with a disk inside. The jewel case pops open, the lid breaks off.

A part of Kenny recognizes the object on the floor, but he is already in motion and cannot stop himself, cannot freeze the movement of the shovel in his hand, cannot stop its momentum. The flat side of the shovel slams against the side of Harvey's head.

Harvey staggers and goes down on one knee, everything black and filled with streaking white sparks. With one arm twisted over his head he waits for another blow, but it does not come. He hears Kenny's huffing breath, turns his head just enough to look at him, sees him standing there with the little shovel raised like a baseball bat, Kenny poised like a boy ready to step out of the batter's box, afraid of the speeding pitch, too timid to swing.

And in that moment when Harvey turns his dazed eyes on Kenny, in that moment when the clouds in Harvey's eyes seem suddenly to ignite, that moment when his face goes scarlet with rage, in that moment Kenny suddenly understands the error of his fear and puts his arms in motion again.

But Harvey dives in under the swing and drives forward, plunges forward with all his might. Together he and Kenny go back over the arm of the leather sofa, twisting as they fall. With Harvey beneath him, Kenny attempts to lift himself high enough that he can take another swing with the shovel, but Harvey seizes him by the wrist, yanks the shovel free, and, holding it close to the blade, slams it against the back of Kenny's skull.

Kenny falls away from him, falls onto his hands and knees and crawls toward the doorway. But Harvey stands over him now and brings the shovel down again. Long after Kenny's arms have collapsed beneath him and his body is still, Harvey continues to swing. Until finally the blade breaks off and Harvey is left holding only the handle itself, gold-plated and shining wet with blood, slippery in his hands.

Harvey stands over him and does not understand what has happened here. The room is suffocatingly warm and his lungs burn with every breath. His pulse is a hammer inside his head and his heart hammers at his chest. In the distance he hears the television playing, a late-night talk show, canned laughter and a strain of music.

Harvey drops to his knees beside Kenny and he thinks he hears a woman screaming in the distance, thinks he hears a dog barking. He thinks he would like to turn that God-awful television off once and for all, would like to put his fist through the screen. He thinks about Will and wishes Will were here to explain all of this to him, wishes he had the strength to find a telephone and to dial the numbers.

Even when he looks up and sees Kenny's mother coming toward him, sees at once the horror in her eyes and the small dog yipping behind her, cowering at her heels, even as he sees her stoop to pick up the fireplace poker, he is moving away from all this, he is walking away in his own mind, walking down the street in front of Will's place, heading for the front door, going inside to have a beer with his brother.

And everything else that happens is the work of somebody else, a man he does not know. Harvey watches it all as if from across the street, as if watching a television screen through a shop window. While now and then a pleasant scent drifts by. The smell of the bakery across the street from Will's place, of doughnuts and fresh bread. He is able to enjoy the fragrance in a detached kind of way, the way a man who doesn't eat might enjoy it, with longing and regret, man who has never tasted sweetness because he has no mouth, no tongue, no stomach for this life.

And when Harvey leaves Kenny's house a quarter of an hour later, the woman is no longer screaming and the dog has stopped barking. He has turned the television off. A bone is broken just below his left wrist where he raised it to block the poker that the woman was swinging at his face, and the flesh is swollen and pulsing, the splintered bone is pulsing, too. Otherwise, as he walks back through town, he is as still inside as the night itself, and the only thought he will permit himself is that he wishes Will's place were still open, he could really use a cold one now.

 

He requires no lights in order to see his dark rooms clearly; the details are emblazoned on his mind. The kitchen with its painted cupboards, the noisy icemaker in the refrigerator. The living room with the rose-colored sofa Jennilee begged him to let her buy, nearly $2,000, he does not regret the expense anymore, regrets nothing. His recliner facing the television set, the gun cabinet against the rear wall, all those seasons of hunting deer and turkey with his father and brothers, and then just his brothers. Even as he eases himself onto his recliner he can recall the scent of autumn leaves kicked up beneath his boots, can recall the fragrance of pine woods in those minutes before dawn when the fog is lifting and the air is chill. It all comes back to him now, all the happy moments unfettered by desire, because he knows it is all he has left now, and that it is all slipping away from him this night, it is nearly out of reach already.

He is not startled when the light flares on overhead. There is an inevitability to revelation, too. Just as there is to Jennilee's sharp intake of breath at the sight of him. He can only imagine how he must look to her, as if he has dipped his head in blood, his torn shirt splattered with it and sticking to his chest. He smiles to tell her it's not as bad as it looks. The pain is there but far away.

“My God!” she says, and comes as near as the television set, no closer. “What happened to you?”

He lifts up the compact disk he has been holding, shows it to her. Then, with a tired flick of his wrist, he sails it toward her feet. She stares down at it, a perfect roundness, chromium-bright, smeared with bloody fingerprints. Tears slide down her cheeks. She shakes her head, wanting to push away the inevitable, deny the obvious.

Her voice is hoarse and weak. He is surprised by its plaintiveness. “Did you hurt him?” she wants to know. “Harvey, please, please. Please tell me you didn't hurt him.”

He has no desire to move, to say anything. But he knows she will keep talking if he does not speak. And so he tells her, “He isn't hurt anymore.”

