Not My Graves, Not My Bodies

Talk to Nicely. The field is lush and green, and the smell of honeysuckle drifts on the breeze that blows across the tall grass. I lift my head and breathe deeply, taking in the floral aroma. Can you even imagine? I turn to Thomas Jefferson as we stand together in the bright sun. One day, this will all be yours, Tommy. All of this land, for as far as the eye can see. Gee, Mr. Kelly, do you really think so? I do, Tommy. I really do. Wow. He nudges me with his elbow, and I smile at the man, taking in his breeches and blouse and wig. The smell of honeysuckle shifts to a different smell, more like lilacs. But rotten lilacs, not fresh. A cloying stench that coats the back of my throat. Wind shifted. Yup. His elbow nudges me again, but harder. A lot harder. I might even go so far as to say it's a jab, not a nudge. Do you need something, Tommy? Yes, Mr. Kelly. I need you to wake up! My eyes shoot open and the lush field is gone. All I see is the outline of the ceiling fan hanging from my bedroom ceiling. Bob, wake up! I shake off the dream and roll my head to the side. I'm awake, Alice. My wife is staring at me with angry eyes. Even in the dark, I can see her simmering unkindness. Good. I've been trying to wake you up forever. She shoves my shoulder. Froggy needs to go out. As soon as she says our dog's name, the stench from my dream hits me twice as hard. I quickly realize it is definitely not lilacs, or even rotten lilacs. It's our black lab happily farting at the end of our bed. Christ. I slip out from under the covers, my feet hunting for my slippers. What did you feed him? Me? What did I feed him? Nice tried, Bob. You're the one sneaking scraps to him under the dinner table. I do not. I'm lying, because I most certainly do. Froggy is a good boy, and good boys deserve dinner scraps. Come on, boy. I stand up, grabbing my robe off the back of the chair close to my side of the bed. Let's get you outside. Froggy lifts his huge head and frowns at me. He doesn't move a muscle. Froggy, let's go. I'm a little more forceful this time, but it doesn't seem to matter. You're gonna have to pick him up. Her voice is already slowing as she drifts back to sleep. I ignore my wife's stupid suggestion and lean over Froggy, giving his hips a hard shove. Let's go, Froggy. He sighs heavily and settles deeper into the comforter. A high, thin squeak erupts from his ass. Dear Lord. I grunt as I turn my head, slide my arms under the black beast and lift him up. It's like carrying an 80-pound rag doll. I stagger out of our bedroom with Froggy in my arms, careful to make sure his slowly wagging tail doesn't knock any of the family photos off the hallway wall. When we reach the kitchen and the sliding glass door that leads out onto our three-acre backyard, I finally set Lazy Loaf down. He immediately turns back around, headed for the bedroom. No, you don't. I grab him by the tail before he can get too far. I pull him to the sliding glass door with one hand and open the door with the other. Now, out you go, Froggy. Do your business so I can go back to sleep. The dog stands there, staring into the darkness, suddenly very awake and alert. I wonder what he sees that I don't. When I look out there, all I can make out is the outline of our small black deck, the two bird baths a few yards away, and the low chain link fence that encircles half an acre of the yard. The rest is unfenced and starting to look a little wild. I keep the lawn mowed inside the fence, but the other two and a half acres are just too much to handle at my age. So I only get that part a couple times a year, if that. Froggy sniffs the air then takes off like a rocket. He hits the back fence at a full run and bounces off the chain link, tumbling his ass into the grass. Shaking himself off, he leaps up and starts racing up and down the fence, barking his head off. Bob, what's going on? Alice's shrill voice echoes down from the bedroom. Her voice is so loud that I wince and actually wonder if our closest neighbor, Vic Lamotte, can hear her bellowing. Although, I doubt that anyone can hear anything over Froggy's barking. Bob, get that dog off! I'm on it, Alice! Then I step out into the night, closing the sliding door behind me, trudge across the deck, and step down into the grass. Froggy, stop! Froggy does not stop. He continues to race up and down the fence over and over and over. Gotcha! I crow in triumph when I'm finally able to snag his collar as he makes another pass. Froggy yelps and fights me, trying to get at whatever he scented from the other side of the fence. What is it, boy? A raccoon? A possum? He may not be running the fence line anymore, but he's still barking his head off. Stop! I lean down, gently placing my hand around his snout. Froggy struggles against my grip for a moment, then relaxes. Now he's just whining instead of barking. When I stand up straight, I freeze for a moment. Hello? Squinting into the night, I swear I see someone at the very far edge of our property, standing in the tall weeds and high grass. Who's out there? The figure stands there, stalks