by Jenny Steele
So this is how it is to be murdered, Elliot thought, and he shifted again on the cement floor, tried to lessen the pain in his wrists tightly bound in duct tape. Death through deprivation, torture. At what point does a body fail without food or water? Mechanisms of heart, brain, lungs, kidney. Maybe one organ quits and the others follow out of allegiance. Maybe the blood becomes lazy and the heart can’t coax it through the valves and pumps. Elliot had time to speculate about this, about things which had never occurred to him. His mind had become a luxury item and this was strange to him; it had been of a utilitarian bent, had classified all things as either useful or useless: truck, horse, tools versus Cadillac, jewelry, vacations. But I never judged others or if I had a moment of judgment, I hid it. What you used to be, Bill, versus what you’ve become. You never heard me criticize you, though you mocked me plenty of times. A slit of sunlight appeared under the metal shutter and Elliot watched it inch into the storage unit, then vanish. The second day. Or is it the third?
Knife, gun. Not this, Bill. Why not kill me quickly instead? A slow death was cruel punishment, it forced pondering into a man who had never needed it. Elliot thought of his father in the hospital, a man of work, not words, forced to lie in a dull bed, to lie within a body betraying him. Damn television, he would mutter. Idiot box. He hated the TV which was tuned to news or soap operas hour after hour. He would throw his lime or lemon gelatin at the TV screen, at the war in Iraq, at celebrities worried about Africa, at political scandals, at simulated sex. The nurse would scold him, The other patients enjoy it, Mr. Pick, then she would buzz the janitor. Elliot’s father would point at the TV, at hurricane victims or a field goal, and would say, Explain this to me, Dwayne. The janitor would plunge his mop into a bucket, look at the TV, and say, Ain’t nothin’ to me. Me neither, Dwayne, thanks kindly. But was it all nothing to you, Dad? What were you pondering as I wheeled you out to the hospital’s stone garden? Maybe what you had been, so virile and noble, not irritated, not furious. Maybe about chopping wood in the yard on a snowy morning or teaching me how to identify coyote, cougar, elk tracks. Or maybe about Mom, maybe she was your final thought with your final breath, as your hand slackened in my hand.
So thirsty. Only a hint of saliva; he tongued it across his teeth and up into the roof of his mouth. To die of thirst seemed incredible to Elliot, a fiction, a ballad, not true. He rolled on one thigh and up onto his knees, momentarily eased the ache in his hips. He had a moment of self-pity; it was an unnatural feeling, but it fit this situation, it fit this body with its wrists and ankles shackled with duct tape, its mouth sealed. Self-pity had never been in his character; self-pity wasn’t a ranch boy’s attitude. Things happened. It rained though the weatherman promised blue skies, gutsy horses shied at garter snakes, pet lambs became lamb chops, and women and luck were fickle. How the world works, his father had told him; you have to take it and deal with it. It was all toughness and stoicism, but here, locked in this dark storage unit, Elliot allowed himself a moment of self-pity. Damn this. Awful shit, this. No way out. And Bill’s not coming back.
Random memories now, boyhood memories of the ranch, of storms, of attempts at poetry. He wrote a poem about how a bolt of lightning resembled the war scar on his father’s cheekbone. The teacher read it out loud in class, affixed a gold star to it. What was that teacher’s name? Mrs. Cadges. Elliot wrote another poem about another storm, the atmosphere thick with electricity, how a blue-green spark traveled the length of a barbed wire fence. Another gold star. He watched Mrs. Cadges wet the star’s adhesive with the tip of her tongue. How pretty she was. He tried another poem about a cowboy who herded cattle during the day, but herded a galaxy of stars at night. But that poem failed to earn him a glimpse of the tip of Mrs. Cadges’s tongue and anyway he soon learned that ranching was never metaphorical.
A jet growled in the sky, rattled the metal shutter. The airport was only a few blocks away. But knowing where he was didn’t help him. His father had told him so often, Always know where you are, Elliot, at least that, if you’re in a dilemma. Useful advice now useless. Always. Never. How his father viewed the world, no nuance, no conditional if or maybe. Always learn a person’s name no matter who it is, bank president, grocery clerk, the kid who pumps gas. Never interrupt a fool, let that fool prove his foolishness. Never promise sweetness if you intend meanness. Always brush your teeth, always comb your hair, always practice neatness, but never get a crush on that guy in the mirror. Never blame anybody but yourself and never imitate others. Wise advice, but none of it applied here. Another jet now, its sound lacking all courtesy. Elliot had never flown anywhere, though he had always marveled at the jet trails crossing the ranch’s sky, wispy ribbons, residue of haste. He had met a stewardess once, an anxious and lonely gal. He had spent the night with her in a motel and in the morning, she pinned a pair of plastic wings to his denim jacket. He considered this flattery, though she never bothered to find him again. Bill said, She’s flighty, and this was kind of funny.
