Drowning Is Inevitable (9 page)

He'd fiddled with the sugar packets on the table. “You probably think that's stupid,” he'd said.

“No, I don't.”

It was our only family vacation.

“How did you feel when she told you she was pregnant?”

“Scared. Young.”

“How did she feel about it? Was she happy, terrified?”

“Yes.”

“You always say everything without saying anything.”

“What do you really want to know?”

Did she kill herself because of me?

That was the one question I'd never ask him, though. I was too scared the answer would hurt him or me. So I asked him everything but, collecting evidence, finding out more about her life so I could retrace her steps to see where it all went wrong, hoping all signs didn't point to me.

She saw
Olivia
etched on a tombstone in the graveyard where she was eventually buried and decided that would be my name. She and my dad used to cut through the cemetery on their way home from school, but he said my mom often found other excuses to be there, not just to walk through but as the destination. She told him there was something beautiful about the trees, the history, and the quiet. I guess that's where I got it from.

In her last year my dad often found her walking from grave to grave, looking at the names on the headstones and wondering aloud what had happened to each person. One day he found her sitting in front of a tombstone, holding her very pregnant belly and reading the name over and over again: “Olivia, Olivia, Olivia.” Rolling it out of her mouth and rubbing her belly as she spoke, like she was trying it out on the baby inside. When she noticed my dad standing there, she looked up at him, gave him a nod, and said it once more: “Olivia.”

After my name was decided, Lillian spent more and more time in the graveyard. She walked the rows, her fingers trailing over the headstones, with my dad watching from afar. There were times he found her sleeping on the grass, lying between the tombstones like she was already resigned to her fate. He was scared to question her ease and ability to slumber among the dead, so he'd simply wake her and take her back home. It was never long before she made her way back though, looking for a comfortable spot.

The crammed cab of the truck was uncomfortable. I disentangled from Maggie and got out. I walked to the sleeping bag.

Max rolled over and reached his hand out to me. I went to him.

“You don't have to talk about it now,” he said. “I get it.” He pulled me down to him. “Let's just go to sleep.”

We spooned, the sleeping bag offering no real comfort from the hard ground. His hand went around my stomach, fingers lightly touching my navel, and all I could think of was how my name must've sounded coming from her mouth. …
Olivia, Olivia, Olivia
.

T
he next morning I sat up with a loud gasp, disconnecting from Max's body and looking out at the lake. It wasn't a nightmare. This was real life. I saw the sky's reflection bobbing on the water. It was a perfect blue-sky day. I heard someone's boat but didn't see it. Judging from the sound of the motor, it wasn't a fishing boat, but it wasn't a big boat either—someone's ski boat, maybe. My eyes strained toward the horizon, looking for it.

Max lay asleep on the ground, his face peaceful, like he was used to not sleeping in a bed. The truck showed no signs of life. I walked to it and saw that Maggie and Jamie were still sleeping. I got my bag out of the back and opened it. I grabbed a clean shirt and unrolled it, and a ten-dollar bill fell out. I dug through the rest of my clothes to see if I could find any more money hiding, but that was it.

I knew we were almost out of gas and remembered we'd passed a convenience store not too far down the road. I jumped in the back of the truck and looked for a gas can. I found one hiding under Max's toolbox. I looked in my bag for some paper so I could leave them a note telling them I'd gone to get gas. The only pieces of paper I had were Beth's letters to my mom, so I pulled out the box and opened it.

All of Lillian's treasures fit inside a shoebox. The sunlight bounced off of one of her necklaces. Besides my father's class ring, it was the only piece of jewelry she had put in the box. The rest she kept in her jewelry box on her dresser. I could figure out why my father's ring got the special placement, but not the necklace. The chain was white gold and delicate. It was a name necklace,
Lillian
spelled out in a pretty cursive font. From the photos on Lillian's bedside table, I knew she wore it.

I picked it up and undid the clasp, then brought it around my neck and fastened it. Then I picked up an envelope and pulled the paper out. It was one of the earlier letters, from when Beth was still angry. I reread one sentence over and over before writing my note on the back, the words
you left me
loud in my head
.
I placed it under the windshield wipers.

The sun was already in full effect as I walked down the road By the time I got to the store, I was sweating. There was only one car parked outside the building. The store was old, with a sign out front reading
Live crickets for sale
. I didn't see any security cameras. The ding of the bell greeted me as I opened the door, and the man behind the counter looked in my direction. His eyes met mine, and he gave me a slow nod. I did the same. I decided I might as well take advantage of the facilities before pumping gas and walked to the back of the store to the restrooms.

