The Joy of Killing (17 page)

I have no doubt that Willie was murdered out of someone's emotional need. The rip up the man's throat into his jawbone was not a robber's act. David, perhaps? I started to write that, if so, I hoped he felt a release from some intolerable feeling. Then I wasn't so sure. Perhaps I hoped that it made him feel worse, having waited all these years, and only lately finding the guts to be a murderer. Like I said, my mother prohibited any further contact with David, and besides that I began to see him as a possible Willie-in-the-making.

W
E HAD DRIFTED
off in each other's arms when the loud rapping sounded on the vestibule door. Behind it this time was a male voice. “Open the door,” it said. “Other people need to use the bathroom.” The girl looked at me. Her face was soft, pillowy. She looked gentle and kind and hot, like an adolescent Anita Ekberg.

“Shall we let them in?” she asked.

“Let's not,” I said, knowing the moment would be lost.

“Just a moment,” she called. “I'm cleaning up.”

To which there was no reply.

I can see the conductor with the wire-rimmed, round glasses and the blue vest assembled by a vertical line of brass buttons, his boney fist poised to knock again, and the old lady behind him with her small mouth pursed and her eyes anxiously focused on the door. I stared in silent fascination as the girl rearranged herself—shifting her skirt around so the zipper was on the side, reaching under her sweater and buttoning her blouse, straightening the little white collar, running her fingers through her hair until it fell loosely to her shoulders. She kissed me on the forehead. “Be right back,” she said
and slipped into the tiny toilet. I stood, zipped up, and straightened my pants around. I looked in the mirror; same me, but my hair was a mess, and there was a faint red cross on my forehead and a low-wattage glow in my eyes. I ran my hands through my hair but decided to leave the stain alone.

I heard the twirling of a roll of toilet paper. Then the blast of the lid as it snapped open, silence as it snapped shut. The door opened and she stood there, hands at her sides, looking at me, clearly pleased. The pleat in the very front of her skirt was creased sideways, and I reached and pulled it until it fell straight. She pressed herself against my hand. I pressed back until I could feel the cleft of her.

“You're quite the guy,” she said, glancing at my forehead. “Red cross and all.”

My hand fell away. I thought to myself, for all that's happened I haven't seen down there. I've no idea know what it looks like. No idea. She read me. “It's still a long way to Chicago.”

The knocking sounded again, this time louder. “Let's go, in there, you two.”

She straightened my shirt, patted the soft bulge in my pants, looked at herself once more in the mirror, and opened the door.

I wish I had a painting of that scene. In the middle of the doorway, the conductor's face was scrunched between fervent curiosity and moral revulsion. Slightly behind him, peering over his shoulder, was the lady, her face taught with bitter disapproval, disgust possibly. They both looked us up and down, as if we might be naked or sotted in something unmentionable.

“Excuse me,” the girl said, and just then the train jolted and tilted her toward the conductor, and he raised his arms and caught her. She held there in his arms, for a second or two. She brushed in closer as she turned toward the aisle. I followed in her path, feeling the woman's harsh eyes on me assuming, I guess, that I was the wrong doer.

I
FEEL LIKE
we're finally getting somewhere. The bones are loosening in my head, my fingers are jumping from one key to the next. The images are hooking together more securely, as if they might truly belong in this sequence and in this coloration forever. I breathe in deeply and roll my shoulders. The tear in my jeans, the gash and the blood, doesn't matter anymore. The knife. All bits and pieces of some mysterious metaphor, not necessary for me to decipher. Today is not the point, is it? Yesterday, yesteryear (as the voice in
The Lone Ranger
would intone), holds the answer. From that, all else will certainly clear up. I have to say, though, I'm a bit concerned about the brass buttons on the conductor's vest. First time they've appeared. I could have forgotten them, which would be preferable to having added them in this latest version. I close my eyes; yes, the watch chain is still there, flowing from right to left, but now thinner and duller and much less impressive. If I had to pick, which I don't, I would go with the buttons on the vest. Now that I think about it, the snapping of the lid on the toilet in the vestibule was something new, as well. She'd disappeared in there, the water closet, to pee, I assumed. Now I believe it was to cleanse herself of my seed. This new reality is unsettling, not so much because
of that image, but because I can't help but imagine my seed smeared on a piece of toilet paper, whooshing down the pipe and dropping onto the rocks below. To disintegrate, but perhaps not; perhaps to calcify on a rock, or fossilize on some lonely stretch of track between there and the end of the line.

