We Are Water

  The slab’s even heavier than I figured, but on the second try I manage to lift one end of it enough to jockey it away from the opening. I stare down into the darkness, unable to see the bottom. It’s like those black holes I read about: those regions of space-time with a gravitational pull so intense that nothing that gets sucked in ever escapes. I can’t escape the fact that I killed him—it’s a done deal that I’m going to have to live with for the rest of my life—but why would anyone think to look out here? And who would be looking for him? Does he have a wife or a girlfriend? Kids? A buddy who would miss him? Maybe, maybe not. If he had to take a bus here, he doesn’t even own a car. And he looked down-and-out. Maybe he was just a drifter, a loner. The only thing I really know about him is what he did to Mom all those years ago. . . .

  I pick up a stone. Toss it in and listen to the plunk. I thought maybe it had gone dry, but it hasn’t. What is it? Seven feet deep, maybe? Eight? And the opening’s at least two feet wide. That ought to be enough. It’s not like he’s broad-shouldered. But what if they do trace it back to me? Haul me in for questioning? But why would they? Just because he’s gone missing doesn’t mean I had anything to do with it. . . . And maybe you can find out on the Internet how to beat a polygraph. Everything else is on there. Why not that? And anyway, they’re not even admissible. Are they? . . . Vengeance is mine sayeth The Lord. I’m already damned for what I’ve done. I’ll pay for it in the next world if I don’t in this one.

  I go back to the car. Lift the body and carry it in my arms, across the brook and then over to the well. I raise him feet first over the hole and let go. One of his shoulders clears the opening, but the other one doesn’t. He’s hanging there, crooked and stuck. Okay, Andrew, here’s your last chance. You can pull him out again—face up to what you did. Get hauled off to prison. Or not. I stand there, thinking about it, trying to decide. Then I reach down, push on his shoulder. The body drops down with a splash. No going back on my decision now. It’s done.

  It’s a burial, in a way. His mother brought him into the world and I took him out of it. So maybe I should pray for him, pray for his soul. Except what good would that do him, coming from his killer? Having the guy who bashed in his head stand here and ask Jesus for His Heavenly Mercy. Like I said, I’m damned now. Doomed. From water he came, and to water I’ve just returned him: prayer-wise, that’s about all I can come up with.

  My uniform: it’s evidence. And so’s his bag of clothes on the front-seat floor—the ones he took off when he changed into my suit. I’ve got to get rid of this stuff. Buy another uniform at the PX when I get back to Texas. I slip out of my shoes, undress down to my skivvies, and then drop them, too. There’s no blood on them, but everything I was wearing when I did it is tainted. Everything. I stuff my bloodstained, dirt-caked clothes in there with him. My socks and mud-caked shoes, sopping wet from the brook. His bag of clothes. Then, butt-naked, I struggle the slab back over the well. It takes all the energy I have left. . . .

  I walk back to the car and, instead of getting in, stand there, leaning against it, feeling the rapid beating of my heart. My heart’s revving, but his has stopped because I stopped it. What if they did trace his disappearance back to me? Would they think to look out here? Uncover the well and . . . ? I’ve got to think this through. Cover up my tracks better than this. That’s what murderers do, isn’t it? Commit the crime, then cover it up? But I’m going to need more time. Maybe what I can do is call my CO and tell him I’ve got a family emergency. Get my leave extended. Dad’s up there on the Cape, and Mom and my sisters will have taken off by tomorrow. I’m going to have to hold it together until then. There’s plenty of rocks out here—that broken-down old stone wall some farmer had put up way back when. I can gather up those rocks and drop them down there. Fill up the shaft as best I can, then come back here with some bags of Sakrete. Mix it, pour it in there, and plug up the well—cement in the evidence. . . . Jesus Christ, I’ve murdered a man. I’m a murderer. Out of nowhere, I hear the voice of that guy in group when I was in training at Sam Houston—the young private who was torn up with guilt over what he’d done over there in Kandahar. Kicked in the door of that apartment and fired on what he thought was Al-Qaeda, then realized it was a mother and her kids. Did I kill them or murder them? What would you call it? . . . I hear another voice—that Vietnam vet who’d pickled himself in alcohol. At first, he didn’t want me to work with him, but later on he started trusting me, telling me what it was like back then. There was this chant they had us say when we were in boot camp. “War is murder, and murder is fun!” And you know something? It was fun. I enjoyed wasting those villagers. It was as good as sex. But then after the rush . . . Now I know what he meant. The rush, the discharge. Those sweet few seconds of calm after the rage spilled out of me. And then it’s over, just like he said. You come back down from the high, get up, and deal with the aftermath—clean up the mess you’ve made. . . .

