Dagger Key and Other Stories

“Little pasta tonight, eh?” said Broillard, checking the price of the spaghetti. “How’s it going out there?”

“Real great,” Shellane said. “I’m fucking your wife.”

The words released a cold chemical, sent it flooding through him. His hands were like ice. Broillard gaped at him, an expression that—with his long hair and sideburns—lent him a hayseed look.

“I know how you treat her,” Shellane went on. “But you lay a hand on her, you say an unkind word, I will take you into the deep woods and leave you for the beasts. My word on it.”

“You nuts, man?” Broillard made a grab for something on the shelf beneath the counter, but Shellane caught his wrist and squeezed until the bones ground together. With his free hand, he fumbled about on the shelf. His fingers curled around a wooden shaft—a sawed-off baseball bat. He rapped Broillard with it on the side of his head, hard enough to provoke an outcry.

“Supposing I smash your fingers with this little guy,” Shellane said. “There goes the ol’ career, eh?”

He rapped Broillard again, harder this time, sending him to his knees, hands upheld to stave off another blow.

“I don’t know who it is you’re doing,” Broillard said with whiny outrage, “but it ain’t my wife!”

“Nice-looking redhead name of Grace. Beautiful green eyes, perky tits. Ass round as a teapot. Sound familiar?”

Broillard pushed himself into a corner, as far from Shellane as possible, and his voice unsteady, shrilled, “Get the fuck outta here!”

“Oh, I’ll be going. Soon as I’m certain you understand that I’m your daddy. From this point on, you don’t even whimper unless I give you a kick.”

Broillard summoned breath and shouted, “Help!”

Shellane leaned across the counter and clubbed him on the kneecap. While Broillard was busy absorbing the pain, he went to the door, locked it, and turned the Closed sign outward. He shut the blinds, throwing the interior of the store into a gray twilight.

“Now we can be intimate,” he said, coming back over to the counter. “Now we can communicate.”

“I swear to God,” Broillard said. “If you…”

Shellane shouted, an inarticulate roar that caused Broillard to flatten himself against the wall.

“Grace told me a great deal about you,” Shellane said. “But she didn’t let on what a big pussy you are.”

“I don’t know what the fuck you want, man! This is crazy!”

“Crazy is hitting her in the stomach so it won’t show. Telling her she’s a fat cow and she fucks like a sick fish. Like a cat with the heaves. That was very inventive, Avery…that last. It has the feel of hateful observance.”

Looking stricken, Broillard came to one knee. “Who told you?”

“Grace. She gave me chapter and verse on your sorry ass.”

“She’s dead.” Broillard said it with bewilderment, then more vehemently: “She’s dead! Somebody’s feeding you a bunch of shit!”

Shellane left a pause. “What do you mean she’s dead?”

“She’s dead…she died! Two years ago!” Broillard’s expression gave no indication that he was lying. “She’s dead,” he repeated with an air of maudlin distraction. “I…You can’t…”

“Don’t play with me.”

“I’m not playing. It’s the truth!” Broillard put his hands to his head, as if fearful it might explode. “This is too weird, man. What’re you trying to do?”

Shellane wondered if he had been tricked. “You have a picture of her?”

Broillard blinked at him. “Yeah…I think. Yeah.”

“Let me see it!”

“I gotta…” Broillard pointed to the cash register.

“Get it!” Shellane told him.

Broillard reached with two fingers between the cash register and a display case, extracted a dusty photograph with curled edges, and handed it to Shellane. In the picture Broillard was standing in front of the blue Caddy, his arm around Grace, who was shielding her eyes against the sun. He was thinner. The shape of one sideburn barely sketched on his cheek. Grace looked the same as she had that morning. Both wore Endless Blue Stars T-shirts.

“That’s not her,” Broillard said with weak assurance. “She’s not the woman you’re banging, right?”

Shellane had a moment’s dizziness, as if he’d stood up too quickly. He stared at the photograph, unable to gather his emotions, aware only of dread and hopelessness.

“She’s dead!” Broillard said with desperate insistence. “Go out to the cemetery and look, you don’t believe me.”

Shellane let the picture fall onto the counter. “We’ll both go,” he said.