Where the dead lay

THIRTY-FIVE

Morning had come like an executioner’s call. Dean, unable to sleep, had spent a good part of the night sweating and flopping about in a spinning bed. They’d drunk, the bunch of them, as if it would change all the bad shit that was swirling around them, until it was almost light. And maybe it had, for a minute, but now he had a tub full of Jameson sloshing around in his gut and his head felt like a thunderstorm. Putting a foot on the floor hadn’t helped at all, and despite the patty melt he’d scarfed down at the kitchen table in order to soak up the whiskey, he half felt like he was going to puke out the whole works. He thought about that last hour they’d all spent the night before. They’d doused their concerns for a moment and decided they felt strong. Dad always made them feel that way, especially when he leaned in and whispered that nothing had changed, they were still on track, and Uncle Larry could keep shit locked down on his end. They’d kicked everyone out of the bar at closing time and played poker and kept on drinking. And when they’d gotten home they’d made so much noise, the four of them, that Mom had come out of the bedroom. At first she’d been pissed they’d woken her, but then Dad had started singing “Dixie Chicken” and dancing her around the kitchen until she’d started laughing. Finally, she’d pulled out the frying pan and had started cooking, and they told stories and ate until they all went to pass out. It was like old times, when they were kids, but with whiskey, and for a while their troubles seemed far away.

Now Dean rose and staggered through the silent house to the kitchen, where he drank from the tap and belched and drank some more. The water momentarily diluted the poison inside him and he wiped a layer of clammy sweat from his face with a dish-towel. Then he turned and saw the greasy frying pan, and the plates scattered across the table, dirty with chunks of meat and sodden bread and smeared with ketchup. He went to the front door, for some fresh air and the morning paper.

“Bodies Found in Near Northside House ID’d as Father and Son,” screamed the Star’s headline. It was the address of the last pea shake they’d taken down. Dean’s stomach elevator-dropped. He was awash in dread as he read the account of the discovery of the dead boy. A child. It rang in Dean’s head. His hands began to shake and his blood turned to ice. A low moan escaped his belly as the enormity of what they’d done settled on him. He’d killed a kid. Then, from an even deeper place, came a spasm, and a roiling wave of vomit splattered down on the front step from where he’d just picked up the paper.