  I’d better go back up to the house. Get showered and dressed before they come back. The last thing I’d need is to drive up from back here and walk into the house naked with his blood on my hands.

  I climb into the car, start it. But when I glance in the rearview, I look away. I’m like what the fuck? Where did he come from? Because I just saw an old black guy leaning against the old cottage. Or did I? . . . Gripping the steering wheel, I force myself to look back again, but no one’s there. It was just my imagination. My guilt, screwing with my head already. . . . What would you call what I did? Murder? Manslaughter? Justifiable homicide? No, who am I kidding? If it was justifiable, why would I have to hide the body? I put my bare foot to the pedal and the car moves forward. Starts back up the bumpy path.

  Back in the house, I take the stairs two at a time. Get in the shower and make the water as hot as I can stand it, as if I can somehow wash away what I’ve done. What was that Shakespeare play they made us read in high school—the one where the killer’s wife can’t wash the blood off her hands? Hamlet, maybe? Julius Caesar? One of those. . . .

  I get out, dry off. I can’t look in the medicine cabinet mirror. Can’t face myself. I get dressed and head back downstairs. Go out to the car with a roll of paper towels and a bottle of kitchen cleaner. I’ve got to be methodical about it. Thorough. I scrub the blood off the floor, the backseat. At least the seats are leather, not upholstery. I caught a break there. I wipe down the steering wheel, too, in case there are any telltale flakes there—something not visible to the untrained eye. Maybe I’ve watched too many of those CSIs, but I can’t take chances. I’m going to have to turn this car back into the rental place. What if, when they go to inspect it, someone spots something I missed? And what if someone does report him missing. They could connect the dots back to me. Impound the vehicle and . . . No, that’s not going to happen. I can’t let it.

  When I’m done, I’ve used up half a bottle of Fantastik and a pile of paper towels. I head back inside. Put the Fantastik back under the sink. Rip the paper towels into pieces and flush them down the crapper, two or three at a time. Any more than that and they could clog up the pipes. When that’s done, I head back upstairs, trying to think if I forgot anything—something a forensic scientist might spot. But what? And why would they even be looking at me?

  Back in my bedroom, I pull down the shades, pace. Look over at the bookshelf. It’s weird the way they kept everything the way it was. It’s like a museum of who I used to be. Boxes of Topps and Upper Deck basketball cards, my wrestling and track trophies. I look over at the posters on the wall. Those WWF guys I liked: Mankind, The Rock. The one of that rock group I was so into back then: Rage Against the Machine. Ironic, isn’t it? Look where my rage has gotten me. I think about Mom—the way some little thing would trigger it. Set off the rage that was inside her. . . . I hear Dr. Skiles’s voice—the thing he sometimes says in group to the guys back from their deployment, the ones who are suffering because of what they saw over there. What they did. Don’t stuff it. This is a safe place to let it out. We’re onl
y as sick as our secrets. And now I know Mom’s terrible secret. I’m the only one who knows. The only one of her kids whose rage matched hers. And now I have an ugly secret of my own—one that could put me in prison if they found out. Because the difference between me and those guys in group is that I didn’t do what I did in combat. It wasn’t any act of war. It was revenge, pure and simple—the settling of an old score because of what he did to a little girl who he damaged for life. I look around my room again, wondering what my teenage self would have thought if he could have looked into the future. Known what his adult self would do out in that woods today? . . . Life was so simple back then. All I had to worry about was the next match or meet, whether or not there was going to be a pop quiz on the day when I hadn’t done the reading. Macbeth: that was the play. The one with the witches and the ghosts. God, that black guy I thought I saw down there for a second. That was weird. Out, out, damned spot. Macbeth’s wife: that’s who it was who couldn’t wash off the blood. . . . “What do you think the blood symbolizes?” Miss Anderman asks us. She’s young and inexperienced, just out of college. She waits, a hopeful look on her face that fades away in the long, resentful silence. I feel sorry for her, in a way. I know the answer, but sitting there in my varsity letter jacket, I’m too cool to volunteer it. It’s her guilt she can’t scrub away. She was the one who wanted the guy killed, who goaded him into doing it, and now she’s got to live with herself. . . . Just like I’m going to have to live with myself, whether or not they trace his disappearance back to the well out back. As sick as our secrets. At least Mom’s secrets are finally out. Partially, anyway. And mine is down there, stuffed in a shallow well. I’m facing a life sentence, whether I end up doing time in a prison cell or not.