still. This is private property. You need to leave. Froggy's whines become more urgent, and I look down, afraid he's going to start barking again. When I look back up, the figure is gone. Huh. Making sure my grip on Froggy's collar is tight, I pull him back toward the house. But just as I get to the sliding door, he squeaks out another nasty fart, and I realize he never did his business. You going to be good? He whines. That better be a yes. It is a yes, and Froggy's nose leads him to his favorite pooping spot. I avert my eyes, because that's just not what I want to see at three in the morning. And I look back across our property, no figure anywhere. Huh. The bacon is soggy, like usual. I don't know what it is with my wife and bacon, but she can't make a crispy strip to save her life. Never has. And at our age, she probably never will. Yum. I stab the floppy slice of pork with my fork, then shove it into my mouth. Chewing fast and swallowing faster is how you get soggy bacon down. What was he barking at? Who? Who? Who do you think, Bob? Froggy, last night. What was he barking at? I don't know. I shrug and stab a second piece of bacon, only three more pieces after this. God, why do I even bother? I shrug again as I talk around my mouth full of soggy pork. There may have been someone at the edge of the property. The clatter of pans fills the air. What? Someone was out there on our property? What did you do? How do you mean? I mean, what did you do? Did you tell them to get off our property? No. No? Why the hell not, Bob? Because I'm not sure anyone was actually there. It was dark, and I only saw them for a second. I saw them at all. He didn't go and look closer. Why the hell would I do that? I was dealing with Froggy, and I basically blinked, and no one was there anymore. It was probably a trick of the light. It was nighttime, Bob. It was no light to trick. The moon was out. That's not light. Light enough. Light enough? Oh, so you could see them clearly then. That's not what I'm saying. Then what are you saying? Honestly, Alice, I don't fucking know. What are we even arguing about? She stands there, hands on her hips, lips pursed, eyes narrowed. Sorry, I didn't mean to curse. You did mean to curse, but I accept your apology. Great. Do you want me to take that back and not accept your apology? I said great. I was agreeing with you. Uh-huh. Sure. I'm grateful for the silence that follows, even if it is angry silence. But the welcome silence is broken quickly as Froggy whines at the back door. You're going to let him out or what? Me? I'm eating breakfast. You're the one standing closest to the door. You're eating the breakfast I made you. The least you can do is let the damn dog out. Now who's cursing? As long as I do all the cooking and cleaning and pretty much everything around here, I'll curse as much as I want. Cooking? I lift a piece of soggy bacon and shake it in her direction. You call this cooking? This is solidified snot is what this is. Alice rushes me, grabs my plate, spins, and throws it into the sink where it shatters into 100 pieces. Shards of ceramic, butts of scrambled eggs, and strips of soggy bacon fly into the air. Froggy whines. I let him out while you clean up your mess. I glare at her as I get up and stomp to the sliding door. Mind mess? Fuck you, Bob. I laugh, a nasty laugh as I let Froggy out. He bolts toward the back fence and I decide to follow. There's nothing worth staying for in the kitchen. Just a horrible mess in more ways than one. A thoughtfully built wardrobe really comes down to pieces that mix well, last, and don't make you feel like you overpaid. 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Barking his head off, Froggy runs back and forth along the fence line, just like he did last night. I shield my eyes from the morning sun, and I swear I see someone standing at the far edge of our property again. Hey! I wave a hand over my head. Hey! Get off my property! The person ducks down, and I can just see the top of their head over the grass as they slink away. Froggy continues to bark his head off. What is going on out here? Alice stands at the sliding door, rage ready to boil over. All you had to do was let the dog out, and now he's making a racket! Can't you do anything right, Bob? Shut up and go inside, Alice. Don't you tell me to son up, you son of a bitch! Don't you tell me to shut up ever! No one tells me to shut up! Oh yeah? Well, I just did. Wanna hear it again? Shut up! Just shut the fuck up, Alice! The slap is hard and quick, and I feel the pain on my cheek before I realize what has happened. I also have Alice by the throat, and I'm squeezing with all of my strength before I know what has happened. She wheezes and struggles and slaps at my arms, and her eyes begin to bug out, and I see the fear in them, and then... Pop! Her windpipe collapses under my grip. I actually feel it break and go squish. I let go of my wife like I've been shocked by 50,000 volts of electricity. She stumbles backward, her ass hitting the wall by the door, her hands clawing at her neck. With her eyes on me, I