In the pouring dark of the rain Polly could see the path of her life clearly: a long tunnel growing narrower and narrower until, in the last tiny circle of light, there was a trailer park and, in a line of a dozen or more at the front gate, a mailbox with her name on it. That was death-death after murder is committed and final absolution not obtained. Hell.
Macbeth, another play they’d read in English, came to mind. Everybody hated it. Everybody but the teacher and Polly. If ’twere done, best ’twere done quickly.
She turned the ignition key and headed for New Orleans in a stolen car. At La Place, she ran out of gas. Polly didn’t want to spend her precious eleven dollars. She put the ignition keys in the glove box and got out of the car. Maybe the cops would find it and take it back to Hilda. Polly liked that idea. If she didn’t have the Fairlane Hilda wouldn’t try to find her.
She walked to the side of the road and stuck out her thumb.
The man who picked her up was going to Bourbon Street. “Bourbon ain’t no place for a kid,” was about all he said in the two hours they rode together. The rain had stopped but, with the darkness and the trees, there wasn’t anything to look at but the furrow cut by the pickup’s headlights. Polly stared at it and felt as if she were falling down a long tunnel, and she wondered if there were worse places to end up than a trailer park in Mississippi.
When the lights of New Orleans lifted the night something akin to hope-but not so grand-lifted Polly’s spirits. The man stopped at the corner of St. Ann ’s and Chartres, or so said the street signs. “ Jackson Square,” he said. “There’s a pay phone on the corner. Call your folks,” he said. “Go home.”
Polly got out of the truck. “I don’t have any folks,” she said.
“Suit yourself.”
Polly didn’t watch him drive away.
Except in a picture book she’d had once of a little girl getting her tonsils out, she’d never seen anything like Jackson Square. The square in the book had been somewhere in England and clean and friendly. Jackson Square was like that place had been stomped until it looked like the fairgrounds after the fair moved on: the dirt full of ground-in sno-cones, cotton candy, and cigarette butts.
She wasn’t alone but the people, mostly men, were what her mother would call “white trash.” Most of them were smoking and looking around like they were waiting for somebody. There were a few women. Even green from Mississippi, Polly knew they were hookers.
One wasn’t. She was sitting at a table with candles on it. She looked as if she’d stepped right out of a storybook: turban, many-colored skirt, hoop earrings. On the rickety table were a crystal ball and a deck of cards. The good churchgoing folks in Prentiss, Mississippi, preached that foretelling the future, playing with the Ouija board, or dressing up as an Indian princess instead of a favorite apostle on the thirty-first of October begged Satan and his minions to stampede in and snatch up the soul. The desperation that had given her the courage to run from Prentiss had dulled. Polly could feel fear trying to break through. On the long drive she’d had to work hard not to think about scary things: food, shelter, money. Now, Satan.
People could tell the future; Polly knew that. Men in the Bible did it all the time. It was okay when they did it, but not okay when a regular person did it. Not that her mom was a big churchgoer but a girl didn’t grow up in Prentiss without knowing there were about a zillion ways to go to hell and dabbling in black magic was a big one.
The gypsy woman looked up as if she’d felt Polly’s eyes on her and smiled. “Come on, honey. Let me read your cards,” she called. “I’ll tell you your fortune.”
If ever somebody needed to know what was going to happen to her, Polly was that somebody.
Satan’s hell couldn’t be all that much worse than Hilda’s.
MINNESOTA, 1968
John List. Killed wife, mother, and three kids. Sure. I can see killing like this. This List guy had God on his side. That makes it work for him. He wants out of this family thing. He’s pussy-whipped, and his mother’s a nag, and he doesn’t have the balls to leave-that or he thinks a godly guy like him can’t leave the kiddies-he figures all these folks he’s responsible for are going to go to hell if they keep on sinning the way they have. So, he figures he’ll just send them up to heaven quick and save their souls. Like a good daddy. He throws in mom and wife for good measure. It makes sense to me. What kind of louses it up is John takes a powder. If he’s Mr. Godly, why doesn’t he stay and take the hit? Maybe he thinks, God’s got to love me for shipping him five nice angels. Maybe he has other jobs for his good buddy John, so I better keep my ass out of prison.
Yeah, I can see doing the List list. Is that what you wanted to hear?
1
Richard was hurt bad. He knew it with the awful certainty one feels in that second when he steps back off a cliff and realizes it will be the last mistake he makes on this earth; that eternity of horror before his body smashes on the rocks.
Freakish light filtered through the snowstorm, the bright orange of sodium arc lamps picked up and tossed back by ten billion ice facets: sky, ground, tree limbs, air. Rooms in the house were orange, the whole world the inside of a Halloween pumpkin.
In light the color of fire, Richard couldn’t tell how much blood he was losing. A lot. Too much. He could feel it pumping, little squirts against the palm of his hand. For a giddy second he believed the blood flowed into him from the night and out of him from his veins, a pool, a lake, rising.
His little brother lay across the bed where he had fallen. On Dylan’s pajamas cowboys and Indians were drenched in red, a war on flannel. Blood ran in a sheet down the right side of Dylan’s face.
Dylan looked dead.
“Dyl?” Richard tried to call out but he hadn’t strength for more than a whisper. “Dylan, don’t you die on me.” Richard started to cry, then stopped himself. Taking a deep breath, he tried again. “Dylan, if you’re awake, call the operator, the police.”
His brother didn’t move.
From boy scouts and television, Richard knew if he took his hand away from the gaping wound on his inner thigh, he would bleed out. For a heartbeat or two he considered letting go, lifting his hand, and watching his life pump out of his body. It seemed so eager to leave him, and there’d been so much carnage, why not give in? Drift into the abyss?
Dylan moaned softly. Despite the muffling effect of death dreams, in the absolute stillness of a snowy midnight it grated loud in Richard’s ears. He hadn’t killed him-his brother was alive.
Dream evaporated; abyss ceased to beckon. Suddenly Rich wanted to live. “Brother,” he whispered. Dylan’s eyelids twitched. Richard saw a flash of white eyeball, startling in the drying red mask. “Wake up, buddy. Please.”
Using one hand and his uninjured leg for propulsion, the other hand clamped tightly over his wound, Richard tried to move across the bedroom floor. Fabric and blood stuck him to the hardwood. By inches-one, three, five-he moved toward Dylan. The effort was so great there wasn’t room left for thought. Each tiny movement brought a calamity of pain. The pain had ceased to be localized; his entire being was on fire.
Don’t. Pass. Out. He forced the words through the clamor of nerve-death in his mind.
Dylan’s head lolled off the edge of the mattress at an unnatural angle.
His neck was broken. Dylan would be in a wheelchair, peeing through a tube. A ragged end of strength rippled through Richard. Dylan would be helpless; he would need his brother. More than anything Richard wanted to be there.
Push your chair, brother. Take you for walks in the park. An inch. Two. Behind him on the hardwood was a smeared trail of red. The room was so damn big.