Sweetgirl (13 page)

I was still in the trailer, sitting in the room with Jenna, when I saw the headlights. They glared through the hardwoods outside the window. They were two long beams stretching through the dark like planks.

I ran out the back and hurried down the porch steps, thinking they belonged to somebody stuck in a drift. Jenna was asleep in Tanner's blanket and Carletta was still passed out in the bathroom and I thought the driver was likely to have a cell phone and that we would be rescued—but about fifty yards out it occurred to me that whoever was driving was probably Shelton Potter. After all, it was his hellhole of a trailer we were squatting in.

I shut my flashlight off, stooped down, and walked slow and careful. I could hear music, the thump of bass and some screeching guitar, and I moved toward the sound until I saw Shelton's
Silverado angled across a two-track. There was nothing but a few pine trees between us and I dropped to my knees in the snow.

I could see his big, mountainside shoulders slumped over the wheel and the truck's front fender hanging down. The windshield was gone and the cab light was on and snow was blowing in on his motionless body. Twenty yards behind, a buck flopped in the road and I could hear the god-awful wailing through the music and the wind.

There was a felled pine to my left and I crawled behind it and put my chest in the snow. I thought it was possible Shelton was dead and that if he was I could find his cell phone and finally call for help, but he might just be passed out and what if I walked up there and roused him?

All things being even I might have waited him out a little longer, but I did not like Jenna being so far away in the house and I did not like leaving her with Carletta. Her fever had me scared and we needed a phone so I lifted myself into a crouch and eased toward the Silverado.

I got close enough to see the gas cylinder beside his body. The fool had been sucking from a nitrous tank, and there was a bottle of whiskey between his legs that somehow stood unbroken from the crash. Then I saw his cell on the driver's-side floor—a black, blood-splattered rectangle sitting in a pile of glass shards.

I took another step and then Shelton stirred at the wheel and let out a groan. I froze and when he started to bring his shoulders up off the wheel I turned and ran. I leapt for my pine and then made myself small behind it, wriggling as far as I could into the snow and burying my head into my arms.

I heard Shelton whispering to himself, talking hurriedly, and then the clomp of his boots on the snow. I pushed my eyes more tightly closed and held my breath.

I have had nightmares where I realize I am sleeping and try to will myself awake and cannot. In those dreams I am trapped and my last hope is to somehow force myself from my body, to rise above whatever horror is happening and view it from some place that is neither sleep nor being fully awake—but this was not a dream and I could not remove myself from my body but was fully locked inside it instead. I was all cold fear and hammering heart and when I heard the shotgun blast I thought I had been shot until I noticed that the buck's screams were silenced.

I looked up over my pine to see Shelton walking back to the truck. He had the shotgun slung over his shoulder and he was wearing some sort of crash helmet with a black visor and when he turned his head to scan the woods I swear he looked right through me.

I dropped back into the snow and listened to the opening and closing of the truck door. I heard the engine rev and then the Silverado shifted into gear and headed back down the trail.

I watched over the pine until the taillights disappeared into the black and then I stood and ran for the trailer. I ran until my legs caught fire, and when I slipped in the snow I stood quickly and ran harder. I ran and as I neared the trailer I could hear Jenna screaming.

I came in the back. I called out for Jenna and for Mama and then turned toward the sound of the shrieks. The bathroom was locked but I could hear them inside and shook the handle.

“Mama!” I shouted, and pounded the door. “Open up, Mama!”

Carletta mumbled something but I could not make it out over Jenna. I kicked the door and yelled for her to open up, but Mama did not respond.

I ran down the hall toward the bedroom. The light was on and there was a collapsing recliner in the corner of the room where stuffing came through the fabric like cotton bolls. Beside the recliner was a nightstand and on the nightstand was a glass pipe. The papoose had been left but the blanket had gone with Jenna.

Mama would not hurt a baby on purpose, but when she was on a bad one she could slip right into delirium. She could be holding Jenna and squeezing her to death without knowing any different. She could have her pressed to her chest so hard she snapped a rib, or think she was rocking her gently while she was really shaking her out like a rag doll.