  I flop facedown on my bed, close my eyes, and try to unsee the things flashing in my mind: my mother’s face as she realizes who he is. . . . That deer flying out in front of me. . . . Him running ahead of me in the woods, up that hill. I bolt up, remembering what I forgot about: the evidence that’s still out there. His blood and hair stuck to that rock. Along with my DNA, most likely. Should I go out to the garage, grab a wire brush and a jug of water? Drive back there and try to find the rock again? Scrub away the evidence that could convict me? But why would they even look out there? No one saw me carrying him out of those woods. The coast was clear. One good rainstorm and his blood will wash away and into the ground. But I’m scared. I wanted to punish him, not kill him. Is this what my life is going to be like from now on? Holding my breath and waiting? In a few days his body’s going to start to putrefy. But who would be out there to smell it? Nobody. Some dog, maybe? Some scavenging animal. But once I get it filled up with those rocks. Cemented. . . . I think about the other guy they found out there in that well—that artist who lived in the cottage. Was it a murder? If it was, they never got the killer. They couldn’t have if it was still a question. . . .

  I’m exhausted. My mind, my body. I catch myself dozing off. Wake up with a start. I killed a guy and hid his body. How am I ever going to be able to sleep soundly again? Why should I? . . .

  I wake to the sound of car doors slamming, voices. I’m groggy, disoriented, and then it hits me like a two-by-four to the head: what I did. They come in. I don’t know what time it is, but it’s nighttime. It must be. The room is dark. How long have I been out?

  Footsteps on the stairs, coming down the hall toward me. My door opens a crack. “Andrew? Are you awake?” Mom’s voice. I don’t answer. I hear Ariane ask if I’m all right. “He’s sleeping,” Mom says. The door closes quietly. They go back downstairs.

  But a few minutes later, my door opens again and the light goes on. “Hey.” It’s Marissa. She comes over and sits on my bed. Taps me on the shoulder. “Are you awake?”

  “I am now.”

  “What a day, huh? Are you okay?”

  “Not really.”

  “No, me neither. I can’t even wrap my head around it yet. You know?”

  “Yeah.”

  I flip onto my back. See her standing in front of the posters on my wall. “Rage Against the Machine,” she says. “Remember when I took that CD of theirs without asking you, and then I scratched it? How mad you got?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I guess I really was a twerp.” She turns around and faces me. “Where did you disappear to today?”

  I shrug. Look away. “Nowhere. Just had to get out of there and get my bearings. How’s Mom?”

  “Fair. But I think it’s good that she finally got it out. Can you imagine what it must have been like for her to keep it a secret about her sister all these years? In a way, it explains a lot about her. You know?”

  I shake my head. Tell her I don’t know anything right now.

  “Yeah, like I said, it’s a lot to process. But remember when we were kids? How one of us would do something to set her off and she’d go all mental?” At me, mostly. Come after me with something. Hit me hard enough to raise welts. “And then? After she calmed down? Ariane would be all like, ‘Don’t tell Daddy when he gets home. Okay? Daddy doesn’t have to know.’ ”

  “Yeah, I remember. What’s your point?”

  “That maybe all of those outbursts, all of those secrets we were supposed to keep for her . . . maybe it was all connected to the big secret she was keeping. That it was her, not her cousin, who dropped the baby.”

  “I don’t know, Marissa. Maybe.” I just want her to shut up. Leave.

