“A great Monday afternoon,” the radio blares.

Not for everyone, he thinks, staring at the black sash across the house’s front door. Damn. Seeing those sashes – except sometimes it’s a single flower or a collar-clad priest in the front room – always leaves a tickle in his throat.

Grinding his teeth, he sets aside the folded newspaper and leaves the truck and the radio jock behind.

“Gonna rain tomorrow, though…maybe cool things off….”

At the door, he knocks and a woman comes. Maybe the wife. Maybe a daughter. Or a friend, there to help the family through it all.

“Can I help you?” Her make-up is smeared from crying.

“Delivery. I’m sorry about the timing.”

Her eyes flash. How do you know?

“The guy at the store,” he points down the block. “Had a delivery for him. Asked him directions here and he told me. I’m sorry about the…about what happened and that I’m standing here like an ass –  Excuse my language.” He sighs. “Man, I’m just making things worse.”

“No, no,” she says, fighting back a tear. “You’re fine.”

He glances at his clipboard – the shipper’s addresses are never on the package. “COD from…Ballantine Jewelers.”

“COD?” she asks, frowning but intrigued. “Who’d you say?”

“Ballantine Jewelers. I deliver for them a lot.” He pauses. “It’s usually a present.”

She smiles, tight and sad but a smile. That’s a good sign.

“Hang on. Let me get some money. I can take care of this, right? I mean, it doesn’t have to be Larry, does it? I mean – “ Red hot color floods her cheeks.

“It can be anybody. Again, I’m sorry. If I could wait, I would.”

She smiles again, warmer this time because of the shared moment. “Jewelers, huh? How much?”

“Just $100. Well, $101. 53.”

She disappears. A few minutes later, she’s back with $105. “It’s not much extra but this caught me by surprise so – “

He shakes his head like the tip isn’t a problem at all. He pockets the bills, and writes out a quick receipt as she peers at his nametag.

“Thank you, Dayton. I appreciate your understanding. I’m sure Linda does, too.”

“Sure. I hope things get better.”

“Can’t get any worse,” she says, closing the door.

***

With a deep, shuddery sigh, the man closes his eyes. He keeps them closed forever, until the creep of discomfort starts up Dayton’s spine.

“Did it rain today?” the man asks, letting his eyes slip about halfway open, as though he just doesn’t have the energy to completely open them. “No, that was yesterday, wasn’t it? God, I have no idea what day it is.” He sighs. “I’m sorry, do we have to do this now?”

“Sir, I’m sorry, but yeah. I know this is awful, but….“ He shrugs.

“You know?” Now the guy’s eyes are fully open.

“I had a delivery at the coffee shop.” He points vaguely over his shoulder. “Asked the lady for directions. She told me what happened.” He casts his eyes down, letting visible embarrassment roll over him.

“That’d be Jodi. She’s a good lady.” Another sigh.

“Pretty bad, eh?” Dayton says.

The man nods. “You have no idea. I don’t know, maybe you do. It’s like a fucking tomb. I’m locked up and there’s no light and no way out and the only thing in here with me is death.”

Bright red floods the man’s face. He turns away. “Sorry about that.”

“No problem, man, I can’t begin to imagine what I’d do if my daughter were de – “ He stops abruptly. “Uh….”

“Dead. It’s okay to say it.”

Dayton clears his throat.

The man nods at the package. “What the deal?”

Dayton glances at his clipboard. “NASCAR Gifts and Accessories? That ring a bell?”

The man chuckles but with a somber edge. “Yeah, that sounds right. She loves getting me NASCAR stuff.”

“You a Harvik fan?” Dayton jerks a thumb toward the Monte Carlo in the driveway. One side of the windshield says Harvik, the other says Gordon.

“I’m Gordon. She is – “ Pain shoots across his face like a NASCAR driver across a track. “Was the Harvik gal.”

Dayton nods. “COD for $122.94, but if you’ve got the $120, we’re good. God knows you don’t need to run around looking for correct change, not today, you know?” He tosses a knowing look over the man’s shoulder, deep into the house at the gaggle of people; everyone with food and somber faces. Lots of black clothes and hushed conversations.

“Right. I don’t usually keep that much cash around, but lemme check.”

The sweat starts along Dayton’s jaw. He’s had this before, the grieving unsure if they’ve got the money. There are ways around it, but he’d rather not deal with any of that.

And today, anyway, he doesn’t have to. The man returns pretty quickly.

“Here’s $140.” He offers the wad of cash. “We only had twenties.” His face colors. “I only had about half of it. I got the rest from them.”

“Sure.”

