The Drowning Game (2 page)

“Holt Mortuary in Niobe,” a voice from the living room said.

I rose from the couch to see who'd said it. Randy King stood with his back to the wall, his Stetson low over his eyes.

The coroner glanced at me for confirmation.

“I'm the executor of Mr. Moshen's will,” Randy said. He raised his head and I saw his eyes, light blue with tiny pupils that seemed to bore clear through to the back of my head.

I shrugged at the coroner.

“Would you like to say goodbye to your father before we transport him to the morgue?” he said.

I nodded and followed him to the stairs, where he stood aside. “After you,” he said.

“No,” I said. “You first.”

Dad had taught me never to go in a door first and never to let anyone walk behind me. The coroner frowned but mounted the stairs.

Upstairs, Dad's room was the first one on the left. The coroner stood outside the door. He reached out to touch my arm and I took a step backward. He dropped his hand to his side.

“Miss Moshen,” he said in a hushed voice. “Your father looks different from when he was alive. It might be a bit of a shock. No one would blame you if you didn't—­”

I walked into Dad's room, taking with me everything I knew from all the cop shows I'd watched. But I was not prepared at all for what I saw.

Since he'd died on his stomach, the EMTs had turned Dad onto his back. He was in full rigor mortis, so his upper lip was mashed into his gums and curled into a sneer, exposing his khaki-­colored teeth. His hands were spread in front of his face, palms out. Dad's eyes stared up and to the left and his entire face was grape-­pop purple.

What struck me when I first saw him—­after I inhaled my gum—­was that he appeared to be warding off a demon. I should have waited until the mortician was done with him, because I knew I'd never get that image out of my mind.

I walked out of Dad's room on unsteady feet, determined not to cry in front of these strangers. The deputy and the sheriff stood outside my bedroom, examining the door to it. Both of them looked confused.

“Petty,” Sheriff Bloch said.

I stopped in the hall, feeling even more violated with them so close to my personal items and underwear.

“Yes?”

“Is this your bedroom?”

I nodded.

Sheriff and deputy made eye contact. The coroner paused at the top of the stairs to listen in. This was what my dad had always talked about—­the judgment of busybody outsiders, their belief that somehow they needed to have a say in the lives of ­people they'd never even met and knew nothing about.

The three men seemed to expect me to say something, but I was tired of talking. Since I'd never done much of it, I'd had no idea how exhausting it was.

The deputy said, “Why are there six dead bolts on the outside of your door?”

It was none of his business, but I had nothing to be ashamed of.

“So Dad could lock me in, of course.”

 

Chapter 2

T
HE MEN ALL
exchanged glances again.

“As . . . punishment?” the sheriff said.

I sighed, weary. “For my protection.”

“When did your father lock you in your room?”

“Every night since I was three,” I said, and went downstairs.

While the men in Dad's room finished up, I gazed between the steel bars welded over one of the west-­facing living room windows and watched dusk settle over the greening Kansas landscape. On a clear, early spring day like this the horizon seemed thirty or more miles away, nothing between me and it but cloudless sky and rolling prairie, patches of foxtail millet, goosegrass, yellow fawn lilies and blue phlox, black and brown beef cattle, and our family of five tall, sprawling oak trees, which were starting to sprout leaves.

I learned early not to praise the beauty I saw around me. Dad liked to show me how the pretty surface of things in this world always hid ugliness. For instance, the Star of Bethlehem flowers that grow like crazy by the side of the road are poisonous. And those oak trees. In the summertime they're robed in hundreds of succulent, transparent-­green leaves that clap politely in the breezes like spectators at a golf match. In the fall they turn Creamsicle orange with brilliant red edges. But when the bitter winter winds strip the leaves away, you see what the trees are really made of: sinister, granite-­hard bark, angry-­looking and full of vengeance for having to endure the deranged Kansas weather, those extremes of heat, cold, and humidity, the relentless wind, the sleet, the lightning.

Out here in northwest Niobe County, there's little that dares stand in weather's way, to talk it down off the ledge of its rage—­no trees except the five brave oaks, no other buildings. The nearest town, the one our junk mail comes to, is called Saw Pole and is fifteen miles away. Weather has peeled the paint from our house, the only one for thirteen miles in every direction, leaving the wood siding bleached gray, the color of bird crap. Memory snapshots from when I was three tell me the house was butter yellow at the time we moved here from Detroit. Now, you can still see fragments of color, remnants of someone else's life, someone who raised flowers and watered a lawn and planted crops.

