Elizabeth and After (12 page)

By the time they were finished dinner the sun was setting and the sky had begun to turn. Carl stood up from the table and opened another beer. “Guess we’d better step outside and see what you did today.” Carl picked up a spade and poked at the holes like a man kicking the tires of a used car. Beside each hole was the pile of dirt and rocks the digger had brought up. When he came to the last hole, the double one, he lowered the spade inside, knocked it from wall to wall.

“Hard to dig?”

Ned nodded.

“You need a good big hole for a gatepost. I was going to pour in concrete first, to make sure the bottom doesn’t rot. You need extra space for that.” He lowered the digger to the bottom
of the hole. Gave it a few twists, dragged it up, emptied it, lowered it again, repeated the sequence. “A person could almost fit into that,” Carl said. “If they were thin enough.” He looked speculatively at Ned. “Could you fit into that?”

It had grown dark enough that a passing car had its headlights on. The beams flashed through the branches of the big beech tree. Ned looked down the hole.

“Go ahead, try it.”

Ned shook his head.

“Come on. I bet you could get in. I’ll give you an extra ten if it’s big enough to get in. That’s what my father always made me do when I was digging holes for gateposts.”

Ned crouched down beside it, stuck in one foot, then sat and put both his feet in. Carl could see Ned’s knees knocking together with fear. He wondered how close Ned was to exploding and if he wanted to push the boy that far. “I guess I can,” Ned said, “if I point my toes.” He put one hand on either side of the hole and lowered himself down. He was standing with his feet at the bottom, his arms awkwardly sticking out.

“You have to be able to put your arms in, too,” Carl said. He watched as Ned raised his arms high, curled his shoulders to make himself thin, then turned and wriggled his arms into place. Now only the tops of his shoulders, his neck, and his head were sticking out.

“That’s great,” Carl said. “Perfect.” He used the spade to pour some dirt behind Ned’s back.

“What are you doing?”

“Just seeing how much room there is,” Carl said. He took another spadeful, emptied it against Ned’s neck.

“Hey.”

“Shut up,” Carl said. “Or I’ll slit your throat the way you did that cat.”

“What are you talking about?”

There was something about the way Ned’s face was screwed up in the half-light that made Carl wish Ned was standing in front of him so he could slap him. He reached into his pocket, took out a long bone-handled knife that he opened in the twilight. He ran his finger along the blade. “Sharp,” Carl said. “Don’t make me use it.” He kept spading the earth until Ned’s shoulders and neck were covered and the dirt came right up underneath his chin. He tamped it gently into place. “Don’t let me hurt you,” Carl said.

“I have to go to the bathroom.”

“Go ahead.”

Carl sat down under the tree, lit a cigarette. Another perfect sunset, another spectacular night sky. Beyond Ned the view was of gently rolling fields going back half a mile to a jagged line of trees.

He took a pull of beer, emptying the bottle. Ned was staring at him, his face twisted and streaked with tears. “Got to get another beer,” Carl said. “Promise not to go away?”

While he was in the house he heard Ned calling out but when he got back the boy had stopped and was only snivelling.

“What’s wrong?”

“I can’t get out.”

“I know,” Carl said. “That’s the idea. You’re lucky the bugs aren’t worse; I’d have to swat your mosquitoes with a shovel.”

“You’re a mean fucker. Everyone always said that.”

“That’s true. But then I stopped fighting. Remember that? A man stops fighting and people try to take advantage of him. You know? People start to think they can get away with things. And how’s a man to defend himself if he can’t fight? Got to get
other people to use their hands for him. Like you did this afternoon.”

“My father will kill you for this.”

“Shall I give him a call and tell him what you’ve been doing?”

Ned started to scream. Carl threw a shovelful of dirt at his face and he stopped.

“You know what they do to thieves in the desert? I read a book about it once. They dig them a hole in the desert and leave them there, just like you. No problem the first night. Nice cool breezes, winky twinkle stars. And then the next day they die of thirst. The birds come and eat their eyes. Some special kind of eye-eating bird, I guess. The idea is to die before the birds come, if you know what I mean.”