With great care, Dayton puts the money into his shirt pocket, hands the man a receipt and the box. Without another word, but with a sad nod of his head, Dayton leaves.

He always expects something on the way back to the truck. A word or a flurry of words. Maybe some crying and wailing, maybe some screaming and cussing. He always expects and it never happens. Just a yawning silence into which he tries to disappear.

On the driver’s seat lays the newspaper. He moves it aside, sits down, and puts the truck in gear. Away he drives, leaving the man with his guests and his grief. And truthfully, he’s glad to be away from it. They’re tiring, these kinds of deliveries. It’s like the families’ grief is so appallingly negative and overwhelming that it sucks in everything around it, him included.

Eventually, Dayton pulls into a parking lot. Cowgirl Lori’s Shootin’ Irons, the sign says. For a moment, he’s interested. A chick’s gun range? Could be fun. Maybe he’ll come back later, use some’a his cash to take a few shots. Maybe the ol’ Cowgirl will give him a private lesson.

He shakes his head. Focus up, dumbass. Finish the work, then think about the after-work.

Yeah, yeah. The truck idling, he grabs the newspaper, checks the next name. Then compares it to the address in the phone book. Then checks his watch. He’s got all the time in the world. A few more deliveries?

He wipes his face clean. No sweat.

***

The door closes and he’s glad of it. Just like with the NASCAR guy three days ago, he’s exhausted.

On the other side of the door, he hears the wails, the cries and mourning. Because it’s not just deliveries, it’s deliveries to the dead, to relatives of the dead. It’s difficult because it’s not a regular delivery. Because those who hand you the money begin to know, viscerally, that this is it. This is the last time something special will come in the mail with their dear, dead loved one’s name on it.

A last moment and they share that moment and all of the accompanying heartache with a stranger.

Heading down the street, done with the day, the only thing in his head is Becky. She’ll be back from daycare in less than half an hour, walked home by one of the workers. Dayton slips the young woman an extra $20 every week to walk his daughter the two blocks home everyday.

Pizza tonight. Becky’s been asking all week. Usually he tries to feed her greens and proteins, fruits and all the rest of it. But tonight they’ll have some fun instead. Some pizza, maybe a movie or two, then bed for both of them.

But damn I need a night off. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe after he’s put Becky down for the night. He’s done that before and she’s been just fine. Wakes herself up, gets to school and daycare, gets herself some dinner at night and climbs in bed at the right time.

Becky is more than responsible enough for him to take tomorrow night off.

But tonight? His daughter, some pizza, and Shrek.

A cheap grin plastered across his thin lips, he takes a left and then some other turn and then another and all that’s fine because it puts him toward home, away from grieving people.

But something sticks in his head, like a bad smell in his nose. Outside his truck, small houses become small businesses become strip malls and light industrial centers with abandoned warehouses used by junkies and kids putting together the next great American band.

Except –

The car behind him. Wasn’t it there when he left the last house? Wasn’t it behind him after that first turn? And maybe the second? And damn sure the last two because now he’s turning and turning just to check and it stays with him.

“The fuck is this?”

He turns again and the newspaper and phone book slide from one end of the dash to the other, spilling to the panel’s truck’s floor. The car stays with him, though back a bit, like it’s trying to hide what it’s doing.

So he stops. Pulls the truck to the curb and waits.

The car hesitates, then comes around and keeps going.

Harvik.

And Gordon.

“Son of a bitch.”

***

The sun falls.

thud

He can feel, behind and beneath the tape that cuts into his arms and wrists and neck like hot wire, the light slipping away, bit by tiny little bit.

thud

Getting close to night, he thinks, trying to get his scrambled brain back together. Becky hasn’t gone to bed yet. She’s still awake.

“Daddy, you coming home?”

Her voice is with him and inside him, but he can’t answer. Yes, he wants to say. But he knows the only answer is maybe.    

Then her voice is gone, replaced by her blonde curls while she runs through the apartment’s sprinkler. Her blue eyes sparkle at her birthday party – one he’d had to work for three straight days to afford – at the pizza joint with the talking bear. That bear had spent all night with Becky, whispering to her, winking at her, choosing to be her partner when the kids played games. And at the zoo, when the monkeys howled at them, her skinny fingers grabbing at his. Tight at first and then looser as her fear disappeared.

thud

If I only had your hand now, Becky, because your old Dad is scared shitless. He doesn’t know what’s going on. He knows somebody filled his head with drugs and he’s pretty sure he’s taped and he’s more and more sure that there is no way this – whatever this is – is going to end good.

