Bury This (22 page)

Back to the ash killing house, the lights downstairs dim. But still music, voices. Someone turning down the volume. Shh. A happy happy song. KC and the Sunshine Band. Not much sunshine here. Some sunny place out west, a mockery in the snowdrifts.

“Did they hear us?” Billy, taking out a cigarette, not wanting to go in. Cold air puffs and Pall Mall smoke in a jean jacket.

“No, we're fine. They didn't see.”

Won't there be any last words for Shauna? Any final instructions? Maybe an acknowledgment. I am here, Jesus. Something to hold me up. Something to cling to, late night, keep me standing.

“Boggs, you say one word . . . you're next.”

A kick in the teeth.

That sallow wooden house on the outskirts of town, two windows above looking down, watching me. You know what you did. We all know what you did. A sapping KC sunshine song, laughter through the snow down in flurries. Snow laughter, giggle snow. But that laughter and that sunshine song not for me. That laughter and that sunshine song never for me again.

PART V

ONE

R
ich! Who'da thunk it? Jesus, 2003, after all those years of painting houses, drywalling, installing floors for peanuts. Now this. Seventy. Five. Thousand. Dollars. And here, at this place, this manna place, it was just getting better. Mount Pleasant Meadows, Michigan, a heaven place, a dreams-come-true place where you bet ten bucks on the ponies, one hundred bucks back, one hundred on the ponies, one thousand back. This last week alone, Troy Boggs had made five thousand. Five thousand in one week! Oh, what was he thinking? Why hadn't he come sooner?

The world was his oyster, and beside him . . . Terry. Well, she was a stand-up gal. Terry from Clarkston, a TV blonde in a coral shirtdress, sun-wedge shoes, and that sleek, all-over, never-burnt tan. Oh, Terry was something. She sure was. An Oprah disciple. A Regis fan. He was gonna marry her. Maybe next week. Hell. He might as well buy a ring and put it on her finger after this next race. Had to. Can't lose her. Not this one. A real looker. A catch.

Maybe he would even marry her on a day like today, here at Mount Pleasant Meadows. The sky a big bold blue, the egg-shell wood promenade, champagne toasts in the clubhouse and everyone in hats. He wasn't looking so bad these days himself, you
know. He'd fixed himself up right. A jacket for days at the ponies. A jacket and a just-bought hat. Terry noticed him right away. At the club bar, drinking mint juleps, watching the stakes race. Not that he hadn't noticed her on the way in. That blonde fuck-me hair, wasn't that the point, that you would notice, that everyone would notice, from across the parking lot, the clubhouse, the track? Oh, sure, she stood out, a real Clarkston belle. Back home, she said, she grew up on the lake. Sure, she was a step up, a house on Big Lake and vacations up on Mackinaw Island. But he was her league now. Her league, with his Seventy. Five. Thousand. Dollars. Pushing him up, propping him forward into success success success now. Possibilities, properties, deals. Now was the time. Now was the time to cash in. Cash in all of it. Maybe buy another house, out on Pontiac Lake, or Elizabeth, put Terry in the house and never look back at those dirt dog days on the outskirts of Muskegon.

And, Shauna, what about her? Well, he couldn't take her with him. That's for sure. An embarrassment, an embarrassment now. Three hundred pounds! Three hundred pounds of inexplicable moping, dragging around. One-syllable answers and looking at the ground. Christ, he was ashamed of her. Couldn't even introduce her to Terry. He'd never see Terry again.

And the drinking. Before, a tonic. Now, a celebration. A celebration of life, of the Meadows, of Terry, dinner at Mount Pleasant Winery, nights at Green Spot. Terry's even introduced him to some new friends, nice people, classy people. And they were celebrating too. All the world's a celebration at Mount Pleasant Meadows. All the world a spinning cycle of who's up, who's down, the jockeys, the ponies, the stats. Terry's friend, he had a suspicion maybe an
ex, just bought a pony himself. Easy Living. He was sure to be a hit, strong bloodline, clean stud book, lineage back to Byerley Turk. Oh, no . . . Easy Living was just that. Easy Living. And maybe, maybe, if he played his ponies right, Troy Boggs would one day own his own Easy Living, watch his own thoroughbred in the post parade.

