Laura McHugh - The Weight of Blood

We fished until lunchtime, not catching anything worth keeping, and then headed back to Dane’s for hamburgers. Crete set me up at the front register, and I spent most of the afternoon staring out the window, hoping to catch sight of Daniel. Crete drove me home after work, telling me that he’d be gone the next day and Judd would be in charge. I ran straight into the house to called Bess, and we spent a good hour discussing the way Daniel’s hair hung down in his eyes (sexy), and the fullness of his lips (not too full), and the dimple that appeared in his cheek when he smiled (also sexy).

Bess complained that no hot guys ever came into the Laundromat. She’d spent her first day, and probably would spend every day after that, watching granny panties and overalls swirl around in the machines.

There was no mention of Cheri on the Springfield nightly news. Her murder was no longer the top story, and more and more time had started to creep in between updates. I wondered how long it would take her to fade into legend, just like my mother.

The next morning at work, I found Judd in the kitchen and asked him what I should be doing. “I don’t know,” he said after asking me to repeat myself. A knife trembled in his liver-spotted hands as he sliced a sandwich into crooked halves. “Go watch Debbie work the register.”

“I already know how to do the register,” I said, extra loud so he could hear me. He had to be getting too old to work, but he’d shown no interest in retiring from his position as assistant manager. “I can help you. Need me to make sandwiches?”

“Nah, just packing lunch for the new kid. He’ll be doing some cleanup out on the property today.”

The new kid. Daniel. “Why don’t I go help with that? If you don’t really need me around here. I’ll just make an extra lunch for myself.” I grabbed the jar of peanut butter.

Judd looked uncertain. “Ain’t easy work, I expect. Don’t know if Crete’d want you out there.”

“He told me to do whatever you said. To make myself useful.” I spread jelly on bread and rummaged around for paper sacks.

Judd sighed. “I suppose it’ll get done quicker with two.”

I finished packing the lunches, and Daniel walked up to the counter, nodding hello. “Lucy’s coming along,” Judd said. Daniel nodded again, his expression unchanged, and the three of us headed out to the parking lot and piled into Judd’s truck. I held my arms in my lap to keep from brushing elbows with Daniel—up close, he smelled like Ivory soap and line-dried laundry—and began to second-guess my impulsive decision. As much as I wanted to be near him, he made me nervous. We’d never had a real conversation, had never spoken about the game of spin the bottle. How could spending the day alone with him be anything but awkward and uncomfortable?

I was also starting to wonder what exactly I’d volunteered for. Crete’s property contained an abandoned homestead, thickets of impenetrable brush, and a scrap-metal graveyard littered with car parts and appliances. I hated to guess which of those things I’d be cleaning up.

We bumped along the dirt road that led toward Crete’s house, and Judd turned off on another, narrower road, just two tire tracks with weeds growing in between. The path cut through a stand of cedars and descended into a valley where the Danes first settled in Ozark County. Dad used to tell me bedtime stories about the old homestead, stories passed down from his parents and grandparents. How Emily Dane, upon finding a blacksnake in the chicken coop, cut open the snake to retrieve the stolen eggs and place them back under the hens. How, when the well was dug, John Dane lowered an ax handle on a rope to check the water, and the underground current was so strong he had to let go.

What was left of the homestead now was a cluster of tin-roofed outbuildings in various states of decomposition, a collapsed barn, a root cellar with its crumbled steps leading into the earth, and the stone foundation and chimneys of the main house. Walnut trees had sprouted in the spaces between the buildings, and blackberry brambles tangled in the field. Judd pulled up behind the barn and parked in front of a single-wide trailer that looked out of place among the ruins but every bit as forsaken.

“All right,” he said, handing me a key. “Crete’s selling this trailer and needs to get it cleared out. Everything goes. Should be trash bags and whatnot inside.”

“Since when did he have somebody living out here?” I asked. The last time I could remember visiting the homestead was sixth grade, when Bess and I had come berry picking. There hadn’t been a trailer then.

Judd shrugged and fiddled with his hearing aid. “I dunno, some friend of his.”

Daniel and I got out of the truck. “When’re you coming back?” I asked.

“’Round quitting time,” Judd said, not elaborating on when that might be. Then he was gone and Daniel and I were alone in the valley, the hills rising up around us and the sun bearing down. We stared at each other.

Daniel spoke first. “It’s a little spooky out here,” he said, surveying the abandoned buildings.

“My grandparents thought the house over there was haunted,” I said. “There’d be knocking at the door odd times of the day or night. But when they went to answer it, no one was ever there.”

“Thanks,” he said, grinning. “That makes me feel better.” He started walking toward the trailer.

“It wasn’t really haunted,” I said, catching up to him. “When they opened up the old kitchen fireplace that’d been bricked in, they found a poker hanging on a hook. If the wind came down the chimney just right, it’d knock against the wall.”

“Real ghosts don’t need to knock, I guess,” he said. We reached the trailer and he motioned for me to go first.

I climbed the steps and twisted the key in the lock. The door swung inward, releasing a wave of putrid heat.

“Whoa,” Daniel said. “Smells like something crawled in and died.” He pushed past me, and we waded through trash to reach the nearest window. It was covered with heavy drapes that had been nailed to the wall at the top and bottom so they couldn’t be opened. With a bit of effort, Daniel ripped the drapes down, illuminating the living room. A cracked vinyl sofa sat against the wall. Across from that, a TV balanced on a stack of cinder blocks. There was no other furniture. I wrenched the window open and sucked in fresh air.

To the left of the living area was a tiny kitchenette where a dark puddle spread out like a shadow from the base of the fridge. A narrow hallway led to a bathroom and bedroom, both strewn with beer cans, food wrappers, and dirty clothes, and one empty room with the carpet cut away.

Daniel found the cleaning supplies on the kitchen counter. “All right,” he said. “How about we bag everything up, toss it out, then scrub the place down as best we can.”

“No amount of scrubbing’ll fix this carpet,” I said.

“Yeah, probably not.” He handed me a pair of gloves, and I started filling my trash bag. As I worked my way around the room, I uncovered a stack of Teen Pussy magazines, which told me all I needed to know about the trailer’s former tenants. I’d found a Playboy once in my dad’s closet and was struck by how fake it all looked—the boobs, the blond hair, the poses, the ridiculous ice cream parlor backdrop. But I’d never seen anything like Teen Pussy . The models looked startlingly real, like girls you might see at school. Textbooks and pom-poms and stuffed animals lay scattered in the background to give the illusion that the girls were posing in their own bedrooms. Then it occurred to me that maybe they were. I looked more closely at their expressions. Daniel stood up to stretch, and I quickly chucked the magazines in the trash, not wanting him to see me with them.