Page 71 of Nothing Ever Happens Here

We had a hunch that the Oleander’s was going under, but Shelby did a good job keeping from us how grave it was—that we might have lost our home and been scattered about in different cities at state-funded institutions. So when the call came that not only would all the money Evan stole from cooking the books be recovered from his estate, but that he also made far more than he told Mort about from the podcast, it felt almost poetic. We found out we were safe, even though we didn’t know the extent of how insecure the whole thing really had been.

There was even a little leftover money to buy a foosball table, of all stupid things, but the gang loves it. It causes a lot of arguments and Millie spills a lot of chardonnay on the little plastic men, but all in all, I think it’s an asset to our little rec room. Mort is coveringMoby Dickon hisLiterary Musingspodcast, and he’s invited us all to discuss it in roundtable fashion the way we did with the missing person cases,but nobody is interested so he’s grappling with his drop in ratings, but many people still tune in, to Herb’s utter disbelief.

Gus doesn’t leave Herb’s side. It’s almost like he knows Herb needs him, but I suppose that can’t be true. I like to think so, though. There was a story about a little dog who went to sleep on his owner’s grave every night after the man died, so you never know, do you? They sense so much.

I don’t sleep anymore. I knew what I was doing when I did it, but I didn’t know that I’d never be able to live with myself after. I thought I could put it away somewhere in my mind and rest, knowing that I did the world an enormous kindness, but I can’t.

Herb is always with me now. The others notice sometimes, how we’re always together—always whispering. I try to separate myself from him sometimes so they don’t wonder, but we need each other, and maybe folks know the loss of Bernie changed us all and don’t suspect anything odd is happening, but I guess I can’t really worry about the talk. It will always be there in one way or another.

I text Herb late at night most nights, and he comes over to my room and lies in bed with me. Some nights he makes popcorn and puts onThe Three Stoogesand we try to laugh and forget about what we’ve done, and other nights I cry and think about a man writhing in his own shit and vomit, with bloody eyes, dying in front of me while I did nothing, and I just can’t take it. No matter how evil he was, it wasn’t a humane thing to do.

Herb stays with me and he holds me against him as we lie side by side. Some nights I know he cries too, because I feel a tear land on my neck, but I don’t say anything, I just hold his hand, and we try to make it through the night.

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As weeks pass and the scent of lilac bushes stream in the open screen window of my room, the world begins to feel a little bit different.We have a cookout planned in the yard and I arrive early to set up the croquet set and Herb and Mort arrange plastic tablecloths on top of folding tables on the grass. Millie pours vodka into the punch bowl, and Shelby starts the grill.

Many of the residents’ families come for the occasion—Mack sits at a weathered picnic table and picks at potato salad, Mort is reading a book in an Adirondack chair in the corner and scowling when folks are too loud, and Shelby is laughing as Clay hugs her from behind and takes over the grill in a playful argument.Shelby’s laughing,I think again. Then I watch Pops and June run, skipping over the lawn and blowing soapy bubbles from a toy wand with Gus chasing behind, biting at the bubbles in the air.

I hold a small glass of very strong watermelon punch on my lap and smile at the scene in front of me—the shouts of laughter, the pop song playing on one of the teenager’s phones—Jeffry Patton’s grandson, I think. The smell of fresh-cut grass and charcoal burning, the hiss of the sprinklers—summer in the air.

I see Herb crossing the lawn in my direction. He stops briefly to look at Millie, who is already tipsy and trying to balance a paper plate of food in one hand, unsuccessfully. He gives her a smirk and I hear “Up yours, Herb” as she waddles her way to a picnic table.

Herb pulls up a metal folding chair next to me and puts out his cigar, waving away the smoke for my benefit. He has brought me a glass of punch and sees I already have one, so he shrugs, gulps down one of the glasses in his hand, puts the full glass inside the empty and sits next to me. I raise my eyebrows at him.

“Woo!” He shakes his head, not expecting it to be so strong. We both chuckle at this. We stare out at the backyard party and watch Poppy and June tire of their bubbles and pull at Shelby’s dress asking for ice cream sandwiches,and I feel my heart leap. We’re safe. All of us. It’s over.

Herb puts his hand on top of mine and squeezes it, and I know he feels the same thing—that it wasn’t until today, maybe even this moment, where we could say it’s really over—that it will be okay. That now the air has changed and life has continued and…we had no choice but to become outlaws. We did the right thing.

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