Watching out that window occupied me until the crowd began to thin—­first the firemen departed, then the paramedics, the police, and finally the coroner and his minions pushing Dad's black-­bagged body out on a gurney. Randy King was the last one there, still standing against the wall in the living room. Something about him, that pose, made me think of Curly in
Of Mice and Men
.

“If you want to go up and pick out a suit for your daddy to be buried in, I'll take it on over to the mortuary,” he said from under the hat. I was glad I didn't have to look at those pinprick pupils of his.

I went up the stairs and stopped in front of Dad's bedroom door. It was as if there was electric fencing keeping me from going in, powered by my dad's glare. But I didn't have time to psych myself up. The sooner I got the clothes, the sooner I could get this last person out of the house, and the closer I would be to having the house to myself, doing whatever I wanted, for the first time ever.

I'd never been in Dad's closet, of course. I pulled on the string attached to the ceiling bulb but nothing happened. The light probably hadn't worked for years. Out in his room was a large flashlight. I switched it on and headed back into the closet. The wide beam threw light on several pairs of faded jeans, a lot of camo wear, and a few collared shirts.

These had belonged to the only other person I'd ever really known, and suddenly I was terrified. The flashlight slid from my grip as a scream built in my chest. I covered my mouth with both hands to prevent it from escaping and stumbled forward into his clothes, which caught me with empty arms. I sank to the floor crying silent tears. Bottomless grief threatened to smother me. On my knees, I pressed the fabric to my face and inhaled, the faint scent bringing back Dad almost in full form and life. But he was gone, and I was alone.

Then I heard careful footsteps climbing stairs. From the hollowness of the sound, I knew someone was coming up from the basement. The steps were hesitant, and I realized the person was trying not to make any noise. I froze, listening. The feet were now on the main floor, walking toward the front door. I catwalked to the top of the stairs and saw Randy King holding a large cardboard box with the letters M R written on it in black Magic Marker. On top of that was Dad's laptop with its L-­shaped dent.

But what was in the box? And where was Randy taking it and the laptop?

I tiptoed back into Dad's room and watched out the window as Randy carried the box and computer to his truck. He put them in the front seat and headed back toward the house.

Once back inside, he called, “Petty? You all right up there?”

I heard booted feet—­decisive and confident this time—­mount the stairs. I ran into the closet and pulled out Dad's three-­piece suit. No way would I be trapped in a bedroom with this guy, who'd come into my house and removed things without my permission, who seemed to believe that he belonged here. He didn't. I didn't know him at all, but his presence, which felt like a sickness, seemed to take up a lot more space than it should have. I got out of the room as Randy was about to enter it and thrust the clothes at him. He took them wordlessly, turned and started down the stairs.

“You don't need to worry about funeral arrangements,” he said. “Your dad left instructions with me.”

Worrying about funeral arrangements hadn't occurred to me, but I nodded at the back of his descending head. At the bottom of the stairs, Randy turned and slid his hat back on. “You gonna be all right? You want me to stay with you tonight?”

I was so shocked by the question I couldn't respond. I just stared dumbly.

He shook his head and smiled a little. “Suit yourself,” he said, and walked out the front door. Through the screen I heard him say, “Sorry for your loss.”

Once I heard the truck start up, I went down to the living room and watched out the front window as he drove away.

And then it hit me.

I had no one to lock me in my room. Why hadn't I thought to ask one of them to lock me in? They probably wouldn't have. But how would I sleep?

Dad had left instructions for Randy King. Why hadn't he left any for me? I was the one who needed them.

One of the dogs gave a sharp yip from the garage. I'd forgotten all about them, and they probably needed to go outside and do their business. I was grateful for something to do.

Out in the garage, I raised the door and they ran for it, making a fast trotting check of the perimeter of the property. Dad had taught them to do that before they did anything else. After their tour, they relieved themselves and sat panting in front of me, waiting for orders or to be released to patrol.

I gave the hand signal to heel and walked into the garage with them following, lowered the door and locked it. Then I opened the door from the garage into the house, and they alternately studied each other and me, trying to understand what I wanted. I signaled for them to follow me into the house. Dad wouldn't like it, but he wasn't here. If I couldn't be locked in my room, this was the next best thing.

