Hank was dead before I hit him with the shovel the second time. The first was enough to crush his skull. It was a very good shovel, made of steel and wood. I used to have dreams about it lying under my bed, unable to tell the black shovel from the darkness of the night.
It was heavier than a wooden shovel but I’d played baseball all summer. I could lift it easily. I don’t think Hank knew that about me before.
I kept hitting him until blood and gore covered me, warming my face and hands in the cold dark. An owl hooted nearby.
I kept hitting him. My arms grew sore. My fingers froze.
I propped the shovel up against the backdoor. It was a very good shovel, it deserved care. But I didn’t have the energy to clean it. I pressed my face against the wood of the door, leaving red imprints. My breath came out in white puffs.
Alaina was in the kitchen, making eggs. They were good eggs that came in packaging that said “organic” and “free range”. Maybe the lack of cruelty made eggs taste better, like it was some sort of freedom seasoning. I can’t tell the difference.
I sat at the table, dripping blood onto the floor and the white tablecloth. It ate at the whiteness, slowly covering the surface as the still wet substance spread.
Alaina was pristine in her apron. It had a picture of a windmill on it, one of those old school Dutch ones surrounded by tulips. My grandmother, Fenn, had immigrated from there and had taught her recipes that I’d never bothered to learn. No time for it now. No time for anything anymore.
She slid a plate with an omelet on it over to me. It looked soft and fluffy. I poked it and found the runny center. Just how I liked it.
“He’s gone then,” she said.
I took a bite while the food was still warm. I chewed slowly, tasting blood and salt. I closed my eyes. It was so good. I hadn’t realized how hungry I was, how my belly craved the warm.
“Remember that dog I had when I was twelve? The rat terrier with the black paws,” I asked.
She turned away and started to wash dishes. I saw her hands tremble as she scrubbed.
“Pinky,” she said. “Such an odd little dog. You found it on the train tracks, limping. Those devil boys had shot her with bb guns for fun.”
I smiled. “I found them later. They had this clubhouse they’d built in the forest. Me and Shirley burned it down and hit them with some wooden sticks until they swore they’d never hurt an animal again.”
Her mother sighed. “I told them boys’ mothers that my daughter Zoë would do no such thing.”
“Guess you were wrong,” I said. I looked down at the table. Hank had made it out of a big piece of oak. I’d seen him sanding it and polishing it in the garage. It was beautiful.
“He killed old Pinky,” I said. “Said she howled too much. Said she was too dirty. Said it wasn’t proper to have such a tiny dog in the house. Big man.”
I’d buried that mutt in the backyard, near the giant redwood outside my window. I hadn’t put a marker on it, he’d have only kicked it over.
Alaina gripped the edge of the sink, her hands were white from the strength she was using.
“You didn’t kill him over no dog.”
“Shirley is never coming back,” I said. “After she got out of the hospital her papa told me they were heading to Florida. He said there ain’t no justice in this town for a black girl.”
“They never proved any of that, Zoë. She never saw who assaulted her. It could have been anyone.”
I knew my mother didn’t believe that. My daddy and a few of his friends had been raping girls in the area for years. His friends had money and clout so they got away with it. Hank always got away with it.
I couldn’t make myself confront her, not with her back turned. Not with her voice and her shoulders shaking like an earthquake.
I gripped the fork so hard it hurt my hand. I imagined going upstairs and finding my father’s shotgun. I imagined loading it with shells from the nightstand. I’d use it while her back was turned, just like that. Then I’d turn it around.
She lied to herself all the time. She lied to me too. I couldn’t stand it.
I stared down at that runny omelet. She’d used the sharp cheddar too. She knew I hated any other kind.
“I wrote a letter for Shirley. Could you mail it for me, mama? Her church should have her new address. Reverend Holmes is who you should ask.”
My mother’s shoulders shook. “I’ll do that,” she said.
She didn’t say anything else. She never turned around. This might be the last time she’d see me and she never turned around.
I went up to my room and took a shower until the water wasn’t red anymore. I wiped the steam from the mirror. My eyes were still red. My face was black and swollen, my right eye nearly shut. I took a handful of Tylenol with a palmful of water.
I changed into a pair of soft pajamas with llamas on them and got into bed, pulling the covers over me. I could see the trees outside my window, swaying in the breeze.
They’d be along soon, knocking on our door.
She was down there calling them now. She wouldn’t check on the body, she wouldn’t check to see if he was still alive or if he needed help.
I closed my eyes but I could still see the trees, tall and green. I could see the night birds in them, hear them calling to each other.
I thought I could sleep now. Finally I could sleep.
