Sula thought she was still in the vehicle, rolling down the road, but there was something wrong with one of the tires. It was making a rhythmic “chunk, chunk, chunk” sound. She fought to wake herself up. It was important to keep track of where they going.
As she surfaced, the front part of her brain burned with raw pain. Her eyelids felt sticky, and she struggled to get her eyes open and keep them open. Darkness surrounded her, but overhead she could see stars. She was outside, not in the car. The ground beneath her was cool and damp even through her pants. Her arms, trapped under her back, ached from the strain and weight of her body.
How did she get here? Had Rudker carried her? Where was he? She inched her head forward off the ground. The steady “chunk” sound was louder and clearer now. About ten feet away, Rudker’s form came into focus. He bent over, then straightened up. Then did it again. As her eyes adjusted to the dim moonlight, Sula realized he had a shovel.
He was digging!
Her heart skipped a beat. The bastard was digging a hole to bury her in. Sula wanted to scream, but her mouth was taped and her lungs were paralyzed with fear.
No. No. No. She cried without sound, without tears. She wasn’t ready to die. She wanted to see Tate grow up, even if it was from a distance. She wanted to have a real love affair. She wanted to write investigative journalism stories.
The chunk sounded continued. She could hear Rudker’s labored breath between digs.
A memory, dark and horrible, fluttered around the edge of her consciousness. Sula tried to push it away, but she had no strength, no reserve of mental health to draw from right now. At first the memory floated in and out with brief hazy images, but the sound of the shovel striking the dirt reverberated in her brain. The past flooded into her consciousness in full, technicolor detail as though it were happening all over again.
Sula watched her father from her bedroom window. His tall, thin body hunched over the hole he was digging in the back yard as the wind tousled his collar-length hair. The cold evening air blew the tears off his cheeks as he worked. Sula had cried at first too. Mostly because her parents were upset and bad things happened when they got emotional.
Her mother had run over Patches, her daddy’s dog, while coming down the driveway.
Mom had burst in as Sula and Calix and Dad sat at the kitchen table, eating cold ham sandwiches and corn chips. Her pretty face was twisted with liquor and grief. She slumped at the table and sobbed. All she would say was “I’m sorry.” Sula and her sister refused to give their mother the attention she wanted, but her father, sensing it was more than just another missed dinner, ran out to the driveway.
A loud wail penetrated the thin trailer wall. She’d heard Daddy cry before, but not like this. This was distressing. Calix, older by a year and Dad’s favorite, pushed past their mother and ran out to him. Sula followed, but with a wary caution. She’d learned to distrust high emotion, to shut down her own feelings so she would not be caught up in the drama.
Her father kneeled on the ground next to her mother’s Oldsmobile and cradled the black-and-gray Australian Shepherd in his arms. There was little blood, but Patches was clearly broken. The sight of the injured dog and her father weeping was more than Sula could handle. She and Calix cried with him.
Then abruptly Dad stood. “Calix, bring my pistol.
Her sister’s distress was visible. “Why?”
“I have to end his suffering. Bring it to the back yard.”
Sula could not watch. She went to her bedroom, ignoring her mother’s call for attention. Once there, she stood near the window and peeked out, watching to see if her sister would do as told. Calix, as stubborn as she was beautiful, was often defiant of their parents. Sula preferred peace, even if it meant losing ground.
Calix came into the back yard, carrying the gun as if it were a poisonous snake. Her dad put Patches on the grass, took the pistol from Calix, then told her to go inside. Sula turned away from the window. The gun blast was a short, loud pop. Sula wondered if their neighbors had heard. The Crawleys were about a half mile away.
Sula turned back and watched her father retrieve a shovel from the shed. He began to dig. The “chunk, chunk, chunk” sound seemed to go on forever, but Sula could not tear herself away. She wanted to know the minute he was done. She wanted to be ready for whatever came next. Part of her brain said to leave the house, to get far away, but she couldn’t. She loved her mother in spite of her drinking and would stay to protect her if she could.
She returned to the kitchen where her mother sat at the table eating Sula’s sandwich. She no longer wanted it, but it annoyed her anyway. Calix’s dinner was also unfinished. Her sister was in the living room watching TV.
