The game plan for tonight is simple and as soon as the sun sets, we're heading to the cemetery. However, we're first stopping at a grocery store and loading up on three dozen eggs … one for me, one for Connor, and one for Barb. Jillian is still steadfastly refusing to actively participate, although she's going to go and watch us. Disdainfully, I'm sure. After Barb does her pissing thing, we'll seek out a good neighborhood that isn't too well lit and has plenty of side yards with no fences. That way, if we're pursued, we can run through easily. Getting caught and having to escape is half the excitement of doing this.
It's an odd mixture of things that we're doing tonight, but I've come to learn that this trip is nothing like I thought it was going to be.
♦
I remember the first day in group as I was assessing everyone, some things were quite clear.
Jillian really didn't belong there.
Connor was clearly physically ill and dying.
And Barb had established herself as an anti-social right off the bat. When asked to introduce herself, she merely snapped at Mags, "I'm Barb. I have a bad habit of trying to kill myself. Apparently, I suck at it. I'm here by court order, but don't expect me to say a fucking thing else."
My eyes had dropped down to Barb's wrists where lines of scars were obvious and so I knew a blade was her choice of weapon long before she told us the story of her mother daring her to do it.
That memory is on my mind when we get to the cemetery. Night has completely settled in, and it's quite dark. Light poles stretch periodically down the winding road that meanders through the plots, but I let Barb direct where we need to go.
Finally, she tells me to stop, and I do, shutting off the engine and plunging us into darkness as the nearest lamppost is a good fifty yards behind us.
Barb snags her backpack and opens the passenger door, but Jillian stops her by asking, "You want us to come with you?"
"I don't give a fuck," Barb says before jumping out and slamming the door behind her.
Without any hesitation, Jillian and Connor scramble out of the Suburban. With a sigh, I follow behind them. I have no clue what the fuck is fixing to happen, and I'm probably not equipped if a meltdown occurs. I've got a joint in my cargo pants, and I should probably just set my ass on a gravestone and watch everything unfurl while getting high.
Barb pulls a flashlight out of her backpack and cuts across three rows of graves until she finds the one she's looking for. She paces down ten more plots and stops, shining her flashlight on a simple, rectangular headstone with the words James Canton and the years that spanned his life carved into it. Looks like he died when he was forty-seven.
"Is this your uncle who molested you?" Jillian asks quietly as she comes to stand beside Barb. I'm stunned that Jillian would ask her that point blank. Mags was the only one who pushed Barb to share.
To my further surprise, Barb nods as she stares at the grave. "Yeah. He died about six months ago in prison."
"For what he did to you?" Jillian asks. Connor and I stay back a few feet, silently listening.
Barb nods again. "After I cut myself in my parents' kitchen, I was committed to a hospital. I told my shrink the truth about what my uncle was doing to me, and he involved the police since I was a minor. Of course, my parents-well, mostly my mom since he was her brother-still refused to believe it. But I proved them wrong eventually."
"How?" Jillian whispered.
"Because I gave birth to his son five months later. DNA proved he was the father, so he was arrested for diddling his niece and sent to prison."
"Jesus," Connor mutters, and I have to admit … that's some fucking wild news she's laying on us. A tiny pulse of sympathy for Barb starts to unfurl within me.
Jillian puts her hand on Barb's shoulder. She flinches slightly but doesn't move. "He died in prison. Fucking pneumonia if you can believe it, which was far easier than he deserved."
I didn't think she'd go for it, but Jillian was not to be daunted by an uncomfortable subject. Just like Mags would have done if she were here, Jillian gives her a gentle push. "And the baby?"
Barb's words are completely flat, toneless … absolutely emotionless. If I had to pick a color for her words, I'd call them gray. "I gave him up for adoption. I wasn't in any shape to care for him. All I wanted to do was die."
"That was very brave of you," Jillian says softly.
There's a few moments of silence as Barb and Jillian stare at the headstone, while Connor and I stare at them, before Barb drops her backpack to the side of the grave and hands the flashlight to Jillian.