There were hangers in the closet, and I took one and untwisted the hook. I looped the papoose over my shoulder and took the straightened wire to the bathroom door. I called out for Mama. I asked her to open up, though I knew she would not. I began to feel for the lever through the pinhead opening in the handle and talked to Jenna through the wall. I told her everything was going to be fine.

“I'm right out here, baby girl,” I said.

Jenna screamed and I squatted outside the door and punched with the wire.

“One second, sweet pea,” I said. “I'm right here.”

The lever finally caught and I opened the door to find Jenna in
Carletta's lap. Mama was sitting in the empty tub, her hair falling across her face in strings and partly shielding Jenna from my view. Carletta rocked back and forth and squeezed Jenna as she wailed.

“Shh,” Carletta said. “I'm trying to get this baby to sleep.”

“Mama,” I said. “It's me.”

“I said,
hush,
” Carletta said.

“Can I hold the baby for a minute?”

“Tanner is fine right where he is.”

“This is Jenna,” I said, and lilted my voice hopefully.

I stepped closer and Mama looked up with her gone-away eyes. She looked at some point in the distance, beyond me, and kissed Jenna hard on the forehead.

“He's a good boy,” she said. “But he won't stop crying.”

“Her name is Jenna,” I said.

“He's as sweet as he can be,” Mama whispered.

“She's a good baby,” I said.

“We've been getting along just fine. I heard him crying and I went to get him and he's finally calming down.”

I leaned into the tub but Carletta slapped my hand away and stood. She stumbled as she stepped out but caught her balance and straightened herself against the wall. Jenna reached for me. I reached back but Mama moved into the hall and when Jenna screamed and tried to wriggle free Mama clamped down with her arms and Jenna went still. Jenna's black hair stood on end and I could see the imprint of Mama's sweatshirt on her cheek where the skin was red and puffing.

“Mama, please,” I said.

“I've been waiting to see this child long enough,” she said. “The boy wants to be with his grandmother for a minute.”

I finally grabbed for Mama's shoulder and yelled for her to stop and she wheeled around as Jenna cried out.

“I said we're fine!”

“Just for a minute,” I said. “I just want to hold her is all.”

Carletta kept her clutch on Jenna and went for the front door, but it only opened an inch before the snow tumbled in and piled on the carpet. I felt the cold push through and Carletta slammed her shoulder into the door but it would not open any further against the weight of the drift.

“Maybe just let me hold her for a minute,” I said. “She's probably hungry is all.”

Carletta angled toward the kitchen and I knew she was making for the back.

“You and your sister both,” she said. “Neither of you trust me with this baby.”

“This isn't Tanner,” I said.

“You forgot who wiped your asses and burped you in the first place.”

“It's okay, Mama. I just want to take her for a second.”

“I'm not going to hurt him!”

Jenna jumped when Mama screamed, but then lost her breath in the fright and flushed before she belted out a cry. Mama looked up and her eyes were big as moons and darted.

“I'm not going to hurt this baby,” she said.

“I know you're not trying to hurt her,” I said. “But can I hold her? Just for a minute? She isn't feeling well.”

“He's fine,” she said. “The baby is fine.”

She opened the back door and stepped out onto the porch. She extended one of her boots and tried to kick the screen door closed but I pushed through it and was careful not to knock her backward.

I held out the papoose.

“Maybe just set her in here for a minute,” I said. “Then we can both hold her.”

She held Jenna away from her chest now, away from me, and backed toward the steps. Jenna was being dangled over the railing and she kicked her legs and screamed. I could see Mama had no idea at all where she was, that she had no idea that Jenna was in any danger of falling off the deck. Jenna balled her hands into fists and had cried herself silent. Her mouth opened in terrible, silent cries and I reached for her again.

“Mama,” I said.

“Out,” Carletta said. “Get out of my house this instant, Starr.”

