100 Days (18 page)

The girl can't be much older than I am. She makes a sad face and tells me to drive around to the back of the building. A few minutes later, I back the truck toward a big metal door that rolls up to reveal a garage-like storage area. I get out of the cab when Moira does. We stand by our respective doors as a couple of techs come out with what I can only assume is Bingo inside one of those extra sturdy garbage bags. Moira gasps at the sight. The techs carry the dog out on a giant platter—a platter!—with a handle on each end. They set the whole thing onto the pickup bed and then slide the platter out from underneath. “There you go,” one of the techs says. He looks from Moira to me and back to Moira. “Sorry for your loss.”

*   *   *

Agnes sits between us on the drive out to my place. She rides backward without a seat belt so she can keep an eye on Bingo and make sure he doesn't bounce around too much. Moira hardly seems to notice, though. She's staring out the passenger side window with her chin in one hand and a blank look on her face. Her other hand is clutching Bingo's blanket.

Thank God the backhoe starts up. I was prepared to get out the pickax and the shovel to dig the hole myself if necessary, but it would have been a tough job. Once I've transferred Bingo from the truck bed to the big steel backhoe bucket, I climb up into the operator's seat and navigate the machine carefully into the big field. There isn't room for all three of us in the cab, so Moira follows on foot with Agnes on her back. The ground is too uneven for Agnes to walk safely out to the grave site on her own. From her piggyback vantage point, she keeps an eye out for prairie dog holes so the two of them don't end up in a heap on the ground.

Once we've gone several hundred yards, I stop and idle the engine. “This is the spot I was thinking about,” I call down to them. I've always thought it was peaceful, with a line of trees to the east and a ridge overlooking a small slot canyon to the west.

Moira surveys the area and nods. “It's perfect,” she says.

I climb down from the cab and lift Bingo, still covered by the plastic bag, from the bucket. The girls follow me as I carry him to a spot about a dozen yards off, set him down on the ground, and pull the bag away. At first, Moira doesn't want to look. She puts a hand over her eyes but then lowers it. The dog is curled tight and frozen there, like he fell into a peaceful sleep during a snowstorm and never woke up. “Here,” she says, handing me the blanket. I drape it over him, tucking it in around the edges.

Moira and Agnes find a tree to sit under while I stab the edge of the backhoe bucket into the earth over and over again, scooping up dirt, rocks, and roots that I set off to one side of the hole. It doesn't take too long, but I want the grave deep enough so there's no chance of coyotes digging it up. Of course, I don't mention this. When I'm done, the girls stand up and come over.

“Agnes needs to use the bathroom,” Moira says as I step down from the cab.

Agnes, standing behind her, rolls her eyes. “I can just go behind a tree.”

“No, you can't,” Moira tells her. She looks at me and says, more softly this time, “She can't.” It's a plea.

I squint toward the house. I hadn't taken this possibility into consideration. It nearly kills me to think of the girls going in there. I tried to clean up as much as possible this morning like I do most mornings, but there's a limit to how clean the house ever seems to get. It's not like desperation can just be swept out the door. Plus, having near strangers in the house would probably give Mom a heart attack.

“Agnes!” Moira calls out.

I whip my head around in time to see Agnes tromping off toward the nearest cluster of pine trees with Moira in hot pursuit. “Talk to the hand,” Agnes says, holding a flat palm out like a traffic cop. “I'm peein' in the trees, and don't you
dare
try to follow me!” She says the last part with a southern sort of twang in her voice.

Moira stops in her tracks. She turns and looks at me.

“She'll be okay,” I tell her. On a whim, I jerk my head toward where I'm standing, like
Come here
.

Amazingly, she does.

“So, I know this isn't the time or the place,” I say when she's right there next to me, both of us contemplating the new hole in the ground. “But I don't think I ever said sorry about what a scumbag I was to you in sixth grade.”

“You weren't…” she starts to say, but then seems to think better of trying to be too polite just because it's a solemn occasion.

“Yeah. I was.”

“Okay, maybe you were a little bit.”

“I was a big one,” I tell her. “I hurt Agnes. And I hurt you. And I am so sorry. It shouldn't have taken me this long to say it.”