Walking out of the bathroom, I saw a TV mounted on the wall above the checkout counter and came face to face with Tom Benton's picture splashed all over the screen. I stopped in the aisle; my face instantly burned up. Just like that, I was back in Jamie's bloody kitchen. My breath came faster, and I felt dizzy. I reached out to the side for balance and knocked something to the floor. Dropping down, I put my hands on the ground and blinked hard. With the news story loud in my ears, I looked around for the dropped item, saw a candy bar, and picked it up.

Four teenagers, wanted in connection with the death of a forty-six-year-old St. Francisville man, are missing.

My hand gripped the candy too hard. He was dead. I'd thought he was, but it was one thing to suspect and another to know. Tom Benton would never hit his wife again.

Tom Benton was pronounced dead in his home two nights ago, the victim of an apparent beating and stabbing.

I stood, my legs trembling, and put the candy back on the shelf. I felt the clerk's eyes on me and willed my hands to stop shaking.

A witness reported seeing the victim's son, eighteen-year-old Jamie Benton, fleeing the scene with seventeen-year-old neighbor Olivia Hudson.

Someone saw us. I tried not to react to the sound of my name. Keeping my head forward, I flicked my eyes to the TV. It showed a split screen with mine and Jamie's pictures on it. It was my senior class picture. I looked at the man behind the counter. His back was to the TV. He was only watching me.

The victim's wife, Louise Benton, who is believed to be home at the time of the assault, is not cooperating with police. The circumstances are unknown.

The clerk frowned at me in concern, and I forced myself to move forward.

At this time the extent of Hudson's involvement is not known, but a local resident described her as unstable.

My ears burned and my eyes pricked with unshed tears as I walked to the counter.

Eighteen-year-old Maggie Herrington, a known associate of the two, is also missing.

I knew I shouldn't, but I looked up to see Maggie's smiling face hit the screen.

A
fourth teen, eighteen-year-old Max Barrow, went missing the same night, though his connection to the events is unknown. Police are asking for any information on the whereabouts of all four teenagers. Barrow was last seen driving—

“Can I help you?” the clerk asked.

My tongue thick, I swallowed and said, “Yes, I need ten dollars' worth of gas.” I put the bill on the counter.

I took one more look at the TV and saw Jamie's house. I stared at it for two seconds too long, and the man turned and followed my stare.

“Yeah, they've been playing that story all morning.” He turned back to me and took the money. “They're saying they think that kid killed his dad. Can you believe that?”

“It's hard to believe,” I said. I waited for him to recognize me.

“I'll put you on pump one.” He looked down at the gas can like he was waiting for an explanation.

I choked out, “Thanks. I ran out. I'm always pushing my car to the limit.”

He chuckled. “You and my wife both. She thinks when the gas light comes on, it's just a suggestion.”

I fidgeted with Lillian's necklace, and he looked at it.

“Lillian—that's a pretty name,” he said. “I have a niece named Lillian.”

“Thank you,” I said.

“How far'd you walk?”

“Not too far. My car's just up the road.”

He nodded. “That's good. It's already a hot one out there.”

“Yeah, thanks.”

I walked out of the store and toward the pumps, worried that any moment now he'd realize who I really was and come charging after me. He was old; I could probably take him.
As if that was a thing I would ever do
. I bet he had a gun.

I put the gas can down and lifted the nozzle. The pump started, and I lowered the nozzle into the can, reading the warnings on how not to create static electricity and blow one's self up when pumping gas into a can. Explosions were the least of my problems. The pump clicked, and I put the nozzle back. As I lifted my eyes to the store, the man gave me a little wave—he had no idea he'd just dealt with someone ‘unstable.'

On the walk back I had to switch hands carrying the gas can. My body was coated in sweat, and the news story replayed in my head. Down the road I saw Jamie walking toward me. As I got closer to him, he looked worried. He noticed me struggling with the can, ran up, and took it from me.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

“There was a TV at the store,” I said. “We were on it. All four of us.”

The gas can slipped, but he caught it and asked, “What did it say?”

“I'm so sorry, Jamie.”

“Why?”

“He's dead.”

Jamie stopped in his tracks. “What?”

“He died. We killed him.”

Jamie snapped his head to me. “
We
didn't do anything.”