“It's Percy, Mama. I'm right here.”

“Out! Get the fuck out of my house, Starr!”

Jenna could not catch her breath to scream and I started to worry she might suffocate on her own panic. I wanted to step across Mama to grab her, but I was afraid Mama would jerk away and lose Jenna over the edge. But the longer she stood with her arms stretched the weaker her grip would get, and I worried too that her next step might send them both tumbling.

Mama stood beside the stairs and swayed. Her arms started to shake and finally I came around her side and grabbed a fistful of Jenna's pajamas and pulled. Carletta pulled back and both of
us stepped away from the other as Jenna finally wailed and was stretched out between us.

I screamed at Mama. I don't know what I said, but I spit it out like fire. She tightened her hold on the terry cloth and I worked my fingers beneath her fist while Carletta bawled some terrible, animal yelp. Then I set my foot in her thigh and when I kicked her fingers were finally pried loose and she fell.

She did not go down the stairs but only slumped into the snow on the porch where she lay whimpering. I looked down at her and had never felt so disgusted in my life.

Jenna finally gulped air and screamed. She screamed as loudly as I had heard her and I gathered her in close. She shrieked as we stepped back inside and I locked the door behind us and she shrieked as I put her back into the papoose and straightened the blanket over her body. She shrieked while Carletta crawled across the porch, shouting her idle threats into the door.

“You fucking bitch,” she yelled. “Open this door this instant! Do you hear me, girl?”

I ran back into the bedroom where I had first found Mama, where Jenna had been sleeping so soundly when I left her in the trailer. I closed my eyes and hummed, but Jenna went right on shrieking. She shrieked while Carletta banged on the back door, and she was still shrieking after the banging stopped.

I was alone in the trailer with Jenna and after a time I looked out the window and saw Carletta wander off into the woods. It was still my instinct to chase after her. Despite everything that had just happened, part of me wanted to try and rescue her again—but I could not leave Jenna and focused on her instead.

I unbuttoned the top of her pajamas and she shrieked louder when my cold hands hit her skin. I fed her a knuckle and she chomped down hard and suckled as I searched her body for wounds. I didn't feel any tears or bleeding but I was not foolish enough to take much comfort in that fact. I knew full well something might have happened inside, though I did not allow myself to dwell too long on what that might have been.

“Baby girl,” I said, and stroked her hair.

She worked my knuckle and I wished I had the bottle to offer. I wished I had one more scoop of formula, but that was gone now and there was only the blanket and the papoose and the two of us together in the dark room.

I buttoned her pajamas back up and felt the fever like a flame on her back. I needed to try and cool her down and carried her back to the porch, where I took a scoop of snow from the rail and brought it back inside.

I hated to do it, especially now that there were some stretches of breath between her screams, but I broke the snow up anyway. I put some to her lips and packed the rest to her forehead and stood there and held her through the howling.

I held her until the snow had melted and streaked her face in cold streams and then I dried my hands on my jeans and wiped the water away. I held her close and hard and after a time she finally stilled herself in my arms.

I smiled as I walked her back into the room, but there was no glint of recognition from Jenna. The fever was in her eyes now and she looked back at me without seeing anything at all.

I set her on the carpet and lay down beside her. I hummed
a lullaby, though it was more for myself than Jenna. Jenna was already on her way back to sleep.

I knew I should stay awake to keep watch, to monitor the fever, but I turned in to Jenna and closed my eyes anyway. I held close to her and whispered that everything was going to be fine, though I doubted that it would be. I felt myself drop toward sleep and didn't have the strength to fight it. I was drained of every reserve I had. I was pure empty.

The drive to the farmhouse was freezing without the windshield, but Shelton could not be bothered by such momentary discomforts, such trivialities. Shelton had just been through a metaphysical experience and for the first time since Jenna went missing he knew exactly what it was he was supposed to do.