They danced uncertainly at the threshold, remembering well what Dad had taught them about going in the house, which was not to do it unless a stranger was attacking me or him. I dropped to a squat and scratched their ears.

“You're going to come in the house,” I told them. “It's okay. I'm the alpha now.” I walked through the door, turned and faced them, and signaled “come.” They danced and whined.

“Come,” I said.

It took five tries, but they finally tiptoed into the house, glancing at each other guiltily. I hoped this wouldn't ruin their training. I signaled for them to follow me into the TV room. They did, and sat. I released them, hoping they'd explore the house and get used to the idea of being inside. After a while they ventured out of the room, Sarx going left, Tesla right, like they'd been trained to do.

I sat on the couch and picked up the remote. Every sound was amplified—­the dogs' panting, the prairie wind outside, my gurgling stomach—­which made me want to crawl out of my own skin. I turned on the TV and surfed until I found an
Offender NYC
marathon. The dogs returned, then stood and stared at me, waiting for a command.

“Lie down,” I said. They did.

T
HE NEXT THING
I knew I was drowning in the bathtub.

I wanted to breathe, but I couldn't because I was underwater, on my back staring at the misshapen, shifting bathroom ceiling. I tried to break the surface, but it was as if I was chained to the bottom.

But I wasn't chained. I didn't see it before, but someone was holding me underwater. I couldn't quite make out the face, but I knew it was a man and he was pushing down on me with huge hands, trying to make me inhale. Talking to me, saying something I couldn't quite make out from beneath the water. The bridge of my nose burned and everything went gray, so I knew I wouldn't be conscious for much longer. Death was coming for me.

I
'VE HAD THIS
recurring dream for as long as I can remember. It made sense I'd dream it the night my dad died. I always wake up from it gasping for air, like I've actually been held underwater. As I surface from sleep, I can feel the heavy water sliding off me, down the hollows of my face. My eyes sting and my lungs can't expand enough to take in the oxygen I need, although I'm in no true danger. It was only a dream. But even as the nightmare fades, the irresistible force of the dream tugs on my every cell, dragging me downward into a spiral that will never end, circling the drain for all eternity.

Drowning. This is my biggest fear. You'd think it would be fire, since that's what killed my mom when I was three. But it's water. I can't take baths, only showers. I can't even stopper the kitchen sink and fill it, because I feel that weight bearing down on me, pushing my face toward the water, an irresistible compulsion to submerge my head.

The TV was still on when I woke up. Deirdre was questioning a suspect in the dingy interview room at Precinct 51 in New York City.

Stiff didn't even begin to describe how my body felt. I stretched and then led the dogs through the kitchen and out the back door. According to the oven clock, it was after nine
A.M.
I needed to get ready for work.

Since I'd slept in my clothes, all I needed to do was get my stuff together. I used the bathroom, washed my face and combed my hair. Then I made my lunch, put Dad's iPhone in my pocket and strapped the shotgun across my back. After locking up the house, I walked the quarter mile to the Niobe County dump.

Inside my little guard shack where I took five dollars from ­people to dump stuff, I kept a photograph album someone had dumped a ­couple of years before.

The photos I liked best were of the kids in snow forts and at backyard barbecues and Little League baseball games. None of the pictures were labeled, so I named the kids myself. There was Justin, the oldest, and the middle sister Madison, and the youngest boy Aidan.

Since I never got to see many little kids or babies out at the dump, I loved to study the faces of those three little blond kids squinting at the camera, holding up fish they just caught or riding a tire swing with sprinklers running in the background.

Dad never knew about my album, which I paged through nearly every workday. I had every image memorized so I could close my eyes and tell myself the story of that family without even looking.

Why would someone throw away a photo album? I'd have given anything to have pictures of me as a baby, to have even one photo of my mother. All that stuff burned up with her in Detroit.

As I sat on my stool in the booth that morning, looking out over the mountain range of trash, it dawned on me that I could take the photo album back to the house now. I could go somewhere besides my house and the dump if I could get someone to teach me to drive. Maybe I'd go into Saw Pole and eat at the diner and then visit the stores. Maybe I'd go to Salina. Maybe I'd go to New York.

Now that Dad was gone, I could do anything I wanted.