The Drowning Game Read online

  “Petty,” Sheriff Bloch said.

  I stopped in the hall, feeling even more violated with them so close to my personal items and underwear.

  “Yes?”

  “Is this your bedroom?”

  I nodded.

  Sheriff and deputy made eye contact. The coroner paused at the top of the stairs to listen in. This was what my dad had always talked about—­the judgment of busybody outsiders, their belief that somehow they needed to have a say in the lives of ­people they’d never even met and knew nothing about.

  The three men seemed to expect me to say something, but I was tired of talking. Since I’d never done much of it, I’d had no idea how exhausting it was.

  The deputy said, “Why are there six dead bolts on the outside of your door?”

  It was none of his business, but I had nothing to be ashamed of.

  “So Dad could lock me in, of course.”

  Chapter 2

  THE MEN ALL exchanged glances again.

  “As . . . punishment?” the sheriff said.

  I sighed, weary. “For my protection.”

  “When did your father lock you in your room?”

  “Every night since I was three,” I said, and went downstairs.

  While the men in Dad’s room finished up, I gazed between the steel bars welded over one of the west-­facing living room windows and watched dusk settle over the greening Kansas landscape. On a clear, early spring day like this the horizon seemed thirty or more miles away, nothing between me and it but cloudless sky and rolling prairie, patches of foxtail millet, goosegrass, yellow fawn lilies and blue phlox, black and brown beef cattle, and our family of five tall, sprawling oak trees, which were starting to sprout leaves.

  I learned early not to praise the beauty I saw around me. Dad liked to show me how the pretty surface of things in this world always hid ugliness. For instance, the Star of Bethlehem flowers that grow like crazy by the side of the road are poisonous. And those oak trees. In the summertime they’re robed in hundreds of succulent, transparent-­green leaves that clap politely in the breezes like spectators at a golf match. In the fall they turn Creamsicle orange with brilliant red edges. But when the bitter winter winds strip the leaves away, you see what the trees are really made of: sinister, granite-­hard bark, angry-­looking and full of vengeance for having to endure the deranged Kansas weather, those extremes of heat, cold, and humidity, the relentless wind, the sleet, the lightning.

  Out here in northwest Niobe County, there’s little that dares stand in weather’s way, to talk it down off the ledge of its rage—­no trees except the five brave oaks, no other buildings. The nearest town, the one our junk mail comes to, is called Saw Pole and is fifteen miles away. Weather has peeled the paint from our house, the only one for thirteen miles in every direction, leaving the wood siding bleached gray, the color of bird crap. Memory snapshots from when I was three tell me the house was butter yellow at the time we moved here from Detroit. Now, you can still see fragments of color, remnants of someone else’s life, someone who raised flowers and watered a lawn and planted crops.

  Watching out that window occupied me until the crowd began to thin—­first the firemen departed, then the paramedics, the police, and finally the coroner and his minions pushing Dad’s black-­bagged body out on a gurney. Randy King was the last one there, still standing against the wall in the living room. Something about him, that pose, made me think of Curly in Of Mice and Men.

  “If you want to go up and pick out a suit for your daddy to be buried in, I’ll take it on over to the mortuary,” he said from under the hat. I was glad I didn’t have to look at those pinprick pupils of his.

  I went up the stairs and stopped in front of Dad’s bedroom door. It was as if there was electric fencing keeping me from going in, powered by my dad’s glare. But I didn’t have time to psych myself up. The sooner I got the clothes, the sooner I could get this last person out of the house, and the closer I would be to having the house to myself, doing whatever I wanted, for the first time ever.

  I’d never been in Dad’s closet, of course. I pulled on the string attached to the ceiling bulb but nothing happened. The light probably hadn’t worked for years. Out in his room was a large flashlight. I switched it on and headed back into the closet. The wide beam threw light on several pairs of faded jeans, a lot of camo wear, and a few collared shirts.