I am pleased with the progress—the next scene with the girl on the train seems to hold tremendous promise, although I couldn't tell you at this moment why—and thus I'm not greatly annoyed when that disturbing noise sounds again from the bottom of the stairs. I listen carefully, and there it is again: a rattling sound, like what might emanate from a large and vociferous rattlesnake. Both doors are locked, I know that; if I have to I'll crawl out the window, stand on the ledge, and pee. To hell with him, rattle on. I'm on the road; I'm on the way. It occurs to me that perhaps that is what Sally left in the box below, a snake. But I had heard the sound before she came here. Perhaps now there are two of them. Let it be, if that's the case. If it made her feel better to scare me, where's the harm? As for the dragging sound, I couldn't speculate.

S
ALLY COULD HAVE
gone across the lake with Joseph that afternoon, the last day of his life. Maybe she would have convinced him to stay on the opposite shore, at the girl's camp, until the storm passed. But he wouldn't have been able to hustle the brunette with her around. Which is why he wanted me. I wouldn't get in his way. So I went, I've no doubt of that now. I can feel the muscles in my shoulder pulling as I stroke from the front seat of the canoe. The sun was hitting my forehead, which meant it was early afternoon
(which resolves that question). I've pulled the straps so tight on the vest that it constricts my breathing. “Switch sides!” Joseph calls out from the rear seat every few minutes or so, and we manage without missing a stroke. The water is smooth, and we slice through it like a knife. By the time we arrive at the camp, I am feeling better about my decision to cross. Standing on the shore, as if they knew we were coming, are two girls: the slender brunette with the dark eyes and flirty smile, and the shorter redhead, with freckles and blue eyes. I hadn't counted on this, on her. I couldn't think of her name. The brunette waved as we approached. Joseph stood up and lifted the paddle over his head, as if we had accomplished some miraculous feat in crossing the lake. The brunette clapped her hands. The redhead smiled.

Joseph's girlfriend was carrying a blanket and a small basket, and the redhead had a brown paper sack in her hand. I could only imagine the promises that had been made to get her here. Joseph winked, said they would be back in about an hour, and off the couple walked, down a path into the woods, hand in hand. The other girl and I stood there awkwardly for a few moments, until she explained that the rest of the camp had gone on a field trip and that her friend had claimed she was sick so she could stay behind. It was her day off from the kitchen. Her lips moved quite deliberately as they formed the words, and her eyes stayed right on mine, as if to make sure I was following what she was saying.

“How'd you get roped into this?” I finally asked.

“When Jeannie asked me to come with her, I said I would but only if she promised that you would come with Joseph.”

I flushed. “That's really nice,” I said finally, thinking that explains why he was so insistent that I come along. This girl must like me.

“You don't remember my name, do you?”

I shook my head. “Sorry.”

“That's OK. JoRene. One word, with a capital R.”

J
ORENE,
I
SAY
aloud. JoRene. I repeat it several times and then type it in all caps. JORENE. I push the scene along in my head. She told me that her dad cut down trees for a living and her mom was a waitress. She had two brothers and one sister. Do they all have red hair? I asked. She blushed; no, she was the only one in the family. She wanted to go to college, become a school teacher, and move to Minneapolis. I liked her attitude: life need not be complicated, just make a plan. After eating our sandwiches, we walked along the shore. She reached for my hand. When she stopped and turned to me, with chin uplifted, I began talking about the tree swing back at the river and how best to jump off. I could see the disappointment in her eyes. She knew it wasn't there, would never be there.