“What do you mean?” I asked. “Yes, we did.”

“You didn't do anything,” he said.

“I hit him in the head with a cast-iron skillet!”

“That didn't kill him. I did it.” He started walking. “I killed him.”

I walked after him, grabbing his arm. “They want you for questioning, Jamie. We have to tell them what happened. We didn't mean to kill him.”

He whirled around, dropping the gas can. “
We
didn't kill him. I did it.
I
wanted him dead.
I
wished him dead. I'm so fucking happy he's dead, but
you
didn't do it.” He was breathing loud, and his eyes were wild. “I love you, Olivia. But you're not taking any part of this blame. This is mine. Tell me you understand.”

“I understand,” I lied.

“What did they say about y'all?” he asked.

“They don't know what our involvement is yet, but they're looking for us, too.”

“Did anyone recognize you?” he asked.

I shook my head. “There was only one man there, the clerk. He had his back to the TV. But he'd seen it before. He said they've been playing the story all morning.”

“He didn't place you?”

“No. He thinks I'm Lillian.” I touched the necklace.

Jamie looked at it but didn't say anything. Then he picked up the gas can and gripped it with both hands. A car came down the road and slowed as it got near us. The car was old, and so were the people in it, a man and a woman. The driver stopped and rolled his window down, Patsy Cline's voice spilling out, singing about falling to pieces. My eyes stung and my chest tightened. It was my grandmother's favorite song.

“Do y'all need help?”

“No,” Jamie and I both said at the same time.

“Run out of gas?”

I wanted to scream at him to leave us alone, to get out of here, because I couldn't be held responsible for what we did next.

Instead, I answered, “Yep, I thought we had enough to make it to the next town, but obviously we didn't.” I pointed to the can as evidence.

“Where's your car?”

“It's just up the road a ways,” Jamie said. He said it with so much confidence that I almost believed him.

We looked down the road in the direction of the car that didn't exist. The man turned his head to follow our stare.

“How far down the road is it?” he asked.

“Not too far,” I said.

“Why don't y'all get in? We can take you back to your car.”

“That's okay,” Jamie said.

“We don't mind walking,” I added, my voice cracking.

The man looked like it was going against all his Southern-man principles, but he sighed, “Alright, y'all be careful,” and slowly drove away from us.

My heart was hammering so hard I wouldn't have been surprised to find bruises on my chest later. We walked the rest of the way in silence, the only sound the sloshing of the gas inside its can.

Max and Maggie were both standing next to the truck, facing the water. Jamie put the gas can next to the truck. The four of us lined up along the edge of the lake and watched as the water lapped at the shore, tiny waves caused by some boat. How long before somebody recognized us? Maggie reached out to hold Jamie's hand. Jamie reached for mine, and I leaned slowly into Max. We stayed like that for some time, connected.

“He's dead. I killed him,” Jamie said.

Max's eyes shot over to mine.

“There was a TV at the gas station,” I said. “The news was on. They said Mr. Benton died from his wounds. They're looking for all of us.”

“Holy shit,” Max said. His hands went to his hair, and he started pacing.

“Well, it's not murder,” Maggie said. “It can't be murder,” she said to Jamie. “He hit your mom. It was self-defense.”

Jamie didn't answer. She looked at me.

“I mean, come on. We all know Jamie's dad,” she said.

We all knew his dad.

“They know we're together,” I said. “They showed our pictures. They're gonna find us.”

“I need to call my dad,” Max said. “I bet this town doesn't have pay phones. I'll call him when we get to New Orleans.”

“What? You can't,” I said.

“Maybe your mom's friend can help us, and I'm not saying we shouldn't find her, but I know my dad can help us. He's good. He's gotten a lot of bad people out of a lot worse, and what Jamie did was justified.”

He waited for me to agree with him.

He looked at Jamie. “I know my dad would represent you. I mean, how long has your dad been beating up your mom?”

Jamie flinched. “A long time,” he said.

“Right, and nobody ever did anything about it. It's gonna be okay,” Max said. “You'll see. I'll talk to my dad. He can help us.”

I wanted to believe him.

“How much gas did you get?” Max asked.

“Ten dollars' worth.”

“We'll need more than ten dollars' worth of gas if we're gonna make it the rest of the way to New Orleans.”

He started folding up his sleeping bag. “I'm gonna walk back into town. See if I can find a day's work.”

This is common practice in small towns.