Page 47

Joe

On Sunday, I spend almost four hours with Melonie, and when I come back to the house, there’s a little blood underneath my nails.

I scrub them in the kitchen sink and listen to see where my wife is.

There’s music playing faintly and the smell of fresh flowers, so I follow the scent and the sounds and find her in the greenhouse off the back deck.

It’s about the size of a two-car garage, and packed with flowers and vegetables of every variety.

There’re two paths that intersect the space, and she’s in the middle of one of them, on her knees, her hands deep in the soil around a zucchini plant.

She’s singing along to a Billy Joel song, which is playing on the radio of the old boom box that sits on the table along the outer wall, right next to a large glass of iced tea and a collection of hand shovels and shears.

My wife has a horrible voice. It pitches when it should soar.

It finds keys that haven’t been discovered yet.

This song is kind to her—“We Didn’t Start the Fire”—as it is really more of a chant than a song.

She knows every word, and it’s a joy to watch her rapid-fire delivery, her chin rocking to the beat as she recites it without taking a breath.

She hears me and turns, a grin stretching across her face as she rises without pausing, her volume increasing in tempo with the song as the second chorus approaches.

She stalks toward me, her energy growing until she is bouncing in place before me, her arms extended, palms out, and it’s a beautiful thing to watch, my wife so full of life and joy as she belts out the chorus with unrestrained enthusiasm.

I join in on the familiar refrain, both of us united in our insistence that we didn’t start the fire.

I don’t dance—it’s not in my DNA—but I spin her in a circle and do a half shuffle, smiling as the smock she’s wearing flares out along with her hair, a top of curls and canvas.

Underneath the smock, she is in cutoff shorts and a thin white tank top.

She’s tan from our weekend hikes, her body toned and strong, her freckles visible on her makeup-free face, and this is the Dinah I love the most. Weekend Dinah, away from her caseload and her uniform—her spirit wild, heart happy, her focus entirely on us and this time.

I pull her to me and kiss her, and she grins against my mouth, nipping my bottom lip before pulling away.

“Fill that bucket?” she calls out, pointing to a yellow bucket at the end of the aisle.

Bobbing her head to the next song’s beat, she returns to her spot and drops to her knees.

I pick up the bucket and carry it into the kitchen, where I put it on the floor next to the sink. Pulling the long hand sprayer from its spot by the faucet, I stretch it out and hang it in the bucket, locking it into place and letting it fill while I use the bleach spray to wipe down the counters.

Melonie didn’t bleed a lot. I double-check my shirt and pants carefully, but the disposable jumpsuit I wore on top did a proper job of protecting them.

Killing is a task I never enjoy but one that is necessary—the retirement of a piece of equipment that has outlived its usefulness.

Besides, now we have an open room, one that Jessica can transition to as soon as she accepts and admits that she is responsible for her mother’s death.

She’s close. I’m willing to bet it will happen tomorrow.

I take the paper towels I used and push them deep into the trash, then pull the bag out and double knot it at the top, setting it by the back door.

All our ranch trash goes into the fire bin.

I’ll start the burn in the afternoon, and add charcoal to the bin to disguise the smell of burning flesh.

There’s usually a chill in the air when the sun sets, so it will provide some pleasant warmth while we hang out on the deck and listen to music and grill steaks.

I haven’t had to burn a body in a while, but this week is an exception, which is why the bin is almost overflowing despite its large size.

It’ll take over two hours for the fire to break down the body to bones.

I’ll put cedar and more charcoal on top of the bones so that it’ll smell good by the time Dinah joins me.

Before her family comes next week, I’ll go on a hike and bury the bones a mile or so out into the woods.

I can fit an entire body in my camp pack.

The skull starts out as the biggest bone but is easy to shatter into smaller parts once it burns long enough.

I turn off the water and return the sprayer, then carry the bucket back to my wife. She is now in the throes of a Toto song, wailing to “Africa.” I set it down and our eyes meet, and she smiles and I’ve never been so in love with her.