Dagger Key and Other Stories

The local boneyard was quiet and neatly landscaped and, as they passed among the ranked stones, a few drops of rain still falling, Shellane was annoyed by the impacted piety of grandfather trees and green lawns and had the thought that death was quiet enough in its own right and he would prefer to wind up in a Third World cemetery, some place with a feeling of community, kids drooling taco juice on your plot, balloon salesmen, noisy families picnicking in front of a loved one’s crypt. Grace’s stone was a modest chunk of gray marble in a corner of graveyard, close by an elderly maple, its crown of yellow leaves half denuded. What looked to be her college yearbook photo, a waist-up shot of a smiling girl in a dark blue sweater, a gold locket on a chain, was recessed in the marble beneath a transparent plastic square. Her legend read:

GRACE BROILLARD

1971-2000

BELOVED WIFE

No flowers were in evidence. The smell of leaf mold and a damp, darker odor.

Numb, uncomprehending, Shellane asked, “How did she die?”

“Natural causes,” Broillard said.

“The hell does that mean? What’s natural about the death of a twenty-nine-year-old woman?”

“She passed out,” said Broillard with a quaver. “Some kinda trouble with her heart. We thought she drowned, ’cause she fell over at the edge of the lake. But the doctor told us her heart just stopped. She didn’t have any water in her lungs.”

Looking off at the sky, Shellane felt that his emotions had been eclipsed by a gray sun. “Lie down,” he said. Broillard tried to dart away, but Shellane caught his arm. “I want you to lie down on the grave.”

When Broillard refused, Shellane swept his legs from beneath him, and he went sprawling atop the grave. He propped himself up on his elbows.

“Lie flat,” Shellane told him. “Get familiar with the pose.”

Reluctantly, Broillard obeyed. “What you gonna do?”

“I know how she died. You drained the life out of her. You beat her down inch by fucking inch. You had her trapped. You took over her home, her business and, for her kindness, you hammered on her until she didn’t care enough to live.”

“You didn’t know her! She was a liar! Anything she wanted she’d lie to get it! She…”

Shellane kicked him in the side; Broillard gasped, clutching the injured area.

“You didn’t know her, man,” he said again.

“If she lied, it was because you tormented her. You gave her no reason to be truthful.” He nudged Broillard’s leg. “Come on, Avery. Confess your sins. Cleanse your soul before you come face to face with the Creator.”

Broillard’s eyes were squeezed shut. “Please…Please don’t.”

Shellane wanted to hurt him, but each time he contemplated doing so, he lost focus. The sky above had the look of a flat gray lid; a maple leaf skated sideways back and forth on the breeze before settling to the ground. “Grace,” he said, testing the truth of the name, finding that it provoked not dread but desolation.

“I’m sorry…I…” Broillard began to weep, his words fractured by sobs.

“Shut up,” Shellane told him.

“I didn’t want her to die!” Broillard said. “I was all fucked up, I just…”

Shellane put his foot on Broillard’s stomach, a light pressure, and Broillard tensed, sucked in his breath.

“I want you to lie there for an hour,” Shellane said. “One full hour. Maybe she’ll come to you.”

“No, man. I…”

Shellane pressed down harder with his foot.

“Maybe she’ll want something from you. Tell her you were fucked up. Stoned. Drunk. Stressed out. Tell her you were crazy. That your creative spirit was suffocating. Buried under a rock of circumstance. And as you struggled to liberate your essence, you accidentally kicked her in the heart ten thousand times. I know she’ll be merciful.” He kneeled beside Broillard. “A full hour. You leave before the hour’s up, I’ll find out. Do you know how?”

Eyes still shut, Broillard shook his head.

Shellane put his mouth close to the man’s ear and whispered very softly, “She’ll tell me.”