Those Girls (4 page)

I looked at the blood around Dad’s head, his open eyes staring up at the ceiling. I thought of all the times I’d worried he was going to kill one of us, all the times I wished he’d just disappear and we’d no longer have to live in fear. I’d thought our lives would be better then, that we’d finally be free.

But now, looking at my father’s body, I was more scared than I’d ever been in my life.

CHAPTER FOUR

We left Dad and the gun in the bathroom and closed the door. In the kitchen, Dani helped Courtney flush the burn with cold water. She was bent over the sink, crying and shivering, her hair and the top of her nightgown wet.

“Maybe she should go to the hospital.” I couldn’t stop staring at the burn on her jawline, a puckered angry mark about four inches long. It looked painful.

Courtney shook her head, splashing water everywhere. “They’ll put us in foster care.”

Dani was pacing the kitchen now, her shirt covered with red splotches, her face and hands with streaks of bright red. She stopped and stared at my shirt, her face haunted. I looked down, saw the drops of blood. My lip felt puffy and I tasted blood in the corner. Dad must’ve split it when he hit me.

She started pacing again. “Shit, this is bad, really bad.”

“Should we tell Walter and Ingrid? Maybe they could help or—”

“No, we have to think.” She sat down. “You’ll be arrested. Maybe us too, if they think we’re accomplices or whatever.”

“Walter might check on us—the gunshots,” I said. The .22 didn’t make a loud shot, but it had echoed with the cast-iron bathtub and the window was open. I imagined him getting dressed, pulling on his boots, searching for his truck keys.

She was nodding. “We have to figure this out fast.”

“I’ll tell the police the truth—I did it.”

My legs felt shaky. I braced my hands against them, holding them down or holding myself up. I wasn’t sure. My gaze flicked to the bathroom door. Everything was so quiet now. The air felt electric, thick. I could smell blood.

Dani was also staring toward the bathroom. I wondered if she was thinking about how she couldn’t pull the trigger.

Her head snapped back toward us, her face grim and determined.

“We should hide his truck until we know what we’re doing.”

“Okay,” I said. We looked at Courtney.

“Okay,” she said.

*   *   *

While Courtney and Dani changed their clothes, I ran outside. I didn’t have my license but Dani let me practice sometimes. I climbed into Dad’s truck, moved the seat forward. The truck stank of spilled beer and Dad’s cologne—we’d bought it for him last Christmas. I tried not to notice the small plastic cowboy hat dangling from the rearview mirror, one of his work shirts tossed on the floor, the empties rolling around, the old cigarette pack, one corner of the silver paper folded down. I thought of how when I was little he’d make me animals with the thin foil.

Then I noticed the plastic bag on the seat. Inside I could just see a corner of a yellow box. I lifted open the top of the bag with my finger.

One of the boxes had an image of a camera lens on the front, the other one was film. I squeezed my eyes shut.

Don’t look at it, don’t think about it.

I pulled the truck into a thicket of trees far behind the house, using the moonlight and memory to guide me, scared to use the headlights in case Walter and Ingrid were already coming down the hill. I hesitated, then grabbed the plastic bag and ran back to the house. Courtney was standing by the front door, wearing a fresh T-shirt, a long one.

“Dani’s trying to clean up,” she said. “You should change too, but put on something you’d wear to bed. Make it fast.” She was talking through gritted teeth, her face strained like every movement hurt.

I washed my face and pulled on an old nightgown.

Downstairs, Dani had grabbed a bunch of old towels and placed them around Dad’s head to soak up the blood. Courtney was cleaning the kitchen, putting away the frying pan, picking up the chairs that had been knocked over. I gathered the playing cards and cigarettes strewn across the table while she stuffed Dad’s empty beer can to the very bottom of the garbage can.

We found Dani in the bathroom, on her knees, staring at Dad’s body.

“What do we … what do we do with him?” I said.

“I don’t know.”

Courtney stood beside me. “Should we move him to the back bedroom?”

“He’ll leave blood,” I said.

A vehicle pulled up outside. We stared at each other, our eyes panicked.

Dani got to her feet, ran to the front window, peeked through the curtain.

“Is it the police?” I whispered.

A door slammed.

