Doo went limp, stopped moving or making any sounds, the back of her head against the carpet. Gaia dropped the gun and crawled to the corner behind the door, sitting with her red knees pulled up to her chest. She watched as the pool of blood coming from Doo’s head turned the beige carpeting purple-red.
The muffled beeps of the fallen alarm clock sounded like they were coming from inside Doo’s baggy jeans. Laughter bubbled in Gaia’s stomach and rose up her throat like a gush of water. Her whole body shook with laughter as Doo beeped and beeped. Gaia crawled over to the body. She hovered above Doo and then lifted her shirt. Doo’s breasts were strapped down in layers of ace bandages. “Shh,” Gaia whispered, pulling the bandages down. She laughed as one soft breast tumbled out.
Gaia was about to touch it with the tip of her finger when a loud screeching of tires squealed just outside the window.
She shook her head and blinked rapidly. Her breathing hastened as a weight seemed to suddenly sit down on her chest. What had she done? Oh God, Doo! And Charlene. Charlene would hate Gaia, never speak to her again. Gaia’s body collapsed and she dropped her head to the carpet. She felt like dying. She felt like disappearing, like hiding. She felt... cold. She spied her dress lying at the foot of the bed and crawled to get it. She pulled it over her head and felt the fabric wiping away the tears that rushed down her cheeks.
Turning her head slowly back toward the spot on the floor where Doo lay, she started to say, I’m sorry, Charlene, but the words caught in her throat. She stared at Doo’s tar-stained lips until they were two brown blurs, and realized it wasn’t true. She wasn’t sorry. She stood up momentarily and then sat on the bed as she surveyed the room. Overturned tables, blood-soaked carpet. She was sitting on something hard. She got up, saw that it was Doo’s small, silver camera, and squeezed it between her hands. She was holding one of the only pieces of real evidence that she had ever been here tonight. She studied Doo’s small body. Doo couldn’t be more than a hundred and twenty, a hundred and thirty pounds. Could she?
Gaia drove east toward Providence Park, by instinct, not choice. She knew exactly what was waiting for her back there. Zooming down the interstate, Gaia felt only relief when she thought about Doo’s lifeless body wrapped in a sheet on the floor of the Cadillac. She had protected herself and taken control of what belonged to her. Doo had been right. She didn’t need Charlene. Charlene didn’t love her. And she could take care of herself. She didn’t need a play mother. She didn’t need any mother at all. She understood now how to keep away the bad things, the ghosts, the past, and it was not by fear. It was by force.
At 3 a.m., she stood in front of the abandoned group home. She waved at Doo, who was lying at peace in Gardener’s attic. An empty fuel can dangled from Gaia’s fingers.
Wrongs did not correct themselves. Someone had to make the decision to fix things. People could not live their lives the whole time expecting things to happen; people had to make things happen. Cold gasoline had to be spilled deliberately, dousing the ground, the walls. A match, struck in the dark, had to be dropped in a shallow puddle of fuel. And the girl, the one in the wrinkled black dress, would not run away yet. She had to watch as the scorching flames licked and devoured the home. Ladies Mile Road had been a haven, a place where women felt safest. This building had mocked that history and tainted the whole neighborhood.
Texas Beach
by Dennis Danvers
Texas Beach
He lies sprawled facedown in the water just short of the beach as if he tried to swim across the James and came up short. I turn him over, pull his upper body out of the water, then discover his lower torso hasn’t quite turned with the rest of him. He couldn’t have been swimming anywhere like this. His pelvis is crushed. He’s dark, probably Mexican or Guatemalan. He has on one battered leather garden glove, on his right hand. His left hand is bent at an odd angle, and a bone protrudes from his left forearm.
I throw up in the river and call 911.
I’m at Texas Beach, I tell them, on the water. There’s a dead man here. They tell me to stay with him. I say I will. That’s what I need. To sit with a dead man. I’ve come down here to wallow in grief. My old dog whose favorite haunt this was when she was alive died a couple of days ago, and I’ve been pretty much useless ever since. I was almost on top of the dead man before I realized what I was looking at. It’s early Thursday, the sun just coming up. I haven’t slept much.
His feet are still in the water. He’s wearing heavy, oil-stained work boots, almost cracked. His jeans have ridden up on his oddly pale shins. Something floats out of the top of one of the boots, and I grab it before it drifts off. A wood chip. I put it in my pocket. It could be evidence of something. I pull him the rest of the way out of the water. More chips spill out as the jeans catch on the sand and unfurl, covering his shins.
When I moved to Richmond from Texas twenty years ago, I missed seeing brown faces. Richmond was a town in black and white. That’s changed since NAFTA, like the rest of the country. When I was a kid walking across the bridge into Juárez with my parents, there’d be kids my age standing in the tarnished water of the Rio Grande, their hands uplifted for pennies tossed from the bridge. This man, the dead man, has gray temples, crow’s feet. He could be my age, sixty. He could’ve been one of those kids half a century ago.
I wonder how he ended up here — not in Richmond, I understand those economic realities well enough — but here, washed up on the shore of Texas Beach, almost broken in half. I wonder if he was the victim of a hit and run. I wonder if he was murdered. When the sun shines upon his face, I take pictures of him from several angles.
I sit with him another fifteen minutes, absorbing what I can. I’ve probably disturbed the body too much already. I want to look in his pockets, but I resist. They appear to be empty.
Pretty soon there’s a crowd. I hear one of the guys tending to the body telling another to be careful because “his midsection’s smashed up pretty bad.” The cop who’s going to question me keeps me waiting while he gives the relevant facts over the phone to some anxious superior somewhere: a presumed illegal, no identification, appears to have died elsewhere of undetermined causes. He ends with, “Yes sir, I will, sir,” repeated several times like a ritual response.
Most everyone else has gone with the body back through the woods and over the bridge spanning the tracks and the canal, up a steep trail to the parking lot. Off in the distance you can hear someone shouting, “Watch it! Watch it! Watch it!” We’re standing on the beach beside where I found the body.
The cop asks me what I know, and I tell him. I tell him about the wood chips. He doesn’t seem particularly interested. “Do you think it’s a homicide?” I ask.
“We haven’t ruled it out. We plan an immediate autopsy to determine cause of death. We don’t want any idle speculation in the press.”
“What happens if it is homicide?”
“Since we don’t know who the man was, the investigation would be difficult. We hope someone will come forth with information, of course. It’s not likely in my experience, with cases like these, but you never know.”
“Cases like these?”
“Victims from the illegal immigrant community. They fear bringing any scrutiny upon themselves. Understandable. Times like these. To tell you the truth, I doubt anything will come of it. We’ve got nothing to go on.”
Times like these. I suppose that phrase means the strident debate over “illegals,” as if that’s the single quality that matters. I would share with him what I think of these times, but what point is there telling a cop what you think of the law? He’s only entitled to one opinion. In the silence between us, I hear the river. It’s never completely silent down by the river. Dog and I used to sit on the beach and listen, or maybe for her it was the smells. Whatever it was, it always made her smile.