Shelton had seen Old Bo's spirit in the woods and it was no coincidence that he had collided with the buck only moments later. What had happened was this: Old Bo had somehow entered the buck, had somehow become the buck as it charged the Silverado. Then Shelton had struck the deer, in effect Old Bo, and killed his best friend all over again.

Shelton knew because he had felt Old Bo's presence as he stood above the buck and watched it writhe in the bloodied snow. He saw Bo's soul itself inside the animal's darting, fear-crazed eye, and when he raised the shotgun to end the gruesome labor of
the death he knew that everything that had happened since Bo's passing was not bad luck or unrelated folly.

Jenna's disappearance, his near-catastrophic pursuit of Little Hector, and now the dead buck: all of it stemmed from that one terrible, cowardly betrayal of his faithful companion. Shelton had left his dog to rot like some piece of forgotten meat and that single act would taint everything black until it was put right. What Shelton needed to do now, what he had needed to do all along, was return to the farmhouse and deal with the corpse of his beloved friend.

There was a thump beneath the Silverado's hood as he drove, a rattling in the vents, but everything considered, the truck had come through the collision in fine shape. It had been a good-size buck, an eight-point and heavy for this late in the winter, and Shelton knew he was lucky the truck was running at all.

He crossed Jackson Lake for the farmhouse and remembered the day he'd come home from prison. He'd been nervous about seeing Old Bo, was afraid his best friend, and maybe his only real friend in the world, would begrudge him his absence.

He'd left Bo in the care of Uncle Rick, though care was a term Shelton applied loosely. What Uncle Rick did was come by the farmhouse every now and again, whenever he remembered, and set out some food in a bowl. But he did not take Old Bo out to play, or cuddle with him on the couch and watch football. He did not pet him or scratch behind his ears or tell him that he loved him.

Shelton thought Old Bo might sleep in the living room in protest upon his return from prison, or stalk around the house, punishing him with whimpers and plaintive barks. Shelton wouldn't have blamed Bo if he was vindictive and withholding—Shelton
deserved all that and worse—but instead he had come bounding off the porch the second Shelton's tires hit the gravel drive.

Shelton gave the horn three taps, his customary greeting, and Old Bo ran headlong for the Silverado. Old Bo was so excited he ran himself in circles. He jumped and yapped, then ran more circles. He couldn't help it, he was so happy Shelton had finally come home. Imagine that, to be loved so much you turned a friend in actual circles?

Shelton was parked out front of the house now, and for a moment he believed if he wished it hard enough Old Bo would come running through the door one more time. But, of course, Old Bo did not come running.

Shelton was alone. His heart was heavy and swollen with longing and he reached for his tank of nitrous. He did a balloon and then another. He drank some whiskey, gulped it, then reached for another balloon. He did that balloon and then another.

Oddly, the balloons had begun to bother Shelton. It was their celebratory nature, their brightness and whimsy, which he feared had become an insult to Old Bo. The balloons had begun to belie the legitimacy of his grief and finally he just mouthed the nozzle of the nitrous tank and released the valve.
Sssssssssssss.

He felt the gas hit the back of his throat and explode out his ears and then the brightness opened in his brain like a just-birthed star unfolding.

When Shelton came to, Bob Seger was on the radio singing about being a ramblin', gamblin' man. Bob Seger was born lonely,
down by the riverside, where he learned to spin fortune wheels and throw dice.

Shelton understood that he had been unconscious for only a few moments, but that time itself was not definite or linear and that each of those moments held eternities inside their soft, malleable edges and that he had fallen through them somehow and briefly touched forever. He didn't know how he knew that, but he did.

He sat up slowly. Goddamn, he was cold. And where the hell was he? His head hurt, but that wasn't all that unusual and did not concern him as much as the cold. He was sitting inside his truck and he could feel the heat pouring from the vents, yet he was frozen solid. He was shaking like a baby chick. What in the world?

He noticed he was at the farmhouse, and a moment later remembered it was where he lived. But why was it so goddamn cold in the truck?