“Walter,” Dani hissed. “Pretend you’re making tea.” She turned to Courtney. “Don’t let him see the side of your face—sit on the couch in the corner where it’s darkest and turn away.”

We ran to our positions, our feet soft on the floor, while Dani walked to the door and opened it.

“Hi, Walter.”

I couldn’t see him from where I was in the kitchen but heard his voice say, “You girls okay? Heard some shots.”

“Yeah, rat was in the cupboards again—got him this time.”

“You girls need to be careful with that gun.”

“We are—Dad taught us.”

“Thought I heard his truck earlier.” My hand froze midair as I reached for a mug.

“That was just Courtney getting dropped off.”

I took a breath.
Good thinking, Dani.

“When’s your daddy coming home? He’s late on rent.”

“Should be any day. Anything extra we can do around the place?”

“Don’t know, Dani. We’ve found you just about as much work as we can, you know?” Silence for a moment, then he said, “What’s that smell?”

Shit, could he smell the blood?

“What smell?” Dani sounded calm but she was gripping the door so tight her knuckles were white.

“Like something’s burned.”

“Oh, that’s just Jess. She left a pan on the stove too long, burnt some eggs. We’re all up so we figured we’d make a snack, but Jess is useless in the kitchen.” She laughed.

I called out, “Evening, Walter.”

He called back, “Evening, Jess.” Then, to Dani, “You kids should get to bed. Big day tomorrow on the farm.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Okay, then. Let me know when your daddy shows up.”

“Sure will.”

She closed the door, sagging against it, then peeked through the side window until we heard his truck driving away.

She turned back around. “We have to get rid of the body.”

*   *   *

We found an old plastic tarp in the garage and rolled Dad onto it. It took all three of us to move him. Then we pulled the tarp around him, wrapping duct tape around his ankles and upper body to hold it in place. We shoved the bloody towels and rags into a garbage bag. We worked quickly, not speaking, but Courtney kept sniffling and Dani’s face was pale, her eyes angry.

I kept seeing Dad’s smile when he called me Peanut, how he took us four-wheeling or shooting, remembered to get me film, bought Dani seeds. He taught us that being girls didn’t mean we needed to rely on men, showed us how to change the oil and tires on the truck and fix things at the house. When he was around we weren’t scared of anyone or anything. But we were always scared of him. I thought about the cigarette burns on my legs, the time he threw Courtney out of the truck, how his eyes would turn to slits when he’d been drinking. I felt like he was glaring at me through the tarp, could hear his voice in my head.

You fucking useless bitches.

“Should we put him in the quarry?” Dani said. The old gravel quarry, now full of water, was half a mile away, so deep people said there were logging trucks at the bottom.

Courtney shook her head. “We have to bury him or he could float up.”

“Somewhere no one will look,” Dani said. “It can’t be near our house.”

We were silent, thinking.

“What about the pig field?” I said. “Under the trough. The ground is always wet because of the mud—and they haven’t moved that trough in years.”

Dani was nodding. “It will help with the smell too.”

I flinched, but Dani’s mouth was a tight line.

*   *   *

We lifted him, groaning under his weight, and carried him to the back door. We set him down while Dani ran to the shed and came back with the wheelbarrow.

We walked him down the back stairs, then laid him across the wheelbarrow, resting the sack of rags and a couple of shovels on top. We took turns, two pushing while one forged ahead. We had to take a back trail that connected our house with the farm. Normally a ten-minute walk, it took us twenty minutes of pushing and we were covered in sweat and breathing hard. We moved the trough, slipping and sliding in the mud, then started to dig. The ground was dry once we got through the mud, and we were filthy and exhausted by the time we had a deep enough hole.

We pushed the wheelbarrow closer and rolled our father out. He landed partway in the hole and we had to shove him the rest of the way. He barely fit. Dani threw the garbage bag into the grave. It made a thud and we looked around. The night was silent except for one of the farm dogs barking up on the hill. I hoped Walter didn’t come out to investigate.

“Should we say something?” Courtney whispered.

We looked down at the body, the black shroud shiny in the moonlight.

Worthless—the whole lot of you.…

I dug into the dirt and threw a shovelful down the hole, then another, faster and faster, crying with each toss. My sisters joined in.