  These had belonged to the only other person I’d ever really known, and suddenly I was terrified. The flashlight slid from my grip as a scream built in my chest. I covered my mouth with both hands to prevent it from escaping and stumbled forward into his clothes, which caught me with empty arms. I sank to the floor crying silent tears. Bottomless grief threatened to smother me. On my knees, I pressed the fabric to my face and inhaled, the faint scent bringing back Dad almost in full form and life. But he was gone, and I was alone.

  Then I heard careful footsteps climbing stairs. From the hollowness of the sound, I knew someone was coming up from the basement. The steps were hesitant, and I realized the person was trying not to make any noise. I froze, listening. The feet were now on the main floor, walking toward the front door. I catwalked to the top of the stairs and saw Randy King holding a large cardboard box with the letters M R written on it in black Magic Marker. On top of that was Dad’s laptop with its L-­shaped dent.

  But what was in the box? And where was Randy taking it and the laptop?

  I tiptoed back into Dad’s room and watched out the window as Randy carried the box and computer to his truck. He put them in the front seat and headed back toward the house.

  Once back inside, he called, “Petty? You all right up there?”

  I heard booted feet—­decisive and confident this time—­mount the stairs. I ran into the closet and pulled out Dad’s three-­piece suit. No way would I be trapped in a bedroom with this guy, who’d come into my house and removed things without my permission, who seemed to believe that he belonged here. He didn’t. I didn’t know him at all, but his presence, which felt like a sickness, seemed to take up a lot more space than it should have. I got out of the room as Randy was about to enter it and thrust the clothes at him. He took them wordlessly, turned and started down the stairs.

  “You don’t need to worry about funeral arrangements,” he said. “Your dad left instructions with me.”

  Worrying about funeral arrangements hadn’t occurred to me, but I nodded at the back of his descending head. At the bottom of the stairs, Randy turned and slid his hat back on. “You gonna be all right? You want me to stay with you tonight?”

  I was so shocked by the question I couldn’t respond. I just stared dumbly.

  He shook his head and smiled a little. “Suit yourself,” he said, and walked out the front door. Through the screen I heard him say, “Sorry for your loss.”

  Once I heard the truck start up, I went down to the living room and watched out the front window as he drove away.

  And then it hit me.

  I had no one to lock me in my room. Why hadn’t I thought to ask one of them to lock me in? They probably wouldn’t have. But how would I sleep?

  Dad had left instructions for Randy King. Why hadn’t he left any for me? I was the one who needed them.

  One of the dogs gave a sharp yip from the garage. I’d forgotten all about them, and they probably needed to go outside and do their business. I was grateful for something to do.

  Out in the garage, I raised the door and they ran for it, making a fast trotting check of the perimeter of the property. Dad had taught them to do that before they did anything else. After their tour, they relieved themselves and sat panting in front of me, waiting for orders or to be released to patrol.

  I gave the hand signal to heel and walked into the garage with them following, lowered the door and locked it. Then I opened the door from the garage into the house, and they alternately studied each
other and me, trying to understand what I wanted. I signaled for them to follow me into the house. Dad wouldn’t like it, but he wasn’t here. If I couldn’t be locked in my room, this was the next best thing.

  They danced uncertainly at the threshold, remembering well what Dad had taught them about going in the house, which was not to do it unless a stranger was attacking me or him. I dropped to a squat and scratched their ears.

  “You’re going to come in the house,” I told them. “It’s okay. I’m the alpha now.” I walked through the door, turned and faced them, and signaled “come.” They danced and whined.

  “Come,” I said.

  It took five tries, but they finally tiptoed into the house, glancing at each other guiltily. I hoped this wouldn’t ruin their training. I signaled for them to follow me into the TV room. They did, and sat. I released them, hoping they’d explore the house and get used to the idea of being inside. After a while they ventured out of the room, Sarx going left, Tesla right, like they’d been trained to do.

