Psychopomp Magazine Summer 2014 - Page 15

away and they had. When they zipped it up in a long black bag and lifted it like a sack of potatoes, the cell phone was still on the floor where I dropped it. One policeman’s rubber-gloved hand scooped up the phone and put it in a plastic bag, and I knew. Knew I shoulda listened to Daryl when he said no police. Just like I should listened when he asked me to cook them oxtails. If I’da been cookin’ ’tails that night . . .

But I sho’ don't feel like cookin’ no ’tails now. I make up my mind about that so I push the whole mess in the grocery bag down on the floor between my feet and kick it backwards under the seat. I run my hand over and around the steerin’ wheel and up and across the dashboard, flakin’ off dried blood and smearin’ some of the wetter spots as I go. I touch the seat next to me and my fingers break the thick film coverin’ a big puddle. My fingers sink in and the smell get stronger. Like scratch n’ sniff. Oh, boy, I’m one funny bitch. Laughter rumble up in my chest and I bring my fingers to my lips and smear the blood there. In the rearview it look like lipstick for love ’stead of paint for war. I wonder what Daryl would think? I reach into the puddle for more, but then I decide to move my hand slowly along the front of the seat, feelin’ where Daryl knees usta touch when I drove. He would press on brake pedals that wasn’t there whenever I swooped around a corner too fast. I smile and taste his blood in my mouth. My hand touch somethin’ cool and hard just underneath the seat and I stretch get my hand all the way around. My hand close around it, and I pull it out from underneath the seat. A nine-millimeter with a blue rag knotted around the handle.

I turn the black weapon over in one hand, place my other hand on top of it. The gun is cool and heavy. I lay it in my lap and rest my head back against the leather. I press against the seat so blood soaks into my shirt. Redman got a lot of Daryl blood on him, too. I wonder if he tried to stop the flow. He was right, too, Redman was. I shoulda cleaned up the car. But I didn’t want to.

After that first shower, I didn’t bathe or nothin’ ’cause I didn’t wanna wash no more of Daryl down the drain. After the police left, I’d walked down the hill to get it and park it in the garage. I slept in the car on Saturday night, when the smell of his blood was strong ’cause the rain that always fall on Good Friday had made it damp and sweaty inside the car. Woke up in it on Easter Sunday mornin’ when the sun that always shines on that day started to bake and thicken the blood on my face, my clothes, my hair. And bright and early Easter Sunday mornin’, I went to go get oxtails for Easter dinner like Daryl wanted.

Now I sit in it with a nine in my lap and a question for Daryl. A slow smile on my face turn into a chuckle then a giggle, then a laugh out loud that bounce around the car and settle in my lap beside the

Shilita Montez | 11