Moira doesn't say anything for several seconds, just looks into my eyes like she's trying to remind herself of something. “Apology accepted.”

There's movement near the trees—Agnes returning. “It's beautiful here,” she calls out. Moira breathes a sigh of relief. As usual, Agnes has the little camera hanging around her neck. She reaches for it and takes a few pictures of me and Moira as she walks toward us. “I wish I could live in the country,” she says, sighing. “Hey, seriously? You guys should scatter some of my ashes here when I—”

“Agnes!” Moira's face is whiter than usual all of a sudden, and not just because of her makeup. Even her lips look pale.

Jesus,
I think.

“I'm so sorry, Em.” Agnes is looking down at the ground. “I don't know what I was thinking.”

But Moira's shaken. I can see it. “I just … there's only so much I can take,” she says. “You know?” Fresh tears well up in her eyes.

Nobody says anything for a few minutes after that. Moira walks off by herself a ways to regain her composure. I stand next to the backhoe, silent. Agnes looks down at the grave.

Finally, Moira returns. Her expression is back to normal, and her voice is steady. “I think it's time.”

Nodding, I walk back over to the blanketed dog, pick him up, and carry him to the edge of the hole. Then I lower myself down there so I can arrange Bingo inside his final resting place. After climbing back out and brushing as much dirt as I can from my pants, I look at Moira. “Should we say a few words?”

“Yeah.” She takes a deep breath. “Bingo is…” She lets the breath out. “Was. He was a good dog.” Her voice sounds a little unsteady.

“He knocked stuff over with his tail,” Agnes adds quietly, which makes Moira laugh before she starts to cry again. She holds the back of her hand up to her nose as if to stop the tears, but they come anyway. She swipes a finger under her eyes where the mascara and eyeliner are starting to travel, blurring the lines of her face just enough to soften it ever so slightly.

I start to look away out of respect, but then Agnes catches my eye and motions for me to join them. So I do. At first I just stand there on the periphery of the two girls, with Agnes on one side of Moira and me on the other. When a shoulder-heaving sob escapes Moira, though, Agnes hugs her best friend across the backs of her legs. It seems like the least I can do is make contact, too, so I put my arm around Moira's shoulders. For a long while, the three of us just stand there like that on the edge of the freshly dug grave.

 

49

AGNES

DAY 52: MAY 4

I keep a close eye on Moira all the next day. There's a feeling in the air like something's about to crack, like ice on a lake when winter finally ends. I can't explain it any better than that.

 

50

BOONE

DAY 51: MAY 5

Two weeks after my first run-in with our new neighbor, the Power Stroke is back. Its diesel engine idles in the driveway like a bad omen.

One glance at Diablo's empty paddock as I'm on my way out the front door to talk to Jackson Tate and I don't even have to ask what the problem is. Tate's timing is unbelievable; not only do I have a test in English first period, but now I'm probably going to be late again, thanks to him.

“Had five hundred yards of gravel all leveled,” he yells through the open driver's side window as I approach. “Damn horse cratered the entire driveway.”

“Sorry,” I tell him. “Old man Wallace used to let him graze there.”

“I don't give a rat's ass what he used to do.” Tate's face is all tensed up and red, like how I imagine a gigantic hemorrhoid would look sitting on top of his shoulders. “I'll put a bullet in that animal's head if he sets foot on my property again.”

Technically, he'd be setting
hoof
on your property,
I think, but I know better than to say it out loud. “Don't you think that's—” I start to say instead, but Tate (who I now can't help but think of as Rhoid Face) cuts me off.

“It's my right as the property owner. You understand me, boy?”

As long as I live,
I think,
I'll never understand bastards like you.
I take a step forward, and Rhoid Face leans back into the cab of the Power Stroke, away from the open window, his eyes widening ever so slightly.

Before I realize what's going on, an old rage rises up my spine so quickly that it threatens to blot out everything else in my brain. The rage rushes to my fists, too, like hot lava that might incinerate me alive if I don't release it by smashing this son of a bitch's jaw to smithereens. Fighting my instincts, I interlace my fingers to keep my hands under control and to keep myself from doing something I'll later regret. I wouldn't be much use to Mom in jail. “I just need to go grab a halter,” I mumble as I turn and walk toward the shed.