  I sat on the couch and picked up the remote. Every sound was amplified—­the dogs’ panting, the prairie wind outside, my gurgling stomach—­which made me want to crawl out of my own skin. I turned on the TV and surfed until I found an Offender NYC marathon. The dogs returned, then stood and stared at me, waiting for a command.

  “Lie down,” I said. They did.

  THE NEXT THING I knew I was drowning in the bathtub.

  I wanted to breathe, but I couldn’t because I was underwater, on my back staring at the misshapen, shifting bathroom ceiling. I tried to break the surface, but it was as if I was chained to the bottom.

  But I wasn’t chained. I didn’t see it before, but someone was holding me underwater. I couldn’t quite make out the face, but I knew it was a man and he was pushing down on me with huge hands, trying to make me inhale. Talking to me, saying something I couldn’t quite make out from beneath the water. The bridge of my nose burned and everything went gray, so I knew I wouldn’t be conscious for much longer. Death was coming for me.

  I’VE HAD THIS recurring dream for as long as I can remember. It made sense I’d dream it the night my dad died. I always wake up from it gasping for air, like I’ve actually been held underwater. As I surface from sleep, I can feel the heavy water sliding off me, down the hollows of my face. My eyes sting and my lungs can’t expand enough to take in the oxygen I need, although I’m in no true danger. It was only a dream. But even as the nightmare fades, the irresistible force of the dream tugs on my every cell, dragging me downward into a spiral that will never end, circling the drain for all eternity.

  Drowning. This is my biggest fear. You’d think it would be fire, since that’s what killed my mom when I was three. But it’s water. I can’t take baths, only showers. I can’t even stopper the kitchen sink and fill it, because I feel that weight bearing down on me, pushing my face toward the water, an irresistible compulsion to submerge my head.

  The TV was still on when I woke up. Deirdre was questioning a suspect in the dingy interview room at Precinct 51 in New York City.

  Stiff didn’t even begin to describe how my body felt. I stretched and then led the dogs through the kitchen and out the back door. According to the oven clock, it was after nine A.M. I needed to get ready for work.

  Since I’d slept in my clothes, all I needed to do was get my stuff together. I used the bathroom, washed my face and combed my hair. Then I made my lunch, put Dad’s iPhone in my pocket and strapped the shotgun across my back. After locking up the house, I walked the quarter mile to the Niobe County dump.

  Inside my little guard shack where I took five dollars from ­people to dump stuff, I kept a photograph album someone had dumped a ­couple of years before.

  The photos I liked best were of the kids in snow forts and at backyard barbecues and Little League baseball games. None of the pictures were labeled, so I named the kids myself. There was Justin, the oldest, and the middle sister Madison, and the youngest boy Aidan.

  Since I never got to see many little kids or babies out at the dump, I loved to study the faces of those three little blond kids squinting at the camera, holding up fish they just caught or riding a tire swing with sprinklers running in the background.

  Dad never knew about my album, which I paged through nearly every workday. I had every image memorized so I could close my eyes and tell myself the story of that family without even looking.

  Why would someone throw away a photo album? I’d have given anything to have pictures of me as a baby, to have even one photo of my mother. All that stuff burned up with her in Detroit.

  As I sat on my stool in the booth that morning, looking out over the mountain range of trash, it dawned on me that I could take the photo album back to the house now. I could go somewhere besides my house and the dump if I could get someone to teach me to drive. Maybe I’d go into Saw Pole and eat at the diner and then visit the stores. Maybe I’d go to Salina. Maybe I’d go to New York.

  Now that Dad was gone, I could do anything I wanted.

  Chapter 3

  Thursday

  I ANSWERED THE phone before I was totally awake.

  “Dekker?”

  “Yeah,” I said, rubbing my eyes.

  “You know I wouldn’t be calling you if it wasn’t absolutely necessary.”

  I sat up. “Chad?” I must still have been asleep, because there was no way the lead singer from my ex-­band would be calling me, not after how things had ended five months ago.