Elliot bounced on his heels. Not until now had he appreciated basic, bodily mobility. He had always craved stillness after a day of hard work, had welcomed any chair. But now he thought, Yes, I should have danced with Bill’s Connie, should have learned how to boot-scoot with her instead of sitting at the bar and only watching her in the crowd. He had worn these same boots he was wearing now, these silly, fancy boots, ostrich skin with elaborate stitching, not work boots, but Connie said they were sexy and so he splurged. And now he was in trouble, locked in this place to die.
Why not use a gun, Bill? Out of your gun collection, Bill. One of those expensive rifles or pistols. Why not a bullet into my heart or my brain? A merciful kill. Then bury this body on the ranch, under that oak tree in the northeastern quadrant, next to Dad. If that cordial idea drifts into your mind, Bill. No casket needed, no stone either. Dad had no use for those things. Let me lie in the earth, unmarked, unmourned. And what becomes of the ranch? No heirs to inherit it. It’ll be a subdivision, no doubt. Uproot the oak, bulldoze the bones, level the land, pave it, build houses on it, a country club. I don’t care what happens. The land is meaningless without us.
A knife, Bill. A kitchen knife, a hunting knife, a bowie knife, a jackknife, a switchblade, a sword, a scimitar. Stab, slice. A merciful method. Or would that be too messy? Blood on your satin shirt. But blood has never bothered you. Remember when we were boys. Remember elk hunts. Only us, the forest, that flask of scotch. Stealth and purity. The shot, the thump, the echoes of the shot, the thump. Your triumphant grin. You crouched at the elk and gutted it, used that handsome knife with the carved ivory grip. Kneeling in elk blood. Blood a thrill, not an issue. Remember that one elk? Its beautiful rack of antlers. Your mother cooked elk roast and peach pie, invited me and Dad. How lucky we were. We were all convinced of the world’s envy. And our fathers digested on the porch and sipped scotch and discussed the weather or the price of gasoline. Your mother hummed morbid hymns and scoured pots and pans. You and I played dominoes. That’s when you were Billy, not Bill. That’s when you were a ranch boy, not this slick guy in a white Cadillac with red leather upholstery. Applause, fancy suites in casino hotels, a rodeo queen. I’m a V.I.P., Elliot. And I was duly impressed with you. I was dazzled, but not tempted to try rodeo myself. Too noisy, too flashy. You ridiculed my love of simple ways. But wasn’t I the only person you could count on? Remember when you fractured your pelvis? I was there in the hospital room, you were in a morphine daze and you admitted to it, You’re my only friend, Elliot. Until Connie. She cares about you, Bill. That’s genuine. We deceived you, yes. But we tried not to hurt you. It’s my fault. All of it is my fault.
Thirst, thirst. The memory of water. Icy cold water scooped out of a brook in an enamel cup. The good, hard taste of the ranch’s well water out of a garden hose. That fancy, French mineral water in blue bottles that Connie always bought. A sip, a gulp. This was madness. Don’t think about it, Elliot. Nausea boiled in his gut and he wretched. The memory of that meaty pizza. Pizza Hut pizza. Pizza Hut, where he followed us, Connie. Not too stealthy in that Cadillac, was he? No scene, no drama. He slid into the booth next to me. He didn’t look at you. Couldn’t, maybe. He looked at the framed, black and white photo hanging on the wall next to the booth. A canal in Venice, a gondola, a happy couple kissing, the gondolier aloof. Bill stank of cologne. I focused on his copper bracelet. I couldn’t look at you. Bill exhaled, So.
Elliot shook himself roughly. Dizziness almost toppled him. He heard voices now. Noises. Inside my head? No. In the next storage unit. He scooted on his knees, smashed his ear against the cinder block wall. A man’s voice. Careful with that, Ian, that’s a Tiffany. Another man’s voice, I dated a girl named Tiffany once. Please do not share the details of your romance, Ian. Elliot tried to cry out to them, but could only force a throaty moan. He tried again, Help me!, but his vocal cords were useless. How to get their attention? He knocked his head against the wall. He cut his eyebrow and blood trickled out of it. Funny how terrific this feels, Dale, you know, the rush of it. Cool it, Ian, okay? Now hand me that Indian blanket. Technically, it’s a rug. Yes, whatever. Here. Thanks. Scrape, shift, then the clatter of the metal shutter, the clap of the padlock. Elliot tried to crawl to the shutter of this unit, this cell. Maybe he could kick it. It was so immediate, but too distant to reach. Exhaustion, dizziness. Elliot slumped and fainted.