“Hi honey. I’m sorry about the dog. Was this your sandwich?” The smell of gin hung around her mother like a cloud.
“You can have it.” Sula watched for signs of awareness or concern but didn’t detect any. “Dad has been a little high strung lately.”
“I know, honey. That’s why I went to the bar with the girls.”
“This may set him off.”
“It’s only a dog.”
“Maybe we should go for a walk.”
Her mother laughed. “No thanks.”
As Sula started to sit down at the chipped formica table, her mother jumped up. “I’m going to take a shower.” She sashayed away, her jeans hugging her lithe body and her long hair gently swinging. She looked too young to have teenage daughters. People always said so.
The back door slammed. Sula jumped, then glanced over at Calix. Her sister’s gaze never left the TV, but her eyes watched their father as he moved past both of them, gun in hand.
“Dad?”
“Not now, Calix.”
Down the hall, he plodded. The muscles in Sula’s back began to ache from the tension. She stood and started to follow.
“I wouldn’t do that.” Calix stood too.
“We can’t let him hurt her.”
“He’s more likely to hurt himself.” Calix moved toward the hallway as the shouting began. “Let me talk to him. Maybe he’ll listen to me.”
Sula stopped and let her sister move ahead of her. From the bedroom, their mother cried out. “Jake, no. Don’t do this. Think of the girls.”
Calix began to run. Sula followed.
The bedroom door was open. Their mother stood by the dresser in her underclothes, clutching a towel. Their father was a few feet away, the gun pointed at his own head. He didn’t take his eyes from his wife as they entered.
“I can’t live like this, Rose. I used to just hate myself, but now I’ve made you miserable for so long, I hate you too.” He turned to look at his daughters. “I’m sorry, girls. I love you.” He turned away and closed his eyes.
“No!” Calix lunged for their dad’s arm just before the gun went off. She knocked him askew as the blast echoed around the room. Sula covered her ears, but she should have covered her eyes. At the edge of her vision, she saw her mother fly back against the wall. Her slender body slid to the floor and a hole opened in her chest. Blood, the color of summer berries, poured out of her.
Time and motion ceased to exist. The three of them were frozen, mouths open, as a dull hum filled the room. Their father broke free. With an anguished cry, he rushed to his wife. Sula edged in behind him. If she did not see the destruction, it would not be as real.
Her father was no savior. He could only weep as blood flowed from her mother’s body. She tried to speak and a trickle of blood oozed down her chin. Her eyes closed and she slumped over.
Calix knelt down beside her body and wailed. “I killed my mother!”
Dad pulled Calix away. Grabbing both arms, he lifted her to her feet. The movements seemed slow and choppy, like an old reel film.
“It’s not your fault.” He shook Calix as he cried. Sula could see by his expression that he was shouting, but his voice seemed far away.
Calix would not be calmed. Sobbing hysterically, she jerked free and backed away. “You bastard.”
Her father’s face went slack. “Tell them I did it.” He looked at both of them for compliance.
Sula was too numb to process what he meant or anticipate his next action.
He spun around and grabbed the revolver off the bed where he’d dropped it in his rush to his wife’s side. He put the gun to his head again. “Tell the cops I killed her, you hear me? I don’t want Calix blamed for this.”
He pulled the trigger.
Sula was still on her knees holding her dead mother’s hand when she saw her father’s brains spray into the room and fall to the white bedspread. She looked at her sister, as if to confirm it was really happening. Calix’s face went deathly pale and her mouth fell open.
Sula felt numb, as if her brain had been injected with anesthetic.
Calix screamed. “Look at what I’ve done! I’ve killed them both.” She pulled her own hair and began to keen, a never-ending sound that didn’t seem human.
Sula wanted to comfort her, to say the right thing. Their parents had been headed for this tragic outcome as long as she could remember. Her father had craved death and her mother had no respect for life. When Sula envisioned her future, they were never there. Yet her mouth would not open; her body would not move.
Calix was alone in her guilt and it was more than she could bear.
All at once the wailing stopped. Before Sula could process why that scared her more than anything, Calix lunged to their father’s body and pulled the gun from his dead hand. She shoved the weapon into her mouth, looked at Sula with eyes that begged forgiveness, and pulled the trigger.
The blast sent the room into a spin and Sula’s mind went dark.