He reached out with his hand and felt the glassless air in front of him and then recalled the buck and how he'd killed him. Then he remembered that Arrow was dead and that Jenna was gone and that Kayla was inside, hopefully unconscious. He remembered something about Wolfdog taking the baby and how gentle Bo was dead and Shelton had left his carcass in a room to rot.

All these thoughts came to Shelton in a rush and carried with them the initial shock of discovery. It turned out the nitrous had taken him all the way under. He'd uncorked the gas and followed it into some deep, dark cave at the base of his primordial brain, a cool room with stone walls where he'd felt a vast blackness and
empty peace, only to come back up and reexperience the horror of each tragic event as it arose in his waking mind. The sadness stunned him and came over him in waves. And then came the regret and the guilt. And finally, the anger. On the radio, Bob Seger had come to the part where the black girls sing. They went,
Ramblin', gamblin' man.

Shelton stepped out of the truck and his vision was blurred and the hardwoods seemed to spin around him as he walked toward the farmhouse with the shotgun. His steps were heavy and labored in the deep drifts and he could hear his heart beat inside his ears like thunderclaps. He thought maybe he should have taken it easier on the anesthesia.

He was winded by the time he came up the front steps and stopped to lean against the porch rail. His head was throbbing. He wondered if he got worse headaches on account of how big his head was. It stood to reason that he would.

He walked in through the front door and there was Clemens, standing in the kitchen. The funny thing was, Clemens had his hands in Shelton's secret drawer. The drawer where he kept his prerolled joints and the Glock he'd just pitched into the storm. The same drawer where he stuffed his extra cash when he had the good fortune to possess some.

It took Shelton a moment but then he recalled Clemens's continuing role in the evening's drama, how they were to meet back here at the farmhouse to discuss Jenna and the dead bodies. But Shelton couldn't remember Clemens saying anything about rummaging through his secret drawer in the kitchen. It seemed Clemens had gone rogue on that front.

Shelton had walked right in through the front door, yet Clemens hadn't bothered to stop for one minute to say hello. Clemens didn't seem to pay Shelton any mind at all. Clemens was so focused on his effort that he never even bothered to turn around and realize Shelton was standing there with his weapon.

Shelton pumped the shotgun and turned it on Clemens, who finally froze and looked up. His arm was still elbow deep in the drawer.

“I wonder how long you're going to stand there with your fingers in my shit,” Shelton said. “Now that the shotty has come into it.”

Clemens stepped away from the drawer and put his hands up.

“Now hold on one minute,” he said.

Shelton held the gun on Clemens while he bumbled through his ridiculous lies and explanations. He might have even begged, but Shelton couldn't be sure. Shelton didn't hear a single word Clemens said because Shelton was already gone.

Shelton had slipped outside of himself, had left his body so easily and without hesitation that he didn't even notice he was gone until he looked down and saw himself aiming the barrel straight for Clemens's heart. And still he rose. He rose until he reached some place of perfect stillness and symmetry that was both darkness and light, both love and animal rage. And from that distant, blissful remove he watched himself pull the trigger.

The shot hit Clemens at the top of the left shoulder and sprayed the wood paneling behind him. His head snapped back at impact and from the time-stilled heights from which Shelton observed he could see small shards of shoulder bone disperse, like a handful of
tiny, gift-store shark teeth, and he could smell the powder and the singed wood as the buckshot burrowed into the wall. Clemens fell back against the kitchen counter and looked up at Shelton with big, scared-shitless eyes.

Shelton had meant to kill him and was both relieved he had not and embarrassed by his poor aim. Here he was, not ten feet away and couldn't hit a man in the chest. Double vision, he supposed.

Clemens pushed himself up off the counter and held up his right hand and pleaded with Shelton as he eased toward the back door.

“Please,” he said. “Don't shoot.”

Shelton set the shotgun down and leaned it against the kitchen table. He nodded at Clemens.

“All right then,” he said.