He dreamed of Sunday school. Sitting in a circle on cushions under a mural of meek Jesus and a lamb. Itching in our polyester suits with clip-on neckties. Kids reeking of milk and soap. Warnings about temptations. A list of Don’ts. That picture book with the Devil in it, horns, hooves, a forked tail, a pitchfork, a goatee, and a bad sunburn. We shrugged at the idea of Hell. Our fathers were skeptical too and they were not dumb men. Church was our mothers’ idea. They prayed and there was always grace at the table. Our fathers had no need of God. They believed in God’s existence, but after the war, they rejected Him. God abandoned me, Elliot, in that jungle. God disgusts me. God’s a coward. God isn’t worth trusting. Why didn’t God stop that bullet, Elliot? The bullet that killed my only buddy. An Iowa farm boy. Only a private. Innocent. Kept his sweetheart’s photo in his wallet. I held his hand as he died. You’re named after him, Elliot. Never forget that. Elliot. Elliot awoke with his name in his mouth. The name of an innocent farm boy. Maybe your final thought was of Elliot as your hand slackened in my hand.
Elliot had bruised his chin when he fainted and he had pissed himself again, but he had never been so glad to be constipated. His whole body hurt. He had known pain, of course. Muscle and joint pain, but it was the pain of good and gratifying work, fixing a fence or a trough, birthing a calf, shoeing King or Opal. It wasn’t this kind of pain. Undeserved. I apologized, didn’t I, Bill? After Connie grabbed her purse and hurried out to her Mazda and we sat there in that booth. What should happen now, Elliot? And I apologized. You think I’m a moron, Elliot? And I apologized. But you continued, You always were smarter, Elliot, you always got stars and kisses in school, but so what, big deal, I’ve got another kind of smarts, I’ve got people smarts, I’m a human polygraph. I breathed that awful cologne and I promised to avoid Connie. You took advantage of her, Elliot. No, Bill, I swear. She called me one night, Bill. You were in El Paso. Okay, yes, I could have told her I was busy, but she’s my friend too, right? So I drove into town and we met at Saddles. She was worried about you. She had this idea that maybe I could help her convince you to quit the rodeo circuit. He’s got all these metal pins and plates, he’ll soon need a welder instead of a surgeon. She looked so sad. We sat there at the bar. You know that long bar fashioned out of those planks with brands burned into them?
Rocking K, Lazy B. It was so damned noisy in that place. She had to lean close to me. He can’t function all the time, Elliot. And she put her hand on my thigh and it was obvious what she meant. So, yes, we spent the night together at the ranch. Things happen, Bill. She had a copy of the rodeo schedule and that became my schedule too. We never wanted to hurt you. I’m sorry, okay? Truly sorry. But why this, Bill? Why not punch me instead? Blacken my eye, bust my jaw, knock out my teeth. Sever our friendship. The Pizza Hut waitress put the check on the table and you laid a fifty next to it. That was generous, Bill. And then we were in the Cadillac and there were rolls of duct tape and a padlock in the front seat. You’re a brute, Bill. Always huskier than me. I had no chance. Now you’re in Reno. The world championships. Maybe you’re on a bull right now. You fall and the crowd applauds. You win, Bill, you always win.
He thought of Connie. A tough, savvy gal. Trim and freckled. Honey-brown hair in a ponytail or free and styled so nicely. Rodeo queen, but no tiara, a white cowboy hat instead. Cantering around the dirt arena on that milky-white pony. Almost poetic. Bill introduced her to Elliot and claimed this was not another trivial fling. I’m crazy about her, Elliot. Never thought I’d be so lucky. Elliot found her attractive, but he cast no lusty glance at her, not at first. She was Bill’s and obviously so. But when she rode that white pony, she was all fluidity and grace, and Elliot began to neglect a girl he had taken out, a silly, scrawny thing who worked at a pharmacy. Then Bill phoned one Friday, We’re tying the knot and we need a witness. Elliot unpacked an old suit of his father’s, a black, all-purpose suit, and he wore it wrinkled and stinking of mothballs to the chapel the next morning. Bill wore a fine brown suit and polished boots and a giant belt buckle. Connie was in a plain white skirt and blouse, a red silk kerchief and red pumps. The brief ceremony was oddly solemn and Bill listened to the pastor’s words about loving, honoring, cherishing, and he nodded as if these were conditions in a bargain he could accept. They had dinner afterwards at Bill’s favorite steakhouse. Unlike that almost forgotten pharmacy girl, Connie wasn’t afraid of food. She ate a porterhouse and a mound of mashed potatoes and three slices of Texas toast and a double scoop sundae with chocolate syrup and Elliot thought this was wonderful. Then the newlyweds drove to the airport to catch their flight to the Acapulco honeymoon. Have fun! You bet we will. Wink. Thanks, Elliot. Bye.