  “Here’s the deal. We’re going to give you one last chance, and we wouldn’t do it if we weren’t absolutely desperate. I want you to acknowledge that.”

  “Okay,” I said, cautious. I lit a cigarette. Oma would be pissed, but these were special circumstances. No way I could take this call without tar and nicotine.

  “Tell me you acknowledge what I said.”

  “Okay,” I said, trying to keep the eye roll out of my voice. “I acknowledge.”

  “Acknowledge what?”

  “That you wouldn’t be calling if you weren’t desperate. Right. Go on. What were you saying about a second chance?”

  Chad snorted. “We’re way past second. I don’t think I can count high enough to figure out how many chances we’ve given you. This is your last chance. I want you to acknowledge that I’ve told—­”

  “All right, all right, I get it. Just get on with it, will you?”

  Chad’s voice changed, excitement leaking through the cracks of his hardline pose. “Disregard the 9 is going to open for Autopsyturvy at the Uptown in Kansas City eleven days from today on Monday the twenty-­seventh.”

  I stopped breathing. Was this a dream?

  “Hello?” Chad said.

  “I’m here,” I said. “I’m just not sure I heard you right.”

  “You heard me. See, our new, better, more dependable drummer who doesn’t steal shit from bandmates broke his wrist skiing, and we don’t have time to teach the whole set to some new guy.”

  New. Better. More dependable. Doesn’t steal shit. Each descriptor hit me like a two-­by-­four with a rusty nail in it. Especially since it was all true.

  “So it’s up to you,” Chad continued. “This is your very last chance. Ever. This is it. You either get it together and get up to Kansas City eight days from today for rehearsals, or that’s it. We’re done.”

  “I’ll be there,” I said.

  Chad clicked off.

  This changed everything.

  Because just four months before, the administration at Kansas State University had strenuously encouraged me to leave and never come back after just one semester on campus. Good thing my dad had taken off when I was in elementary school, or I’d never have heard the end of it, though the old man was a high school dropout himself. Here I’d spent three years commuting to Brown Mackie College in Salina so I could transfer to K-­State for jun
ior and senior year, and I’d blown it. I’d been delivering groceries to pay for tuition for five long years, and until thirty seconds ago I’d thought delivery boy would be my permanent vocation.

  But suddenly I was the drummer for Disregard the 9 again. Good thing I hadn’t sold my drum kit after all. But I needed to set it up in the shed and get practicing. I lay back, set my shitty flip phone down, and smoked with my eyes closed, glad to be alive for the first time in months.

  The door banged open and my grandma Oma cycloned into the room.

  I opened one eye just as she snatched the cigarette from between my lips. She dropped it into a soda can and threw the whole mess into my wastebasket.

  “Aus dem Bett holen,” she said, dashing aside the heavy curtains to reveal the anemic spring sunshine.

  “Nein,” I said.

  “Ja. We’ve got somewhere to go.” She slapped my blanket-­covered butt. I was still a six-­year-­old to her, and ever would be. My face flared.

  “I’ve asked you not to do that,” I said, rolling away from her. “It’s weird.”

  “What, waking you up at two o’clock in the afternoon? I told you. If you’re not going to go back to college, if you’re going to live here, you’re going to live by my rules. Which doesn’t include sleeping the verflucht day away.”

  She didn’t know the details of my departure from K-­State. She assumed I’d dropped out, and I let her.

  “It’s my day off,” I said, stretching. “I was up late last night. And anyway, I just got some amazing news. I’m going to—­”

  Oma yanked the sheets up, threatening to make the bed with me in it, and I knew she’d do it. Her massive, floppy upper arms swayed as she extracted the pillow from under my head.

  “Don’t be a Waschlappen,” she said. “I need you to go with me.”

  She would not be interested in my good news. She would be unimpressed, so I didn’t bother telling her. I sat up and dropped my feet to the floor, scratching my head with both hands.