He’s scared maybe he’s not coming home this time. He’s scared he’s going to be dead for the day gets much darker.

“Did I give him too much?” It’s a soft voice. “I don’t want to kill him.”

There is a long moment of silence and he almost lets go of the terrified breath in his lungs. This might come out okay. Take a few lumps from someone he obviously fucked over, get on out the door and back to Becky.

Then, “I do.”

A deep voice, but still a woman’s. Dark as oil. She’s close, maybe just on the other side of the tape. Close enough that her smell, stale sweat and faint traces of two-day old perfume, stumbles into his nose.

thud

“Jesus Christ,” a man says. “We’re awful.” He’s further away, maybe across the room.

There’s a whoosh and his head explodes from the punch. He rocks sideways. Someone catches him, sets the chair back on all four legs.

“Let him go,” she says. “He cracks his skull, what the fuck do I care?”

“You have to laugh?” the man asks. “We’re not like that. We’re doing this thing, but we don’t have to enjoy it.”

“Screw that,” the woman says. “I’ll laugh all the fucking way to his grave.”

Then she’s near him again, and the heat of her rage crawls on him. “I’ll hit him again and again,” she whispers. “And again and again.”

“Deb, stop it.” The light voice again and now he maybe recognizes it.

“Don’t tell me shit,” the hitter – Deb – says. “This son of a bitch took – ”

“Some money,” the man says. “That’s all.”

“Don’t you dare,” Deb spit. “Don’t you dare rationalize what this pile of dogshit did to me.”

A hand, Dayton knows it’s Deb’s, tightens around his throat. She tilts his head up, as though she believes he can see her through the tape.

“It wasn’t just money,” Deb says. “You saw the newspaper. And the phonebook. This son of a bitch picked us out. He. Picked. Us. Out.”

thud

“The obituaries,” the man says.

“I know what he did,” the other woman says. “And he got me for a lot more than he got you so don’t tell me what’s what. But this isn’t us.”

“Then why are you here, bitch? You don’t know what’s me and what isn’t.” Deb releases him. “You don’t even know me if he doesn’t screw us.”

“And neither of you would be here at all,” the man says, his voice flashing anger even from across what feels like a big room. “If I hadn’t followed him. So calm the hell down.”

Dayton has the man now. Harvik. And the light-voiced woman is the chick who bought him a few drinks at the bar last night. A blaze of red hair with incredibly sexy eyes that she wouldn’t quit tossing his way. Said her name was Annie but that was probably crap. Then wasn’t there some business in a corner of the parking lot? Maybe her hand snaking down into her mostly opened shirt?

“So let’s do what we’re going to do and be done with it,” Harvik says.

thud

“Can’t kill me,” Dayton says, his throat a rusty machine.

Someone puts a wet kiss along his cheek. “Ah, you are awake. And yes, I can.” Deb’s voice is too sweet. Her finger trails along his forehead and she yanks the tape off his face, pulling his eyelids out far enough that he believes he hears one of them rip.

Light floods him, sends jabs deep into his brain. Even through his squinting, he sees Deb clearly. A week ago, east side. Snagged fifty bucks from her the day after her husband died of cancer. Or so he assumed. Obit said gifts to the American Cancer Society, anyway.

“I can do anything I want.” She spits in his face. “And no one will give a shit. No one cares about you. No one.”

Dayton’s eyes crawl to the other woman. Yeah, she’s from the bar but now he realizes he’s delivered to her, too. Dead mother. Obit said gifts to the ASPCA so he ran an animal gift store thing on her. Better than a hundred bucks.

And somewhere deep in this big-assed room, is Harvik.

The room is huge, fifty feet on a side, with metallic walls and an arched ceiling with chains and shit hanging from it. On the far side, barely visible beneath the single, weak bulb hanging above him, is an entryway. It’s two doors wide and somewhere down it’s bowels, it turns. Dayton can see light bouncing off the far wall. Harvik is back in that entryway, probably playing lookout.

thud

But lookout for what?

Dayton hasn’t yet snatched up the details, but as he watches Deb stalk the room, hands clenched to fists, sweat on her olive skin, Becky swims up at him. For that moment, everyone in the room is Becky. How long has he been here? Did she remember to eat? Did she remember to lock the door at bedtime? Did she cry when the night got its darkest?

“How long?” he asks.

“Two days,” Deb says.

Annie nods, but is embarrassed. She and Harvik are pissed, but where they’re pissed, Deb is enraged, trying to burn Dayton down with just her eyes.

“Look,” he says. “I’m really sorry, really I am.”

thud

Deb shakes her head. “You’re just sorry because you got caught.”