watch her face turn beet red, then purple, then blue. Alice slowly slides down the wall, settling on her fat ass as the last bit of life leaves her body. Oh shit! I swallow hard and stare at my dead wife. My dead wife. This is not good. No. No. This is very bad. Very, very bad. Very, very, very. Froggy's barking rats its up a notch, and I spin around to see that sneaky someone standing upright at the far corner of my property, and I finally recognize them. Vic? Vic! Just how much did my next door neighbors see? He stands stock still for half a second than bolts. I've never seen the man run so fast in my life. He's usually a plotter, slowly walking down the street at an even unhurried pace. A quiet man who keeps to himself, Vic Lamotte has never been anything except for the perfect neighbor. Until now that is. Can't really call someone a perfect neighbor anymore when they witness you murder your wife in broad daylight. I sprint toward the side of my house, flipping up the gate latch. I race out of my backyard and hurry toward Vic's place. It's an acre away, and I have to put everything I've got into moving my 60 year old legs. Clancing to my right, I think I see him crossing his backyard, which is just as large as mine. I might make it. Hope gives me that extra boost I need, and I'm jogging up to his front door in no time. Luckily, just like most houses up and down our rural road, the door isn't locked. Shoving the door open, I don't wait for my eyes to adjust as I run through Vic's house, straight for the backyard. Passing through his kitchen, I see a cast iron skillet on the stove. I grab it, get to the back door, yank that open, and swing it open with all of my strength as Vic runs straight for me, unable to slow down in time. Custod! Vic's face collapses under the weight of the pan. He falls backward as his eyes roll up into his head. Crumpled in a pile of limbs, Vic goes still. Vic? No response. Hey, Vic! I nudge him with the toe of my shoe. He doesn't twitch. Bending down, I put my hand under his nose. There's a little bit of breath. He's not dead, just unconscious, and probably not doing so well. I should call 911. But there's the problem of him seeing me kill Alice, and the other problem of me breaking his face with a cast iron skillet. There's really only one thing to do, right? I lift the skillet high over my head, as Vic lets out a low groan. Sorry, Vic. I bring this skillet down hard and fast. I take Alice's car. It'll look better this way. Driving deep into Morrisby Woods, I keep my eyes peeled for other drivers, or possibly hikers or campers, but I see no one for over an hour. Once I'm so deep that I wonder if I'll ever get out, which is a weird thought to have, I pull the car over and park it next to a cluster of tall pines. The air smells sweet and fresh. I breathe it in, savoring the beauty of it all. What isn't sweet and fresh, and what I do not savor, are the bodies stuffed into the car's trunk. I pop the lid, and the stench of fresh shit hits me like a sledgehammer. Either Alice or Vic has voided their bowels, possibly both, from the stink of it. I grab out the shovel, pickaxe, and work gloves I'd thrown on top of the corpses, then walk a few feet away and take several deep breaths of good air. Holding that in my lungs, I hurry back to the trunk and grab Alice's legs. She's a hefty one, and it isn't easy getting her free of the trunk, especially since I'm not going to wrap my arms around her and try to pick her up. No way I'm gonna risk getting coated in her shit. As her body slides over the edge of the trunk and flops onto the pine needle-covered ground, I see that I made the right choice. There's a streak of wet, nasty crap on the lip of the trunk. Dragging Alice away from the car and deep into the woods, I swivel my head back and forth, hunting for the right spot. When I finally find it, I leave Alice and walk back for Vic. He is not much heavier than Alice, but he is taller, so getting his corpse free of the trunk takes him doing. Luckily, he didn't shit himself. That glory goes to Alice and to Alice alone. I drag Vic through the woods and set him next to Alice. Then I hike back to the car and gather my tools. By the time I've returned to the bodies, I'm exhausted. My legs are burning, my back hurts, and my lungs are struggling. I take a rest for a moment and sit with my back to one of the many pines that tower over us. Or tower over just me, I guess. There's really no us anymore now that Alice is dead, and Vic. I wonder what he was doing on our property. Why was he back there? I close my eyes for a moment and I see him duck down. Something about that movement triggers a memory. My eyes shoot open and I stare at the man, not quite able to grasp the image I need. What were you up to? Vic doesn't answer, of course, which is good. You always see in movies how the victims suddenly become animated and castigate their murderer. That doesn't happen. Vic is dead and only stares up at the pines with unseeing eyes, same with Alice. Alice, Alice, Alice. You brought this on yourself, dear. There is only so much a man can