He and Terry.

Staying at Terry's. She had a condo. A nice one with sleek lines, a wet bar, and a sunken living room. Everything gray, silver, pearl, and chrome. A slick little hideout with a view of the Meadows. A clubhouse here, too, with a pool table, a ping-pong table, an ice hockey table, an outdoor grill, a common area, a Jacuzzi, an Olympic-size pool, and a battalion of lounge chairs. Oh, it was shared space, of course, with the rest of the association. But, you know, you never saw anybody, never saw a soul out here, really. So it was practically yours.

Terry had been married before, too. Poor dear. Some head honcho at Chrysler, treated her like yesterday's takeout. Some big swinging dick with hair plugs, you can tell from the picture, boinking his secretary after hours, during lunch break, even on weekends for a quickie, while Terry waited at home crying her eyes out, heartless jerk. (One day I'll fuck his shit up.)

Well, she showed him. One lake house, two Chryslers, and one condo later, she showed him. Bastard. And now, Terry was set. Terry was set and he was set and they'd be set together. Easy fucking living is right, assholes.

Meeting Terry's friends in the clubhouse, well, it wasn't easy. But he was a man, sure. He was not a bad-looking man. A man
you wanted around. He looked the part. He matched the wallpaper. Yep, he'd do. He'd do for Terry, poor thing, she'd been through a lot.

Gone were the days drinking Coke and gin or whatever was left out of his brown plastic Buffy's Buffet glass, staring at the floor. No how. Not now. Not anymore now with Terry and the ponies and his Seventy. Five. Thousand. Dollars. Nope. This was it. Easy Street.

He knew for a fact, Terry had Two. Hundred. Thousand. Dollars in the bank from her settlement. Not that he'd ever take advantage. No, no. Not him. Terry was the real deal. He woulda run off with her in a pickle-barrel, sure, but with this, well, it didn't hurt. Security.

Spending all day Saturday at the Soaring Eagle Casino & Resort, what a day. Coming down Sunday by the pool, Terry in her peach pants and sweater set. Coral earrings. Unwinding now over white wine spritzers, still warm for September. Still sunny, seventies, not a cloud even.

I mean, yes, sometimes he would hide a bottle or two, but why tell Terry? Sometimes she would fall asleep and he'd have a nightcap, what's wrong with that? It was perfectly normal.

Somewhere in the front office, a buzzer beeping incessantly.
Beeep. Beep. Beeeeep
. Jesus, that thing's been going all morning, what the hell's going on?

Troy sick of it, making his way to the front glass doors, next to the water feature, a wall of waterfall rocks. And there, outside the glass doors and gray stone waterfall . . .

Shauna.

All three hundred pounds of her.

Not wanting to see it. Not wanting to be seen. Oh, fucking Lord. Not here. Don't let Terry see! Hurrying over, hurrying her in. We'll go to the condo. That's it. I'll just take her to the condo. We'll talk in private. Just me and her. Don't let Terry see.

“Dad?”

“Hi, Shauna. Well, what a surprise.”

Troy Boggs polite. Troy Boggs in panic.

“Shauna, let's just. How 'bout we talk over here. Good to see you.”

Good to see you! Ha, what a laugh. No, Shauna, it is not good to see you, just as it is not good to see yourself. Look at you. Christ. How do you even get around like that? How do you fit in a car? On a seat? In a doorway?

Through the peach-and-turquoise wallpaper hallways, little palm-tree sunsets over ocean water and a gazebo, pretty little sunset scenes, innocuous as mustard. Drywall paradise. Frosted tulip light fixtures, turquoise carpet, Shauna inspecting it all. So this is where you live, huh? This is where you've escaped to?

Brass-frame glass mirrors every ten feet. Oh, take them down. Take the mirrors down. Don't look at me.

Inside the pearl, silver, gray, chrome condo, he couldn't help but brag.

“Terry designed it.”

“Huh.”

“She designed it herself. 'Cept the sunken living space, that was there first. They're all like that.”

“Living space?”

“You know, this here.”