Then Clemens was gone and Shelton felt himself in dire need of a drink. He walked back to the truck for some whiskey and resolved to stay focused on what was important. Bo. That was what he'd come home for originally, before all this business with Clemens.

He heard an engine turn and looked up and there was Clemens's truck, not ten feet away and stuck in the same little rut Shelton had been parked in earlier. He was just about to walk over and give him a shove when Clemens rolled out on his own and drove off toward the flat black of Jackson Lake. A shoulder shot for attempted robbery seemed about right to Shelton.

“Fair and square,” he said. “You old motherfucker.”

Shelton had his drink, then capped the whiskey and went back
inside. He walked up the stairs and then paused near the top when he heard the screaming. For one hopeful second he thought it was baby Jenna. The sounds were coming from her room and he wondered if after all this time she might have just been hiding somewhere he never bothered to look. Had he even checked the closet?

He ran down the hall but it was only Kayla. She was sitting on the floor with her knees curled to her stomach and the screams were her own. She was clutching a butcher knife from the kitchen and Shelton realized she must have awakened and seen him shoot Clemens. She'd been frightened and gone for the knife, then run upstairs to discover Jenna was gone.

“Kayla,” he said, and stepped toward her. “Honey bear.”

She screamed again and sat there shaking. Her whole body vibrated like a plucked string, and when Shelton took another step closer she pushed herself along the floor to get away from him. Pushed herself clear across the room. He could see the fear and the animal fury in her eyes and she lifted the knife and held it pointed at him.

“What did you do to her!” she screamed. “What have you done to my baby!”

“I didn't do anything,” Shelton said. “I've been out here looking for her.”

“You're a fucking liar!”

What he wanted was to sit with her and hold her. He wanted to try and offer some comfort about Jenna, to resolve with her to find the child and somehow repair their ruined lives and start all over again, but Kayla only looked at him and raged.

“You shot Clemens!”

“Baby,” he said. “Let's just calm down for a minute and talk.”

“You get away from me!” she shouted. “I fucking hate you! I fucking hate you so much!”

Shelton only stood and looked at her. He did not know what to say, suspected that whatever he said would only make things worse.

“Get away from me!” she shouted.

“Okay,” he said, and began to back away slowly. “Okay, baby.”

He walked out into the hall and then closed the door softly behind him. He listened as she continued to shriek and he understood that she did hate him. She was fucked up, high as she could be, but that didn't change the fact that she believed he had taken Jenna and done the baby harm. And to even think he was capable of such a thing told Shelton all he needed to know. Kayla might have loved him, but she hated him too, and more than anything she was afraid of him. He put his hand against the door and knew in his heart that he would never see her again. In many ways, it was a relief.

He turned toward the other room now, toward Bo. He was through with the distractions and the messing around and he did not bother to cover his nose as he approached the corpse. Rather, he welcomed the stench. He breathed in its black truth and justice because it was exactly what he deserved.

He vomited when he reached the doorway, then staggered toward the body by the dim light of the hall. He stood over Bo and coughed up another mouthful of puke. He cried, as much
from the vulgarity of the task as the sadness, then dropped down quickly and scooped the dog into his arms.

Old Bo stunk so bad that Shelton could smell it over the vomit that had come up from the back of his throat and burrowed down at the tops of his nostrils. The flesh hung loose and there were a few buzzing flies, though Shelton guessed the cold had helped some with that particular detail. Still, he could feel how bloated Bo had become and there were troubling bulges in his belly and Shelton feared his fingers might push through the spongy skin at any moment and introduce him directly to whatever horrors of decomposition were taking place inside. It was goddamn macabre, is what it was.

Shelton set the body down on his bed and wrapped Old Bo inside the very blanket he used to curl up and sleep on. There were dozens of black hairs in the fabric and the blanket still held the earthy smell of the living Bo. Shelton carried him to the truck and was greatly comforted by Bo's return to his place of so many peaceful slumbers. It was the first fitting thing that had happened since his passing and Shelton wondered why he hadn't thought to wrap him in the blanket right off.