Her response is an explosion, too loud, he feels it deep inside his head. “What did you do to him?” she screams.
“What did you do?”

His voice in comparison is as placid as sleep. “What would any man do?”

Her knees buckle, she drops to her knees, she clings to the side of the television cabinet. Her sobs are wails as sharp as glass.

Only now does it dawn on him that she is still wearing only her panties and teddy, that she looks so inelegant there, naked knees spread apart. The soles of her feet are dirty.

She sobs, hyperventilating, forehead against the cabinet, until a thought occurs to her, and she climbs to her feet, drags herself up, and then crosses to the telephone on the end table beside the sofa, punches in the seven numbers, listens to the repetitious ring.

He can hear the ringing too, hollow and distant. How long is she going to stand there listening?

“There's nobody to answer it,” he tells her. He is about to say,
Not even the dog
, but she responds with a prolonged scream of “Nooo!” and flings herself at him, pulling the phone off the end table. She swings the receiver at him again and again, screaming all the while. He sits with arms wrapped around his head but does nothing else to defend himself, only feels the distant blows and the distant pain and thinks, as if he is watching from far away,
You're just like your mother
.

She stops screaming finally, is too breathless to continue, and leans away from him, moaning, a kind of whimpering sound he has never before heard.

He lifts his eyes to hers, can scarcely recognize her now. His voice is whisper-soft. “Tell me the truth, Jennilee. It was never just the pictures, was it?”

She is as quick as a snake, lunges forward and spits in his face, three times before his hand comes up and slaps her hard, dropping her to the floor, where she curls into a fetal position and again begins to sob. He had not known he was going to slap her, never intended to do so.

Ten or fifteen seconds pass, neither knows how long. Harvey has his eyes closed now, has settled back in his chair. Jennilee climbs to her feet slowly, and with cautious glances to see if he is watching, she makes her way to the gun cabinet. She expects him to jump up and stop her as she feels for the key atop the cabinet, but he never stirs. Eventually she finds the key, inserts it in the lock, pulls open the door.

She moves more quickly now, in a hurry before he looks her way. She pulls a shotgun off the wooden rack, reaches into a box of shells, knocks the box over, fumbles for a shell, tries to break the shotgun open so as to insert the shell the way Harvey taught her the one time he took her turkey hunting, the time she thought it might be fun that year they were married, except it wasn't fun, it was boring, and after an hour he drove her home and she never accepted his invitation again.

But this shotgun will not break open the way the other one did and she turns it in her hands, wild with fear because Harvey has opened his eyes and is watching her now, he is staring at her reflection on the TV's black screen.

And now he is rising from his chair, pushing himself up and coming toward her, moving as if under water, thick and warm and heavy.

When he is a step away, she turns the shotgun around and, holding it by the barrel, swings the heavy stock at his head, but he catches it easily and with one pull wrenches the shotgun from her hands.

He reaches toward the spilled shells and picks up three. Slides one into the magazine, and then a second. “This is a twelve-gauge Winchester,” he tells her. Snaps open the breech and slides a third shell directly into the barrel. “It loads like this.” He pushes a tiny lever and the breech door snaps shut.

He holds the shotgun in both hands now, looks at her as she shrinks away from him. “The safety is off,” he tells her, and hands the weapon to her. For a moment she does not comprehend. Then she reaches out, jerks the shotgun from his hands. He returns to his chair and eases himself down.

He would like to close his eyes now, but he has one more thing to say. And soon she crosses to stand in front of him. She holds the shotgun's stock tight against her shoulder, the way he taught her. He does not look at her but at her reflection on the television screen, Jennilee in miniature, shrunken by the truth.

“It's nice,” he says, and she says, “What is?”

“That I don't want you anymore.” He looks up at her and smiles.

She thinks the gunshot is the loudest sound she has ever heard.

And after a while she lays the shotgun across the arms of his chair. She goes to the kitchen, trembling; the entire house is trembling, a frozen place, so cold. And soon she returns, dragging a kitchen chair, which she pulls in front of his. She sits facing him with her bare feet straddling his legs, their knees touching. She leans forward and picks up the shotgun, ejects the empty shell, rams another one home. Then she wedges the shotgun's stock into Harvey's crotch, rests the barrel between her breasts, holds it there with her left hand. Now she leans toward Harvey, bends toward him as the barrel pushes hard against her chest and her right hand reaches out, hand and fingers stretching. Finally she finds the trigger, that scimitar moon of metal. And this time she hears no sound at all.

 

A week, two weeks, sixteen days later, or so Will has been told. Long enough that life has resumed much of its routine. But soon enough that even routine seems unreal. It is a morning in September, the streets are quiet, the rumbling school buses have completed their routes. Will has kissed Molly and Lacy and has watched them go and now he is standing in the bar's open doorway, a broom in hand. He can smell the bakery across the street, a sweetness in the air, leaden in his stomach.

He has swept out the two wide rooms of his bar, and now he doesn't know what to do with himself. All the glasses are washed and all the shelves are stocked. The bar will not open for business for another hour and a half, and Will can think of nothing left to do until that time. So he stands there in the open doorway with a broom in his hand. He thinks about sweeping the sidewalk in front of his bar. It is an exercise in futility, he knows. But sometimes that is all a man is given.