"Well, let's get this over with, shall we?" Barb says as she starts to unbutton her faded jeans.
Connor immediately turns around, but I don't. I know Barb doesn't care, and I can't see shit anyway as she's facing us and her shirt hangs low enough to cover her private parts. Jillian also watches as Barb pushes her jeans and underwear down, squats right over the top of the grave, and starts to pee. She lets out a steady stream that hisses and makes a splattering noise on the dirt and sparse grass. It goes for a long time, and when she's completely empty, she straightens and efficiently pulls her pants back up.
"You can turn around now, kid," I mutter to Connor, and he does.
"Feel better?" I ask Barb, because honestly … for someone as volatile as Barb, peeing on a grave is kind of lame in my opinion.
"Not quite yet." Her voice has a tinge of what I'd call mischievous malice.
Bending over, she grabs her backpack, turns toward Jillian to shine the flashlight into it, and then she pulls out a hammer. When she looks up, I can see an evil glint in her eye from the glow of the flashlight.
"What are you going to do?" Connor asks fearfully. He takes a step back, because really … why is she carrying around a hammer? I think he truly believes Barb may try to kill us or something.
But not me. I just silently watch as she turns to the headstone and swings the pronged end of the hammer right at her uncle's name. Chips of concrete go flying, as this isn't any type of fancy marble stone. She swings the hammer again and again, hitting at the name and the dates, until they are completely obliterated from the tombstone. She doesn't try to gouge deep, just enough to erase the engraved grooves. It takes her several well-aimed strikes, but when she's finished-chest heaving from the exertion and sweat running down her face-her tone is unnaturally light, "There … now I feel better."
Barb then coughs up a huge glob of spit and sends it flying at the mangled headstone. "Now you're nothing," she whispers with a smile on her face as her loogie slides down the front of the marker.
She watches it a moment before turning to us. Jillian has the flashlight aimed at her, but only at chest height so she's not blinded. Still, there's enough light that I can see a wide smile on Barb's face.
It's filled with vindication, joy, and accomplishment. Many would think this to have been a very cathartic event for her, but I know enough about that deep type of despair to realize there's probably no way she can ever shake that shit off completely.
Chapter 10
The neighborhood is perfect. Square lots that back up to one another, little to no fencing, and pretty much set in a grid pattern that will make navigation easy. I left my Suburban parked five blocks away, and we'll stay a good two blocks away from it in our pursuits tonight. The sidewalks are lined with large trees that help to filter out the streetlights, and the only real problem with exposure is from porch lights. Luckily for us, we won't be getting that close to the houses.
"Okay, there's an etiquette to egging," I tell the group as we squat down behind a bush at the edge of our first target's yard. I can't squat down as far as the others because of my prosthesis, but I can get low enough that I'm part of the tight circle we've formed. Jillian on my left, Barb to my right, and Connor opposite of me. He looks at me with earnest dedication, as if I'm teaching him how to perform open-heart surgery.
"First," I continue. "No houses that are completely dark. There's no risk in that, which means there's no fun in that. Try to aim for windows or storm doors, particularly ones where the occupants might be standing near. It helps to scare the shit out of them."
Connor nods in understanding, committing this rule to memory. Barb rolls her eyes and Jillian tries to look censuring, but I can see the amusement in the tilt of her lips.
"Second … we all throw together on my count. Once your egg makes contact with the structure, we run to our next designated point."
"Why do you get to count?" Jillian asks.
"Be quiet," I tell her with a stern look. "You're not participating so you have no say."
She giggles in response and Christ … I like that sound. My scar pinches, which means I'm smiling, and I give into it.
Turning back to Connor, I make sure he understands the most important rule. "Finally, don't panic if you're pursued. Ditch the rest of the eggs if you can without being seen. If you're caught, deny everything."
Connor swallows hard but nods again, his eyes starting to sparkle with excitement.
"Are we ready?" I ask the group.