“Sure. I’m damn sorry I got caught.”

Deb snorts. “Ought to be sorry you did this to us.” She rushes at him, her fingers out like claws. He flinches and she laughs. “You played me and you did it with my husband.” She wails until the paint crawls off the walls. “He wasn’t even twenty-four hours dead. He wasn’t even in the ground.”

Now her claws do swipe his face. Hot blood spills and when she looks at her fingers, also bloody, she licks them clean.

“Oh, Jesus, Deb,” Annie says. “Are you crazy? He could have…I don’t know…a disease. He’s a criminal, God knows what he caught in prison.”

thud

Why can’t I hear anybody? No people, no traffic, nothing. It’s getting to be night. Won’t be many people around, but should be some. Just as soon as the three Fuckateers are gone – and they’re obviously going to leave me here – I’ll snig outta this tape and make some noise. Someone’ll hear me.

The tape, he realizes suddenly, is loosening every time he flexes a muscle. Annie is weakening with every moment that slips past, and Harvik – guarding or not – can’t hardly bring himself to look Dayton in the face. Maybe, rather than waiting for them to leave, he’ll undo the tape, spring his ass up, land a pop or two against the women, snap Harvik with one or two in that entryway, and get the hell back to Becky.

thud

“Why did you do this?” Annie asks. “Can’t you see how much it hurts?”

He wants to say fuck them, that if they are stupid enough to give them money then tough. This scam keeps money coming in for Becky and her shoes and clothes and food and school supplies. What do they expect him to do? Hit the bricks for some minimum wage job tossing burgers?

That won’t feed her or get her where she needs to be.

So if he has to cause them a little emotional pain, fine. It’s not the best way to make a living but it’s all he knows how to do. And he’ll do whatever he has to to take care of his girl.

“Because of Becky,” Deb says.

      Dayton’s breath stops. “How do you know about her?”

“You think I wouldn’t take time to go through your stuff? Her picture in your wallet. Her picture in the glove box of your piece of shit delivery truck? And on the visor? Hell, an envelope of pictures under the seat.”

Annie shakes her head, a tear staining her cheek. “My mother loved her kids like you do Becky.” She wipes her face, pushes her chest out and her arms back, tries to stand tall. “She’ll never see them again and we will all live with her last gift being a box of rocks.”

She’s ten feet away, facing the other direction and her voice slices into hysteria. “That’s all we’ll remember.”

Then she’s right in his face, her hands squeezing his shoulders, her nails digging painfully into him. “You stole her from us.” Her mouth is inches away, her spit decorating his face. “You ruined her for us. Don’t you see that? Why did you have to ruin my mother?”

He closes his eyes, turns his head up, lets her fury wash over him like an acid bath. What if this all happened to Becky?

What if someone picked out Becky because you were dead?

Worse, what if someone picked out you because Becky was dead?

There had been a moment, two years ago, when he’d thought she was dead. A swimming pool party for a friend of hers. She had thought it was so funny. “Were you scared, Daddy?” she’d asked after floating unmoving on the water’s surface until he’d frantically jumped in. “I was super scared, honey,” he’d said. “I thought – “ No, he wouldn’t say that to her, wouldn’t give that thought any life over them. “Did you think I was dead, Daddy?”

He hadn’t thought she was, he’d known she was.

And what if you come along at that very moment, when you know she’s dead, and give yourself a package from that Irish place she always makes her mother order her gifts for you from?

Except it’s nothing Irish. It’s rocks.

When Annie punches him…when that flesh strikes flesh…he is surprised by how much he welcomes it. Does he want that penitence? He never has before but now it hurts and maybe it should and maybe it doesn’t bother him. Maybe he should hurt a little for what he’s done.

thud

She hits him again…and once more.

“Good girl,” Deb says.

thud

But Annie shakes her head. “No.”

“No what? No hitting? Why the fuck not?”         

“Because he sees it.”

“What?” Deb frowns but with most of the sun gone, with only a single weak-ass bulb light above him, the frown is hard to make out. “Bullshit, he doesn’t see anything.”

His voice is a croak. “I see Becky.”

In the flicker of his daughter’s blue eyes, he knows he’s done. He’ll figure out some other way to pay the bills, something that doesn’t play on grief. Yeah, it was good for decent money, but this was too much.

thud

The sun is just about gone. It’ll be just the bulb. The bulb with its yellow sliver of light, two women, a man, an overpowering cloud of anger, and Becky.

“I’m about ready,” Harvik says.

A slice of pain slips across Annie’s face and Dayton’s gut tightens. He glances at Deb and there is nothing but a depthless smile. “Me, too.” Her voice is ice cold.