take, only so much shrill chastising, only so much constant nagging, only so much soggy bacon. My eyes jerk open and the woods have been plunged into twilight. Shit, I fell asleep. I hurry to my feet and stretch before I pick up the shovel and get to work. Now, one thing I have seen in the movies is that it's a good idea to take the time and dig the hole deep. I may be out in the woods, but so are a hundred feral things that will happily dig up a couple of corpses and have themselves a fine meal. So I dig and dig and dig. I put all of my strength and stamina into the job. I don't think I've cared more about anything else in my life. After I hit about three feet deep, I realized that this grave is my life. Everything hinges on me making this hole so deep that even a police search team can't find it. The sun has set long ago and my body screams at me for relief from this torture, but I keep digging and digging and digging. Finally, with the edge of the grave over my head, I stop, stabbing my shovel into the cold, moist earth. I lean on the handle and have to shake myself awake as I doze off. Keep it together, Bob. You're almost done. I look up at the edge of the grave and wince. It's not going to be an easy climb out. I throw the shovel up and out of the grave. Then I grab the pickaxe and swing it over my head, embedding the pick deep into the earth. It's awkward, but I managed to use the pickaxe to pull myself up high enough that I can get a hand up over the edge. I pull and set a shoe on top of the pickaxe, kicking off so that I'm able to scramble myself to freedom. Rolling over onto my back, I breathe the earthy air for several minutes before I finally get to my feet, stagger to the bodies and pull them to the grave. I roll Vickin first. See a neighbor? Then I roll Allison on top of him. Bye-bye, bitch. I have to rest a few minutes before I grab the shovel and get back to work. I shovel and shovel, shovel. I don't even bother to try to get that pickaxe out. It's too far down and who cares? A buried pickaxe is far from the most incriminating item in this grave. I shovel and shovel and shovel. Finally, with my phone telling me it's two in the morning, I am finished. I drag my more than exhausted ass and the shovel back to Alice's car. I leave the woods, drive through town, and instead of taking a right onto Highway 8, I take a left. This is the tricky part. I need to leave Alice's car somewhere. It will be found easily, but not too quickly. I'll have some phone calls to make in the morning, and I need to be the one controlling this narrative, not some random driver who happens to pass by. I see what I'm looking for. It's worth hard to the right, sending the car crashing through a barbed wire fence and into a cornfield. The corn is long dead, leaving only dry stocks waving about, which is perfect. Stopping the car, I double check that Alice's purse is on the passenger seat, her phone inside and off. I couldn't risk her phone pinging close to where I buried her in Vic, so I made sure it was off when I left the house. It'll fit the story I have planned. I grab the shovel, get out, look around, see no one, and hurry back to the highway. I can't leave the shovel in the car, or that will look weird and more than suspicious. So I do the only thing I can do. I walk with the shovel resting on my shoulder until I see a culvert up ahead. Scrambling down into it, I look inside a huge galvanized steel pipe that's been put here so the culvert doesn't collapse and water doesn't flood the road. I crawl into the pipe with the shovel. Once I'm halfway through, I leave the shovel and keep crawling, coming out of the other end in no time. I pray that the shovel is hidden enough. Once back on the road, I have to use all of my willpower to keep my legs moving. All I wanna do is lie down and curl up into a ball so I can sleep for a century and put all this behind me. But that is not an option right now. My only option is to keep moving, and I hope I don't come across anyone. You know my town and this area like the back of my hand, so it's not hard to stick to the back roads and avoid being spotted. There are a few close calls as early rising farmers start to appear from their homes, walking toward barns or toward waiting half ton pickup trucks that idle in the cold morning air. My phone tells me it's 545, and the horizon tells me the same as the deep blue of night slowly becomes a dull pink. 10 minutes later, I'm slipping into my garage and slipping out of my dirty clothes. I don't even go inside. I just toss the clothes into the washer and wait for them to be done. Then I toss them into the dryer and head inside to get showered off. It's seven in the morning when I make coffee and also make a phone call I've been dreading. Hello? Yes. I need to report a missing person. My wife never came home last night. Sipping my coffee. I dry my eyes and try to smile at the officer sitting across from me at my kitchen table. I don't know, ma'am. We had that fight. I said a few things I wish I hadn't, and she stormed out of the house. And you tried to call her? Repeatedly. May