Rhoid Face peels out of the driveway, sending dirt flying without so much as offering to let me ride in the bed. Asshole. Serves him right if Diablo causes more damage in the time it takes for me to walk over there.

The damn horse has always been a Houdini. He used to let himself out in the middle of the night to go visit some other horses a mile down the road. It infuriated my dad, who was always the one to throw the halter into the bed of the truck and spin the tires in rage as he tore out of the driveway. He'd come back slower, with one arm out the window leading Diablo, the lead rope clenched tight in his fist. The whites of the horse's eyes usually indicated he'd gotten more than just a mild talking-to on the way home, and he obviously equated the truck with being punished: it got to the point where he wouldn't let my dad put the halter on him at all unless my dad arrived on foot. Now that Diablo hardly gets any exercise, his behavior's becoming worse. I can't risk the boneheaded animal getting shot, can't even think about what that would do to Mom. Somehow, between school and my job and holding things down at home, I'm going to have to find time to start working him again.

The thought of Rhoid Face having time to change his mind and load his gun in the minutes before I get there clears my head. I grab a halter from its nail on the shed wall and start down the driveway. I cover as much ground as I can while maintaining what I hope looks like a relaxed stride, just in case Mom is watching from her bedroom window. Only when I'm past the house do I break into a run.

 

51

MOIRA

DAY 50: MAY 6

On Friday night, Boone, Agnes, and I have plans to hang out. Agnes wants to go downtown, which her mom says is okay as long as I keep an eye out for her and make sure she keeps her coat on. Deb looks worried, though. She pulls me aside near the front door while Boone and Agnes go ahead.

“The doctor told her not to get too chilled,” Deb whispers. “So she needs to watch her temperature. Her body fat percentage is lower than it's ever been. I hate to have to put restrictions on the situation, but…”

“We'll take care of her,” I say.

“Make sure she eats, too.”

“I will.”

The three of us head downtown, where the monthly Art Walk is already under way. Agnes seems so happy as we wander through all the different stores and galleries, happier than I've seen her in a long time.

“I wish you guys could hold my hands and swing me back and forth between you,” she says.

Boone looks down at her before I can say anything. “It would hurt your wrists, silly. I've already caused a broken arm. I sure don't need any more injuries on my conscience.”

I'm a little taken aback by how he just went there and brought up the old injury, but I also feel a flush of tenderness toward Boone at that moment. I know from long experience that it's not easy to set boundaries with Agnes. Once you get to know her, you pretty much want to give her anything her heart desires.

The evening air is warmer than it's been all year. If there's a chill in the breeze, it's easily overlooked. On one edge of the town square, a shirtless contortionist is twisting himself into a pretzel on top of a Navajo blanket. He's not much older than we are, but there are primal symbols tattooed all over his torso. At first, I think the way he's twisting his body must be some kind of optical illusion, but then I realize there's actually something wrong. He's beyond double-jointed. It almost looks like he has no joints in his body at all. A cardboard sign on the ground in front of him says something about needing donations for his upcoming surgery. Agnes steps forward to put a few dollars in a bowl next to the sign, and he nods at her like she's one of his tribe. She nods back.

Nearby, a traveling bluegrass musician couple start a song in the middle of the square. They look like they're in their early twenties. The woman plays a stand-up bass, and she stares at Boone with a dreamy half smile. He smiles back at her, and another kind of flush passes through me at the sight of it. I have a sudden impulse to place myself between the two of them. That would be a ludicrous thing to do, of course. Boone doesn't belong to me. He's allowed to smile at whoever he wants. The bass player's partner is a bearded guy who's playing the banjo and stomping on an antique foot drum. Both of them are dressed in clothes from another time—lace skirt and corset for her, a velvet-collared coat and fedora for him. They look like they raided their great-grandparents' closets before heading out for the night. It's such a cool look that it makes me feel self-conscious about my own getup—an old Bauhaus T-shirt that's so faded and thin it looks like it might disintegrate any second, a long black skirt, and the usual drama makeup.