“Deb.” Annie, in sharp contrast, is scared. Dayton can feel it, damn near smell it. Whatever is coming next scares her. “Are you sure?”

“What else is there?”

“There’s my daughter,” Dayton says.

Deb pulls a paper from her pocket and unfolds it. “You sure?”

Deb’s ice slips through him like a raging fever. He pulls and strains against the tape. Doesn’t even know what she’s done and he’s going to kill her for it. Where he’d left them with a smack or two across the face, now he was going to leave them – all three of them – dead and forgotten in this fucking warehouse.

“If you’ve touched her – “

“You’ll what?” Deb asks. Her tone is languid now. “You’ll do shit, Dayton.” She laughs. “Actually, what you’ll is this: you’ll fight against that tape just like you’ve been doing since you woke up. And eventually, you’ll get out of it.”

“Not that long, bitch, I’ll be out before you move a step.”

Deb shrugs. “I don’t think so.”

“Deb,” Harvik says, his voice sharp. “There’s no reason to mess with him. Don’t make it worse, let’s just do it.”

“Deb,” Annie says. “Let’s go.”

“I get outta this tape, I’m coming after you, bitch,” Dayton says. “You’re here or not. I know where you live, remember.”

Deb laughs again and there is something final in it. Maybe he has misread all of them. Maybe all three of them can whack him and not lose a moment’s sleep. Or maybe they will lose sleep but can live with it.

Shit. The walls are close now, closer than they’ve been since he woke up. They’d been moving out as he got more comfortable and sure of his situation. But now those walls have creeped in.

“You get out of here,” Deb says, “do come find me.”

She sets the page on the floor about three feet in front of him. There is a picture of Becky and a bit of text to the side and below it, but he can’t make out the words in the dim light.

“What’s that?”

Annie heads to the entryway. Harvik stands there, a brick in his hand, a trowel in the other. He nods at her as she leaves.

“What is it?”

Deb doesn’t answer. Instead, she slaps him and he tastes blood. Then she smiles, winks, and walks away.

“Bitch, you can’t leave me here.”

Harvik nods to her, too, and then she’s gone, only the faintest trace of her sweet perfume still in the air.

“Come on,” he says to Harvik. “I’ll pay you back, I promise.”

Harvik stares at him for maybe a hundred heartbeats. He hefts the brick, lets his gaze dance between it and Dayton.

“I’ll pay you back with interest. Come on. Don’t let that crazy bitch haul you down, Harvik.”

He grins and shakes his head. “Harvik. That’s funny. My wife was the Harvik fan.”

“Man, come on – “

“It’s not about the money, Dayton, it’s about the hurt.”

Harvik goes to the entryway. Just before he slips out, he turns back to Dayton. “You hurt us. Who knows how many others, too?” He sighed deeply and hefted the brick again.

Then he was gone.

thud

“Harvik? Hey, Harvik? Come on back, man.”

thud

“You can’t do this. You can’t fucking leave me like this. You’ll go to jail. Hah, fuck that, you’ll go to prison. Harvik? You hear me, boy? You’ll spend the rest of your life getting ass-raped. That what you want? Harvik? You hear me?”

thud

thud

thud….

***

“Becky G. Latchford, 8, of South, died Friday, June 15, 2007 at Perry Memorial Hospital. She was born May 19, 1999 in South. She is survived in death by her mother, Grace Simmons, and her father, Dayton Latchford. Services will be at 11 a.m. Wednesday in the Barto Funeral Home with Deacon Roger Swayne officiating. Burial will be in Oakland Cemetery, in South, at a later date. There will be no visitation. Donations can be made to the South Zoological Gardens.”

thud

It wasn’t real, obviously. It wasn’t even on that pulpy ass cheap newsprint paper. It was on copy paper. They were just fucking with him.

The sun was just about gone and Dayton realizes it wasn’t setting, but disappearing.

thud

No, it wasn’t real. They were just fucking with him.

thud

thud

“Harvik? What are you doing?”

thud

“Come on, man, she ain’t dead.”

thud

“Don’t matter, someone’ll hear me,” Dayton says.

“In an abandoned warehouse basement on the docks? I don’t think so.”

“Harvik, please – “

“It’s Gordon, dammit.”

“Gordon, then, sorry. What in the hell are you doing?”

The bricks stopped moving. “It’s the tomb, Dayton. The same tomb you put us in. God help you.” His sigh was audible in the dark. “God help us, too, I guess.”

Then he was gone.

thud

Then the sun was gone.