  “And it’s not like, okay, now that she’s finally told us, it’s going to be happily ever after. But at least she’s got Viveca to help her. She’s been great this afternoon, by the way. Kind of . . . I don’t know. Motherly.” She comes over. Sits on my bed. Why’s she staring at me like that? “What happened to you?”

  “Nothing. Why? What do you mean?”

  “Why is your face all banged up?”

  “My face?” I tense. Force myself to keep eye contact.

  “Yeah. You’ve got a scratch under your eye, and a red mark on your forehead. Your mouth looks a little swollen on one side.”

  I can’t do it. Can’t look at her. I get off the bed and go over the window so that my back’s to her. “No comment.”

  “Did you go after him? Is that where you went?” I don’t answer her. “Ari said she felt sorry for him because Viveca made him leave. But not me. It was kind of creepy the way he had her lie about it. Not admit that she dropped her. I mean, okay, maybe he was trying to cover for her or whatever. I get that. But shit, it was an accident. People would have understood. But instead, she’s got to sit on it her whole life. Live with the lie. And then he just shows up out of nowhere? Today of all days? Personally, I hope you beat the shit out of him.”

  I turn and face her. “Don’t say anything.”

  “I won’t,” she says.

  “You promise? I need you to promise me.”

  “Okay, chill out. I said I wouldn’t. Remember that time when you got grounded and you snuck out anyway? Went to that concert, and I came down and let you in after you got back? I didn’t tell anyone then—not even Ari.”

  “Stop it. I’m serious.”

  She keeps looking at me, worried now. “Wait here,” she says.

  She leaves. Returns a minute later. “Come sit down,” she says. “This is that cover-up I let Mom use this morning. This stuff’s awesome.” I sit. She opens the tube and squeezes a little of it onto her finger. Dabs some on my forehead, under my eye, at the corner of my mouth. Spreads it around with her finger. “There,” she says. “Good as new. No one would ever know.”

  “Okay. Thanks.”

  “Sure. . . . Hey, Andrew? If I tell you something, do you promise not to say anything?” I nod. “My bruises? I didn’t fall. Someone did rough me up.” I wait. “It was some big deal actor who was in town. This girlfriend of mine knew him. She’s . . . well, never mind. I thought it might open a door for me, you know? That he might give me a referral to an agent or whatever. Because acting’s all about making connections, okay?
So she and I went up to his hotel room and—”

  I put up my hand to stop her. There’s only so many disclosures I can take in one day. “Spare me the details,” I tell her. “Just tell me. Is he still around? You in any danger?”

  “Uh-uh. It was a hit-and-run. It was my own stupid fault.”

  “Yeah, well maybe you should throw in the towel on this acting thing. Take a long look at what it’s costing you.”

  She nods. “Yeah, maybe I should.” But in the next second, her expression turns from resignation to hope. “Hey, but you know that old dude who came to the wedding today? The one who gave Mom her start? His son—the one who brought him—works in TV out in Hollywood. Directs a soap opera. So when I told him I’m an actor, he said that they’re going to be casting for a new character, an ingenue type that I might be right for. And that if I went out there, he could make sure I got an audition. He gave me his card, told me to call him. I can’t afford the flight, but maybe Mom or Viveca will lend me the money. He didn’t promise anything, but it might be worth it to take a shot. You know?”

  “Marissa . . .”

  “I know, I know. But like I said, so much of it is about making connections. Who you know, who you happen to run into.”

  I’m too weary to come up with a counterargument, and she’s going to do what she wants anyway. And besides, I’ve got bigger problems.

  When we hear a car pull up outside, we both look over at the window. Look back at each other. “Who’s this?” Marissa says. “I hope it’s not that creepy cousin of hers. He wouldn’t come back here. Would he?” Car doors slam. Two of them. She gets up and goes over to the window, yanks the shade. “The police? What the hell do they want?”

  Me, I think. They want me. But how the hell . . . ? Someone must have seen me carrying the body out of the woods after all. Gotten the license plate. They must have traced it back to the rental car place. Or maybe that guy was down there at the cottage. Maybe I wasn’t just seeing things. “I’m going down,” Marissa says. At the doorway, she stops. Looks back at me. “You coming?”