Gesturing down to the sofa, glass-top coffee table. Ivory gas fireplace, who is this man? Who is this man in front of me? This can't be my dad. Yes, there's the pickle-nose, a little. Yes, there's the splotchy skin, but the tan, the Tommy Bahama shirt with buttons, the khaki pants? Where the fuck did you come from, man in dad-suit, semi-dad?

“Shauna, have a seat. How 'bout here?”

And now sitting down on the gray-silver sofa, tiny seagulls in silver stitching, just for texture. Everything smelling new, just bought, just-bought slick chrome-and-crystal condo. Where the fuck am I?

“So . . . what brings you to Mount Pleasant?”

“Um.”

“New boyfriend?”

Dumb. That was dumb. Shouldn't have said it. Yeah, right. Looking like that. New boyfriend. Maybe Al Roker. Fat Albert.

“You, Dad. I came to talk to you.”

“Oh, yeah? Well. I mean. There's a phone here. We do ‘have the technology' . . . Wanna drink?”

“Yeah.”

Too fast. Yeah, I want a drink too fast. Yesterday even. Yesterday and all the days before.

“What's on your mind? You like Captain Morgan? It's spiced. You gotta try it. Goes great with Coke. Just great.”

Mixing up the Captain Morgan spiced rum, oh, to be on the sea. To be away from this landlocked condo complex out on the sea somewhere with Captain Morgan and his parrot and his eye
patch and his spiced rum in barrels and away from three-hundred-pound daughters with imploring eyes and nothing to say.

“The ice is the trick. You gotta have the ice.”

Ha. That's a laugh. Did you have to have the ice all those years in our crashing-down ash shack back home? Did you have to have the ice in your 10-
AM
-brown-plastic-gin-and-Coke-or-what-ever's-left glass back on Route 31?

Handing Shauna the drink, an assuring smile.

“Bottoms up, kid. Good to see ya.”

Good to see you. Already said that, Christ, how many times can I say it without sounding like a jerk-off?

“Dad . . . what happened to you? I mean, what is all this? What . . . is this?”

Silence. Ice clinking. Take sip.

“Shauna, change happens quick. You know, a lot of people sit around and wait, wait for change to happen, to them. But not me. Not after I found Tony.”

“What—?”

“Tony Robbins.
Ultimate Power
. That's what it is. It's just ultimate power. You should read it.”

Taking it out past the wet bar, a black hardback book with a gleaming cover. A giant of a man smiling from the gloss, big teeth, arms crossed.

“This book changed my life. I want you to have it.”

Handing over the gleaming black book to Shauna, a heavy tome, a Bible-black brick. Hope it works. Maybe it will work. God knows she needs it.

Shauna taking the book, a confused pink pudge face, eyes
looking for something to grasp, something to latch onto. Everyone back at Hope was talking about the case, the documentary, the town abuzz with gossip. But here was Dad, hours away, talking about Tony.

“Dad . . . if you did something. If you did something that you know wasn't right . . . even if it was a long time ago—”

“The past is dead, kid. The past's the past. All you got is the future. And . . . ” Tapping the book with his forefinger. “The future is now.”

“But what if—”

“No excuses.”

“But, Dad, listen to me—”

“No excuses, kiddo. The future is what you make it.”

And now the door opens, goddammit, and there is Terry. Terry in her peach sarong and swimsuit, gold bracelet.

“Oh.”

“Well, hello, Terry. This is Shauna.”

Not wanting to say it, not wanting to say it.

“My daughter.”

And there she is. Flip-flops in September. Shorts. A muumuu of a shirt, a tent thing with little pink flowers. And that hair. Grease head. Black roots. And into dry, dry wispy breaking blonde frazzle. Rat hair.

“Oh! Well, Shauna, it's nice to meet you. Real nice to meet you. Here, won't you sit down? Want a drink? Oh, what am I saying, you've got a drink. How bout a—”

“It's fine. I'm fine. I was just leaving, actually.”

What a relief!

“Oh, so soon . . . ”

“Yeah, I gotta get back. I got an early shift, in the morning.”

“Hm”.

“Yeah, I got a new job, telemarketing. It's okay. I mean, the hours are good.”