Thirst and jets. Thirst and jets. Jets, jets, jets. Honeymoon destinations, no doubt. Mexico, Hawaii. Bill is denying me the possibility of this, robbing me of this. I would have found a woman to marry. Of course. Wife and kids. Inevitable, logical. Did you consider this, Bill? When you pinned me in that alley and taped me up and lifted me into the trunk of that ridiculous Cadillac? You’re not a tender-hearted man. Hard to believe, but that’s what Connie liked about you. I don’t need flowers, Elliot. You were not a tender-hearted boy either. Slit the throat of that pet lamb. I flinched, but you never hesitated. His father’s comment, How the world works, Elliot. Our country’s getting soft and weak. People at desks? I ain’t got nothin’ but pity and contempt for those folks. And he took Elliot’s knife, wiped the blade on his pants.
Knife, Bill. Axe, hatchet, tomahawk. Or strangle me with a rope, a belt, a lasso. Or how about poison? Rat poison, weedkiller, carbon monoxide. Force me to swallow a cup of gasoline or bleach. Shove me in front of a train, a bus, a tractor trailer on I-40. Tie me up in a burlap sack and drop me in a river, an ocean, a lake, a pond, a pool. I’ve heard that drowning isn’t so bad. Or use your bare hands, Bill. Any other method.
He had fainted again or maybe only fallen asleep. The air in the storage unit was stale and it recycled through him, kept him drowsy. It was night now, he guessed. Not a hint of light. He lay on one side and that side was entirely numb. He kicked his legs and pain flashed up his spine, up into his skull. Bright gold stars, a galaxy of them. But no sky here, that metal shutter slammed shut, securely locked. But I’ll be found. The lease will expire, they’ll break the padlock, they’ll find this rotting corpse, they’ll dial 911. The police will arrest you, Bill. You’ll be on the local news, but not as a rodeo hero. You’re a conceited moron. Or maybe you used a fake I.D. to rent this? You’ll get caught anyway. You’ll be locked in a cell, you’ll rot too. Parallel fate. Ain’t nothin’ to me. And Connie will forget you. Bastard. Prick.
Had he fainted again? He dreamed of a set of plaid suitcases hurled into the back of the station wagon. Was ranching too hard, too tedious? Why couldn’t you keep Mom, Dad? Plead with her, woo her? And you never bothered to find out why she went away. I visited her in her city apartment. She was an appliance saleswoman. I met her boyfriend, he sold appliances too, had a facial tic and a booming laugh. Then Elliot stopped visiting his mother, a correct decision, though it puzzled him why there was no pain in this. Did you feel pain, Dad? When you unhooked the lace curtains in the kitchen? When you threw away those frilly throw pillows and the quilted tea cozy? The slow erasure of all things feminine in the house.
Jets, jets. Horrible thirst. Under that oak tree, Elliot. In the northeastern quadrant. Yes, Dad, of course. Cool and shady. Elliot carried out that promise. Paperwork at Saint Vincent’s and frowns. This is not the usual procedure, Mr. Pick. But his father’s body was legally his. He constructed a pine casket and delivered it to the hospital. He took a hammer and a pocket of nails and he banged the coffin shut after the mortician and a nurse put his father’s body in it. The janitor, Dwayne, helped Elliot load the casket into the truck bed. Bill was waiting at the ranch, had shoveled out a grave under the oak. They pried the lid of the casket, lifted Elliot’s father out, laid him in the earth. Thanks, Bill. Elliot sawed the pine casket into firewood, burned it that night, listened to the wood’s knots pop in the heat. Please come back to get me, Billy. Bury me next to Dad. Please. Death seeped into Elliot now, a fantastic solace. He pictured himself and his father and his father’s dead buddy, that innocent private, in a gondola, and a shadowy figure paddled them through a darkening canal.
