LITMIR.BIZ

      SEVEN

      Shirley laid in bed unable to sleep. She didn’t dare tell her boyfriend, Larry, about her mother’s plans. She wished she had someone she could trust to discuss her mother’s intentions. Were her sisters also involved? Had Mama talked to them about killing Wayne? Her curiosity consumed her until she finally decided to find out.

      She pulled back the covers, tiptoed out of the bedroom, and headed toward her apartment’s small kitchen to call her oldest sister, Faye.

      The phone rang several times before Faye’s groggy voice answered.

      “What’s going on?” Faye asked, yawning.

      “Have you heard from Mama lately?”

      “Gosh no, not for weeks. Three at least. What’s wrong?”

      “Nothing.”

      “Then why did you wake me at two in the morning to ask?”

      Shirley could visualize her sister’s blue eyes widening in disbelief, but she resisted divulging anything about the murder in case her mother had been only bourbon sodden and later changed her mind. “Forget it,” she told Faye. “I just had a bad dream about Mama. I dreamt something awful happened to her.”

      Faye asked, “Since when do you hold any stock in dreams?”

      “You’re right,” Shirley said, “dreams don’t mean anything.” She hung up, not surprised that her mother hadn’t confided in Faye, who was known as the stalwart of the family and had never done drugs. Faye always generously opened her Mesquite home to siblings in need of a bed or a home-cooked meal.

      Shirley dialed her other sisters. Connie grumbled because Shirley had called so late, but Phyllis hadn’t gone to bed. All three sisters gave identical replies. None of them had talked with their mother in weeks.

      The fact that her mother had brought over her brother Bobby, now sleeping in the next bedroom, made Shirley realize that Betty wanted him out of the house so he wouldn’t be present when she murdered his stepfather. Her brother Robby lived with their father and Shirley knew better than to involve that household with her problem.

      It worried her to realize that her mother had confided to no one but her, and she had to ask herself, “Why?”

      Betty Barker’s nightgown clung like Saran Wrap as sweat and Wayne’s blood ran down her body. She lacked remorse or guilt over Wayne’s murder. In fact, she felt relieved to be rid of him. Now, no one could take her trailer.

      Crawling out of bed, she turned on the light. The entire room glistened blood red. The sheets were crimson, blood had splashed on the walls, dribbled down the headboard creating ruby stripes, then puddled onto the floor. The back of Wayne’s head held matted hair, but blood poured though the open star-shaped wounds of burst skin.

      She went to the bathroom, eager to wash the smell of Wayne’s blood from her hands. Gun powder smudged her right hand. Hiking up her nightgown, she took it off and stuffed it in the basin of cold water to soak, then threw on an old T-shirt.

      Back in her bedroom, she headed for the closet. Pulling out two sheets of green plastic that a new chair had come wrapped in, she tried to tuck the plastic over and under Wayne’s body until the blood stopped seeping through onto the sheets. Then she hauled out a blue canvas sleeping bag and fully unzipped it. Little by little she rolled Wayne’s body onto it. His weight made everything take much longer than she had anticipated. Once his body lay encased in the bag, she zipped it and slowly rolled him to the edge of the bed. It was like moving a massive chunk of blue granite. She inhaled deeply to give herself strength, then gave him a healthy push. He tumbled off the bed and landed with a thud.

      Nervous energy fueled her. She tossed clothes and shoes out of her closet, then inch by inch dragged him inside. She pushed and shoved, sticking him back far enough so she could slide the door shut.

      She took another look at the room and groaned, then began spraying Lysol generously on the headboard, walls, and floor. Not wanting the blood to set, she scrubbed all the surfaces quickly and thoroughly. She spent much of the night washing sheets, towels, and night clothes. Repeatedly, she rinsed blood out of towels until the water ran pink, then threw them into the washing machine. With everything finally cleaned, she stood under a steaming hot shower, trying to scrub away every last trace of Barker. Now both mentally and physically exhausted, she went to bed and fell soundly asleep.

      After making all the late phone calls, Shirley slept until noon. She awoke to find a note on her pillow from Larry telling her that on his way to work, he would drop Bobby off at a friend’s house to spend the night.

      She strolled into the living room and was shocked to see her mother lying on the living room sofa.

      Without moving, Betty said, “It’s over. I did what I told you I was going to do.”

      Shirley couldn’t believe her mother’s nonchalance. They might as well have been exchanging recipes. Shirley stood frozen, and unable to speak.

      Betty stoically related every detail of the murder from her problem with the pillow to stuffing his body into her closet.

      Shirley’s mind dashed back to the recently dug hole in her mother’s backyard. She had actually noticed it a week before her mother had told her about it. At the time, she wondered why it had been dug, but wouldn’t have imagined Betty’s reason for its being there. Somehow an unwritten rule hung over the family that you didn’t question Mama. Betty had the knack of giving a look that said, “You better obey.” She loved her mother, but she feared asking questions that would make her angry. Lately, it didn’t take much to set Betty off into one of her strange moods.

      Shirley tried to rationalize Betty’s actions by remembering her mother’s stories about Wayne Barker abusing her. Maybe a judge would consider killing a wife abuser self-defense. But what if he didn’t? What if Betty got arrested and went to prison? Shirley couldn’t consider such horror. If I don’t help her bury the body, wouldn’t Mama be more apt to get arrested? she thought.

      In a small voice, Shirley asked, “Have you figured out what you’re going to do?”

      “Somehow I’ve got to get his body into the barbecue pit,” Betty said wryly, with no humor in her voice.

      “By yourself?”

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