32
I stood it as long as I could. My bladder was a water balloon ready to burst.
Mike had pulled Dickie up, helped him to the front door, and vanished behind it about twenty minutes ago.
The troopers settled back in their shiny Dodge Charger, pretty fancy for Appalachia. The officer on the passenger side tapped cigarette ash out of his window every ten seconds or so, while a Garth Brooks song floated its way back to me.
Pretty nice stereo, too. There was no evidence either officer figured me to be somebody to protect or worry about.
I slid out of the car slowly, momentarily drunk with the smell of fir trees and crisp oxygen. I briefly considered finding a bush to squat behind. A pregnant bladder knows no social boundaries. But I really didn’t want to provide a peep show for Kentucky troopers. One foot had fallen asleep, so I hopped a little on the way to their car. Lloyd, the one in the driver’s seat, readjusted the rearview mirror to watch me approach. His deliberate coolness struck me as bad cinematic drama.
His elbow jutted out of the open window.
“Sir,” I said. It was a word that rarely found itself in my mouth, but the South and his Dudley Doright hat inspired it. “I’m going up there. I need to use the bathroom.” I pointed to my stomach and offered a smile. I felt ridiculous.
His expression said too much information and his lips said “Go ahead,” almost taunting. I waited for him to offer to accompany me. He didn’t.
In his low drawl, the Go ahead sounded like a dare. I banged three times on the arched oak door with my fist and waited a decent thirty seconds. No response. With a twist of the knob, the door swung open into a vestibule crowded with plastic lawn chairs and dried flower arrangements. A black lawn jockey with chipped paint and exaggerated African American features stood by the staircase, holding a lantern.
I wondered how two Southern-born men could send a pregnant woman in here alone. I was slammed with the powerful odor of mildew. A wide, sweeping staircase lined with the requisite family photos curled upward. I pinched my nose and breathed through my mouth.
To my left, a multithousand-dollar dust-and-cobweb-encrusted crystal chandelier dangled over a room that had abandoned the idea of hosting guests for dinner decades ago. Jumbles of clothes cloaked the floor, reminding me of the ball pit at Chuck E. Cheese, where kids jumped in and vanished. Hell, in this, I could disappear. I didn’t want to think about what was nesting underneath all of it.
To my right, it was a different story. The room was full of tidy trash. Recycling bins, with plastic cups and greasy take-out cartons tossed like a salad with empty cans, glass jars, and bottles. At least fifty rolls of unused toilet paper were stacked on the hearth. Yellowing old newspapers and stuffed black garbage bags with zip ties lined one wall. Neat. Compulsive.
The fear of throwing things away. Disposophobia, I remembered. A disease immortalized by the legendary Collyer brothers, who’d been found dead in their mess in a Harlem brownstone.
I remembered, too, that the Collyers used booby traps.
Mike’s voice carried down the hall from the back of the house. Calm. Pleasant. A husky chuckle, and a snort back from Richard Deacon. My husband, working his magic.
My bladder hurt like hell. I needed to hurry this up and get back to the car before Mike knew I’d left it. I ventured down the hall, past stacks of encyclopedias, scrapbooks, papers, and enough old novels to start a used bookstore. So Richard Deacon was a reader. I glimpsed titles: Robinson Crusoe, The Great Gatsby, Anna Karenina. Dead authors. It made me think of Lucy, who read only novels by people who weren’t alive.
I found a powder room to the right and flicked the switch. Nope. Bulb out. The hall light dimly spotlighted a blue pedestal sink nearly buried beneath an empty beer bottle, a can of Barbasol shaving cream, a flashlight, and a toothbrush with flattened bristles.
I pressed the button on the flashlight. Nothing. My eyes adjusted. At least it smelled better in here. No toilet paper, however, unless I wanted to make a trip back to the sitting room. On the tank of the toilet, Newt Gingrich’s biography and Miracles: A 52-Week Devotional. I shut the door with my foot and squatted in absolute darkness, hopefully in the position I’d plotted out. Ironic that I’d just seen a sign in a truck stop bathroom this morning: LADIES, PLEASE REMAIN SEATED FOR THE ENTIRE PERFORMANCE.
Fat chance of that here or there. I wasn’t touching a thing if I could help it. Something scuttled across the floor above my head, and I rapidly pulled up my maternity jeans. Thirty-three more pounds to go before they would burst apart.
My head spun a little in the dark. I realized I’d been holding my breath and released it in a ragged hiccup. I flushed and twisted the bathroom doorknob, using my sleeve. The door ran smack into Mike. Richard Deacon stood just a few steps behind him.
“What the hell are you doing?” Mike demanded.
“What does it look like I’m doing?”
“I asked you to wait in the car.”
“You didn’t hear me knock?” Caroline’s ex was much better up close. A decaying Daniel Craig in a fishing shirt from Goodwill. Once, a match for a debutante. “I’m Mike’s wife, Emily.” I slid into a deferential twang. “Thank you so much for letting me use your powder room.”
“No problem at all, ma’am. I’m just embarrassed the place isn’t a little better kept up for a lady. You might be noticin’ my limp. No more climbin’ poles for Kentucky Power. Live on disability. Would you like to come on back to the kitchen with us for a Tab?” Not so Daniel Craig-y. But polite.
Mike glared at me.
“Sure,” I said.
The spotless kitchen was completely unexpected. A gleaming avocado-green refrigerator and matching gas stove. Basic spices-garlic salt, minced onion, black pepper-lined up on the back ledge. An old, still-white Formica counter with a neat row of canned Del Monte green beans, shoepeg corn, and Le Sueur peas. A scrubbed yellow linoleum floor. A small kitchen table that reminded me of my grandmother’s.
“This is where I live most the time. I sleep in the back bedroom. Hardly ever make it upstairs. Them roof rats are havin’ a heyday up there.”
He set an ice-cold can of Tab in front of me before returning to the refrigerator. Instead of opening it, he reached up for a ceramic cookie jar shaped like a black cat, perched on top. He placed the jar gingerly in front of Mike.
“Mike and I were about to get to what’s inside here. I never wanted to turn on my son. He’s my blood. But after gettin’ to know Mike here a little, I feel that God led him up the mountain. Go on, open it.”
Mike carefully pulled off the head of the grinning cat. Inside, I could see what looked like a curled stash of papers.
“Go on, take ’em out. Ma’am, you might not want to look.” I watched Mike hesitate, no doubt wondering whether to touch them. Evidence. He slipped his forefinger and thumb inside and delicately pinched them out. I caught a glimpse of the one on top, right before the papers snapped back into a roll. The drawing of a prostrate body. Crude. Childish. Red. Red. Red.
“It makes me want to throw up, too,” Dickie apologized. “This here’s some of Wyatt’s drawings after Caroline left us. I’ve been wanting to give these to the police ever since I was saved in the Motel 6 swimming pool a couple years ago.” Saved. Baptized. “I’m going to wash my hands of Wyatt now and give him to the Lord.”
“Do you have a large Ziploc bag, Dickie?” Mike was frowning at the pages. “I think it’s better if I examine these drawings somewhere else. I appreciate your cooperation.”
“Sure, sure.” Dickie reached into a drawer. “I feel bad. I thought I’d feel less guilty. I just feel more guilty.” Eyes shiny.