Real Bad Things(6)

“You owe the store three dollars for that superglue,” she said after taking a moment to remember what they were talking about.

Bollinger laughed. “I own this store.”

“I own inventory,” she said, annoyed at the interruption of the book she wanted to return to. “And you should set a better example. You don’t want the kids up front thinking it’s okay to steal, do you?” Billie and Cassidy, a couple of rich white teenagers, had gotten their jobs because their daddies golfed with Bollinger. Irritations lined every minute of her day. “I’ll cover the superglue so it doesn’t screw up the count. You can drop off what you owe anytime.”

He’d never pay. He treated the pharmacy like his own personal stock. Not bothering to mention to her the things he took, messing up the inventory and people’s lives. She’d accidentally fired a girl for stealing only to discover Bollinger was to blame. Georgia Lee still felt just awful about it.

But she wasn’t about to let him think that she didn’t keep a running tally of his infractions. She set her sights on the back office, where she’d wanted to read until closing.

She sensed him behind her, greasing his gears with bad news or an inappropriate comment.

“Wild story from the lock and dam, ain’t it?”

Her heart raced in response to those words. There was no way to avoid the bridge if she required a touch of civilization up in Maud Proper. But every time she drove across the lock and dam—even now, thinking of that drive—her body temperature plunged, and she struggled to breathe, coughed on her own saliva, told herself to ignore the fear. Go. Go. Go.

Georgia Lee clutched a shelf. “What?”

“Did you hear the news?” He stared at her. “Did you hear about—”

“I heard you the first time,” she said and focused on straightening the crossword puzzle magazines to steady her nerves. “I haven’t had time to catch up on the news. I have a job. Two, to be precise.” Ever since he had announced his election bid, she’d tried in vain to scare him with reminders that a council position required actual work, what with meetings and email newsletters and documentation review.

“Hoo boy, have I got some dirt for you then.” Before she could interrupt him, he said, “They found a body at the dam when they were doing cleanup.”

“A body?”

“Well, bones, more like it. You remember that guy that went missing?”

“Which one?” There had been several over the years. Capsized and carried away with a current. Theirs was no lazy river, no floating or swimming river. The Arkansas River could kill you. But Maud’s citizens didn’t like facts, they liked fun. So they blamed any and all accidents on a bogeyman instead.

“The famous one. You know, back in high school. What was his name? Anyway,” he continued when she didn’t answer, “somehow old what’s-his-name ended up in the lock chamber. Finally found him after the waters receded.”

Her face heated as the words finally plugged in to her memory and booted up a name: Warren Ingram.

Jane confessed to his murder. The words popped into her head unbidden. Jane. Jane Mooney confessed to Warren Ingram’s murder. Jane’s face fuzzed in Georgia Lee’s recollection, despite them having once been so close. The whole of their acquaintance a dream, a figment of her too-vivid imagination.

A hit of dizziness forced her to grip the shelf again. She stood still, blinked several times. Composed herself. Almost smiled, but thought better of it.

That was all wrong. Surprise. A hand to the chest.

Better.

“My goodness,” she said. My fault. The images returned. My blood. She cleared her throat. Regrouped. “Yes, I remember. They suspected he drowned like the others. Makes sense someone would turn up. We haven’t seen a flood like that in years, what with the water running high and fast—”

“Mmm. Climate change.” He’d denied its existence six months prior. “I guess they talked to the wife and confirmed it.”

The wife. Diane Ingram. Jane’s mother.

Names and associations flung around her mind. She closed her eyes and swallowed. Swallow it down. Whatever this is.

Breathe.

“I haven’t heard a word about this on the news,” she said. “Where’d you get this information?” Someone was sharing confidential things with Bollinger, things they used to share with her.

“Guess it pays to play golf with the chief of police.” If they were in a movie, he would’ve twirled his mustache and a star would have twinkled off his fake incisor.

She wouldn’t know. John hadn’t invited her to golf. She could swing just as well as Bollinger. Better. Hit him right in the head.

Her mind tunneled to the past with remembrances of a stormy sky, a headache that portended rain, the rush of the river. Warren on the ground, splayed like one of those chalk outlines, only without the chalk and before they took away the body. Blood on his head. A rock in her hand.

And one question on her mind: What did the others remember about that night?





Three

JANE

Nothing grand had occasioned the name change from Maud Bottoms Trailer Park to Maud Bottoms Estates. The laundromat still sat at the entrance to the neighborhood with the same cracked window that had been repaired with masking tape year after year. The management office door still held a laminated sign warning folks not to drop by but to CALL FIRST!, followed by a reminder about the consequences of not paying rent on time: ONE STRIKE YOU’RE OUT! Maud Bottom Feeders—the moniker citizens in this part of Maud clung to happily—still pulled the curtains wide and without discretion to investigate strangers like Jane walking along the road. They still sat on porches and spit to the side when she rolled by with her luggage.