Ned was crying again. “Quiet,” Carl said. “Try and take this like a man. Just think, Ned, what’s happened up to now is nothing compared to what you’ve got coming. Why don’t you just think about how much fun you’re having now while I decide what to do with you? Think of it this way. You’re a hostage, right? Like I’m holding you because of that dead cat buried at the other end of the garden. For all we know the ghost of that dead cat is watching us, waiting to bring us bad luck. You know it’s always bad luck to kill a cat.”

“I’ll get you another cat,” Ned sobbed.

“I’ll get your father another kid. Although when it comes to assholes like you I don’t know how many there are.”

“I’m thirsty,” Ned said.

“Thinking about it just makes it worse.”

“I’m going to tell the cops.”

“When’s that?”

“You wouldn’t kill me.”

“That’s right. I wouldn’t. But after a few days in the hole—anyway, what would you tell them? That you climbed into your own hole and couldn’t get out? And then there’s that little break and enter you pulled last night.”

A car swept by on the road throwing off a stray bit of light that made Ned’s eyes glow briefly.

“Ned, I don’t want to kill you. I need you to work here with me. You, me and that posthole digger, we could really turn this country into something. The trouble is, if I let you out, I have to answer to myself about that cat. You know what I mean? Stop crying.”

“I pissed myself.”

“Ned, stop thinking about yourself. Don’t you see we have a more important problem? Down there, at the other end of the garden, is a dead cat. That cat belonged to my daughter. It was left with me in trust. She didn’t have to say to me, ‘Daddy, please can my cat be alive in three days?’ because she thought that with me it was safe. She trusted me with her cat. And now her cat is dead. Tomorrow my daughter is going to come home and that cat is going to be lying in the bottom of a hole with its throat slit. Don’t you see what you’ve done to me?” He was on his feet, he was shouting, he was waving the spade. Ned’s crying had grown louder, a non-stop wail that was boring into him. “Stop that noise!”

All the blood had gone into his hands. He remembered that feeling, too, what came next. He threw down the spade, stepped back. Another vehicle was approaching. It stopped in front of his house. A door slammed. Carl heard the crunch of footsteps on the drive, the knock at the door.

“Out here,” Ned shouted. “Now you’ll be sorry.”

“Quiet,” Carl said but it was too late, the footsteps had started towards him.

“Is that you?”

“It’s me,” Carl said.

“Heard you were back,” Ray Johnson said. “Thought I’d come and see you before you got yourself into trouble.”

There was something contented about Ray Johnson that always made Carl grin from the moment he heard his voice. Ray was wearing jeans, a T-shirt that stretched over his comfortable belly, a beard that was barely on the respectable side of shaggy. From his right fist a twelve-pack dangled invitingly.

He came right up to Carl, set down the beer, then made as though to embrace him but ended up just clapping his big hands on Carl’s shoulders.

“Son of a bitch,” Ray Johnson said. “Never wrote, never called, just came sliding back like an old lonesome wolf. Well, you picked your time.” He paused. “Do I hear something funny?” He looked down at Ned who had started crying again. “Christ, Ned, is that you down there? I could hardly recognize you in the dark. Why did you have to go and bury yourself?”

“I didn’t—” Ned spluttered. “He’s going to
kill
me.
Please.”

Carl watched Ray get down on his knees beside Ned. There was something about Ray that made people feel safe. At least people who never saw him after midnight. With his beard and his size he shambled around the lumber yard like a perfectly trained gentle giant, talking in a courteous stream of profanities, always shouldering the heavy end of the load. When he started to smoulder he just drank more, as though he had long ago decided that anger was something he should turn against himself instead of the outside world, as though there was no fire he couldn’t put out with a bottle or a case of beer.

“How about I kill you instead?” Ray folded his muscular hands around Ned’s neck. “Don’t you know it’s a serious crime
to bury yourself in another man’s garden? Used to be a hanging crime but I left my rope at home. Ned, you little sucker, your Adam’s apple is making my fingers nervous. Could you try to keep from swallowing?”

Ned gulped.

“Okay,” Carl said. “Why don’t you finish him off? Do it so you don’t leave any bruises. I’ll go call his mother and tell her where to find the body.” He started towards the house.

“Noooo!”

Carl turned around. Ray had let go of Ned. He had found the posthole digger and was swinging it around his head, faster and faster, as if gathering the speed it would take to drive it into Ned’s head so hard the boy would be decapitated.