I see your phone? Of course, officer. I pull my phone out of my pocket and unlock it, showing her my call log. Yes, I did think to call her phone yesterday after I got back from killing Vic. I called her again after I loaded their bodies into the trunk, called again as I was driving toward the woods. I even drove around looking for her. I have to say that, knowing they'll look at my GPS. We'll check that. The officer studies the notes she's already taken. Did you and your wife fight often? Froggy starts barking from the backyard. I better check on him. I say and stand up. He's contained inside the fence, yes? Yeah, but I should go see what he's barking at. It's probably the search dogs. The what? Search dogs. She sighs and closes her small notebook. You watch TV and movies, right? Yes, of course. Then you've probably heard it a hundred times that the first suspect when a wife goes missing is always the husband. Yeah, I've heard that. I frown. So what does that have to do with search dogs? It's just easier to bring them onto a scene and let them sniff around. Sniff around? For what? A body. Body? Why would there be a body on my property? You'd be surprised how many husbands snap and kill their wives. Didn't think it's a good idea to bury the body in the backyard. People do that all the damn time. There's a knock on the glass. The back door slides open and a different officer peeks in. Hey, can you bring your dog inside, please? No problem. I get up and squeeze past him. Froggy, come on, boy. Inside now. Thanks. We've got our dog searching the back part of your lot now. But we'll want to have them sniff around inside the fence, too. I totally understand. Froggy is racing back and forth on the fence line, of course. So I have to trudge out into the yard and grab him by the collar in order to drag him inside. Once back in my kitchen, I fill Froggy's food dish, then sit back down with the officer. OK, what's next? Do I print flyers, go on TV and ask for help, start to go fund me? No, Mr. Kelly, you don't need to do any of that. This is a missing person's case, yes. But we need to wait another 24 hours at least before we go wide with this. What does that mean? Go wide? Before we put her name through the system and alert other agencies. For now, our officers will keep an eye out. Have you called her friends? Maybe she went to stay with someone after your fight. No, no. We don't have any friends close by. Relatives? A sibling, perhaps? She has a sister in Akron. I'll need her number. Have you called her? No, sorry. Alice's sister and I don't get along. So I didn't even think of that. Family is tough. I get it. There are several sharp barks from outside. The officer stiffens, her head cocked. The barks sound again. Will you excuse me for a moment? Sure. Is something wrong? That's what I'm going to find out. I'll be right back. She steps out of the kitchen and onto the back deck. I get up and go to the sliding glass door, watching as she crosses my yard, meeting one of the canine officers at the fence line. They talk for a minute, then both look directly at me. My instinct is to flinch away, but I hold up a hand and wave instead. The officers don't wave back. Beyond them, I see two other canine officers with their dogs at the back of my property. They are moving hurriedly, shouting to each other. Then I see even more officers come from around my house, jogging toward the canine teams. The two officers at the fence line stop talking, and the one who has been interviewing me stalks toward the house. And stalk is the right word, because I notice how her hand goes to her sidearm when she steps up onto the deck. I slide open the back door, meeting her there. What's going on? Can you come with me, Mr. Kelly? Her hand is still on her sidearm. I glance at it. She sees me glance at it. Now, sir. Yes, sure. Where are we going? Just come with me, please. She takes me by the arm, leading me across the deck and out into my yard. When we reach the back fence, she opens the small gate we have there and continues leading me across my acreage, steering me toward where the canine units and the rest of the officers are milling around. When we finally get to the group, all eyes are either on me or on something on the ground. The officer leads me to that something, and I gasp. A grave. It's that easy to identify by the shape of it. Also, one of the dogs has dug up part of it, and a bone white hand rests in the dirt. When I look up and down the edge of my property, my legs go weak. More graves, rows of them. They are hidden by the tall grass and weeds. But now that I'm out here, they're easy to make out. Care to explain this? Their eyes are cold and cruel. Mr. Kelly, anything you'd like to say? I want my lawyer. But that's what I say out loud. What I say in my head is, so this is what you were doing on my property, eh, Vic? You fucking asshole. I curse the man over and over as cuffs are locked around my wrists, and I'm guided out front to the row of police cruisers. I'm going to take a little glance over at Vic's house. You think you know your neighbors.