When we were done, Dani grabbed me and Courtney for a hug. We held on tight, our skin and breath merging.

“It’ll be okay,” Dani said.

*   *   *

It was almost morning, the sky already getting light, and we had to work on the farm in a couple of hours, but we scrubbed the floor in the bathroom with bleach, using old blankets for rags. Finally we had to stop, too tired to do another thing. We couldn’t get out all the blood—the grooves in the linoleum showed rust-colored stains.

We hadn’t patched the wall where my first shot hit, so we hung a small painting from the living room over the hole. We threw the rags into garbage bags, burying them in the hall closet until we figured out how to get rid of them, then shut the downstairs bathroom and locked the house, making sure every window was closed. We collapsed onto our beds, trying to get a few minutes of rest before we started our day, but I could only toss and turn. I heard Courtney moving around too. She’d been taking ibuprofen but I could tell by her breathing and occasional moans that she was still in pain. My jaw hurt where Dad had elbowed me—my teeth even ached—but we didn’t have many pills left so I’d given them all to Courtney. When Dani came to get us for work, her eyes were red-rimmed.

We left the windows closed for the day. It would be hot as hell by the time we got home, but we had no choice, couldn’t risk someone snooping around until we finished cleaning the bathroom and got rid of the bleach smell.

My lip wasn’t puffy anymore but it stung when I spoke and my jaw was bruised. We figured we could cover it up with makeup.

We weren’t sure what would arouse more suspicion: Courtney missing work or showing up with the burn, which looked even worse in the daylight, the skin red and blistered. Dani figured it was a second-degree burn. None of us wanted to risk going into a hospital. They’d want to talk to our father for sure.

“I’ll just say it was an accident,” Courtney said. “We need the money.”

“We need to not get caught,” Dani said.

“We have a lot of accidents,” I said. “If we say she’s sick, Ingrid might come check on her. Even if she doesn’t, they’ll figure it out if they see her in a few days and she still has the burn on her face. They’ll know we were hiding her.”

Dani was nodding. “Yeah, you’re right. Better we just act normal.”

We were working on different parts of the farm that day but agreed that if anyone asked, Courtney would say she was bending down to get something out of a lower cabinet that morning and I’d walked by with a hot pan.

I mucked out the stalls, trying to focus on the work.
Clean that corner, pick up the shovel, load the wheelbarrow.…
But I couldn’t stop thinking about the shovel in my hands, Dad’s body slumped in the wheelbarrow, how it had rolled out.
You’re a murderer. You’re going to jail.
My body ached, my eyes and throat felt dry, my hands were blistered—I’d put on gloves that morning, but every shovelful ripped them open, making them sting and burn. I licked the split in my lip, tasting blood. My gaze kept drifting down to the pig field.

It didn’t feel real, what we’d done. What I’d done.

“You in here, Jess?” It was Ingrid.

I turned away, scraped some manure in the corner. We’d put makeup on my bruise, toning down the color, but a faint shadow showed through.

“Yeah, last stall.”

Ingrid leaned over the open door, chatting about one of the horses—a vet was coming out later and she wanted me to move the horse to a different field. As she spoke, I had to turn to dump the manure into the wheelbarrow. I hoped she was too distracted to see my face, but she stopped talking. I looked up.

She was staring at the bruise. It wasn’t the first time I’d come to work banged up, but I worried she was thinking about the shots last night.

“What happened to you?” she said. Ingrid was a farmer’s wife through and through. She wore men’s jeans and shirts, kept her hair up in a bun, could nurse a lamb with a bottle while baking a pie and throw a hay bale as hard as any man.

She also didn’t miss anything that happened on the farm.

“This?” I rubbed my jaw. “Angus got me.” Angus was one of the Clydesdales—he often knocked his big head into someone, usually on purpose.

“Told you to stay away from his front end.”

I forced a smile. “His back end’s just as dangerous.”

She chuckled. “True enough.” Her face turned serious, the leathery tanned skin pulling at her eyes. “Walter said you kids have some rats.…”

“We’re getting them.”

“Maybe it’s time to try some poison.”

“We don’t want them stinking up the walls.” I felt sick, thinking of the blood still on the floor in the bathroom, the bag of bloody rags, flies circling.