“No fucking bruises this way,” Ray said.

“Please!”

“Stop whining, Ned. You think we like this? How much fun do you think we’re having?”

Ned didn’t answer. Ray was whirling the posthole digger and it came to Carl that they looked like they were in a scene from some high school play.

“Look, I’ll tell you what. Ray and I are going to dig you up and drive you back to your truck. Then Ray and I are going to come back here and drink a few beers and I’m going to tell him a story about a certain kid and a certain cat. Your job is to decide whether you want to behave from now on or whether you’re going to keep making problems. Okay?”

Ned, who had started sobbing again, managed to stop. “You didn’t have to scare me so bad.”

“I didn’t have to,” Carl said. “But I wanted to. Just like you wanted to do what you did. Or would you rather I just call your parents and the police?”

“Okay,” Ned said.

“Okay what?”

“Okay, I’ve decided. I promise to behave.”

“I don’t know,” Carl said. “How can I believe someone who’s just a head sticking out of the ground?” As Ray, in the midst of opening himself a beer burst out laughing, Carl found himself admiring Ned—who at this point looked like little more than a talking cabbage—for having remained convinced he was still a human being who could bargain with his captor. A helpless talking cabbage—that or worse—was probably how Ned had always seemed to his father; and suddenly Carl felt sorry for the boy and started digging him out.

The next evening Carl was out back of the house again, inspecting the holes Ned had dug and wondering what after everything he was going to tell Lizzie about Marbles, when he heard a car slowing on the road and saw headlights swinging into the driveway. Ray again, he thought. The night before, they’d drunk the carton of beer and finished off a bottle of rye that Carl had driven across the country. He explained to Ray how he’d come back determined to be a sober good citizen, a responsible father to his daughter who was, after all, the only person in the world who loved him.

“Ah shit,” Ray had said, “you’re just fishing.” The two of them had erupted into laughter the way they used to and Carl had almost told Ray about the idea he’d had of going into business together. But he hadn’t and in the morning he was glad he’d held back. Because as Ray himself had said, he was an old lonesome wolf or at least a wolf that wanted to sniff a few things out before he made any big commitments.

However, he had told Ray about running into Chrissy at Frostie’s and going for a drive with her after. Ray had gone silent. “You and Chrissy,” he eventually sighed. They might
have been back at Ray’s three years ago, after Carl moved in, drinking in the darkness that was not only the absence of light but also Carl’s misery, which back then had seemed to him a personal Black Sea he was doomed to drown in every night for the rest of his life.

“It’s not like that any more,” Carl said.

“Feeling bad about a woman is like a room,” Ray said. “It’s always the same, every time you’re in it, but one day you learn how to stay outside and lock the door.”

Carl thought about that for a moment. You never knew what Ray was going to come out with but every week or month or year he’d say something so
inside
you that you’d wonder if everything he seemed to be was just a cover-up for an entirely different person.

“Well, I guess I unlocked the door,” said Carl, “but I needed to see her or it would have just hung over me until I did.”

Now Carl saw it wasn’t Ray’s truck that had arrived but a car. Despite what he’d said to Ray he had a sudden start as a woman’s silhouette detached itself and he thought he recognized Chrissy.

He walked towards her slowly.

“Mr. McKelvey?”

It was the girl from the R&R. Moira someone.

“Carl,” Carl said. “You don’t have to call me Mister.”

“I didn’t mean to get here so late. I got lost.”

“Better come inside,” Carl said.

He went past her and into the kitchen, flipped on the light, waited for her to follow.

“I didn’t mean to intrude. I’m from the R&R. Moira Lapointe, you remember—”

Carl thought she looked almost as frightened as Ned Richardson. He moved away from her and tried to smile reassuringly.

“Hey, it’s okay.” Then he realized he’d been talking to her as though she were a little girl. “Do you want a coffee? A beer?”

“No thanks.” She was standing near the door, poised for flight. “I just came out because your father was hoping—he didn’t have your phone number or anything—that I could ask you to come visit him at the home on Sunday at lunchtime. Guests can come on Sundays. You left so quickly he didn’t get a chance to tell you. And he didn’t have your phone number.”