I remember feeling terrible then, and I feel terrible now, thinking about it. By the time we returned to the dock, we were out of words. We sat in two wooden chairs and waited for the others, and finally, with tears in her blue eyes, she said it was time for her to go. I tried to kiss her good-bye, but she would have none of it.

I watched with concern as a patch of darkness appeared in what had been a bright blue sky, in the center of the lake, right where we
would have to paddle. Joseph and the girl finally appeared from the path, unconcerned about anyone but themselves, Joseph wearing a cocky, self-satisfied smile, she with her blouse half-unbuttoned and carrying a basket. “She got away?” he called when he noticed I was by myself. The girl laughed.

I pointed toward the sky. A bad sea was coming. “Look.”

Joseph shrugged. “You gotta drive, man. I'm beat.” The two exchanged flirty glances.

By that he meant I would take the steering seat, in the back, which was the more difficult position and which he always took.

“We can't go out there,” I said. “It's gonna get bad. Someone needs to come get us. I'll call my dad.”

“Easy, boy, easy. We'll make it with no problem. I've been through worse.”

The girl, now not so happy, chimed in. “They'll kick me out if they catch you guys here.”

I should have stayed there, I think. My dad would have come to pick us up. It was our canoe. Mom would have lectured me, maybe grounded me for a day. It wasn't my idea to paddle here in the first place. I knew what Joseph would do, though; his face told me he would tell everyone back at the river that I was a chicken; not only that but that I hadn't gotten anywhere with the girl. The chicken part would ruin whatever chance there was with Sally. Not only that, I would feel like a chicken. That's what nailed me; that feeling was about as bad it gets for a boy, one to be avoided at all costs, even risking your life.

“You're steering,” I said.

“All right,” he cheered. “Let's get going.” He moved to the canoe, edged it into the water.

I tugged on my orange vest, fastened the straps, and picked up a paddle from the sand.

“You gotta have a vest,” I said. “Get one from the shed.”

He shrugged again.

The girl got it. She rushed to the shed and returned with one in her hands.

“No way to get it back,” he said. “People will think I'm a thief.” His laugh went right along with the shrug. He turned to her, pulled her in, kissed her long and deep, let a hand drift down over her ass. He winked at me.

I took another look at the lake. The darkness was pulling together into a thick blanket, and it was deepening, so you could no longer see through it, hovering over the water. It was possible to go around it, but it would take longer, and the squall could move anyway. I debated taking the backseat myself. I would take fewer chances than Joseph. If the stern man failed, you were likely to swamp in a storm because you couldn't keep the canoe headed into the waves. My shoulders had stiffened from the paddle over, and I had taken a splinter in my right hand. We were both about six feet, but he was the stronger paddler. His attitude was the problem. He paused at the water's edge, holding the canoe in place, giving me a last chance to take the stern seat. He must be tired, to give up center stage, I thought, and that almost convinced me. But I shook my head and climbed over the edge of the canoe and settled in the front seat. I pulled my straps tight and reached for the paddle. Over my
shoulder I saw Joseph pause and look out over the water. We're not going, I thought, but in an instant he was pushing the canoe from the sand and clambering over the edge and into the seat. He raised the paddle overhead and called to the girl, who waved back, the orange life jacket clutched by her side.

A
T ONE POINT
, everybody in the room was smoking, I remember that. My parents, the two detectives, and myself. All different brands. River scar had lit a Camel, the other guy a long Chesterfield. My parents had Marlboros going. After the first cop used the silver lighter, I pulled the Zippo from my left pocket and clinked it open. His eyes tracked the Marine Corps emblem on the side, my thumb sliding over the globe.

“You want to be a Marine?”