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  So now I sit and wait. I heard there's been a string of shootings over in Council Bluffs , with a familiar M.O., and it's not a long drive to get here. The request line blinks, as lonely as the last morning star. Wayne is on the other end.

  “Looks like it's just you and me,” I say.

  “Rock on, dude.”

  I do.

  THE END

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  HOW TO BUILD YOUR OWN COFFIN

  By Scott Nicholson

  Blood and nails, that's all you need.

  Larry ran his hand over the wood. Smooth as a baby's ass and a mother's tit. He'd planed the cherry himself, by hand, not with one of those machines. Sure, he'd caught a few splinters, but that was the blood part of this business.

  And what were a few calluses? Skin turned to dust just as surely as brain and bone did. And your heart probably crumbled faster than any of it. The meat didn't matter. What mattered was how you walked off the stage. That's what they remembered. And Larry McMasters was going to go out in style.

  He dipped his brush into the shellac and lifted it to the lamplight. The thick, golden material hung from the brush like honey. If he sealed the wood, it would keep underground for a few months longer, maybe even a year. Would that be honest, though? Wouldn't that be putting just another layer between him and his return to the dirt?

  Larry wiped the brush clean on the edge of the bucket and set it to soak in turpentine. Best to go with plain, bare wood. Like what surrounded him here in the barn. The barn itself was like a coffin, except it was filled to busting with life, chickens and pigs and old Zaint the horse. Zaint was so far faded he was about half glue, but he kept heading to the pasture of a morning and turning up again every night.

  Larry's pastures had seen more drought than plenty. His days in the world hadn't added up to much. Fourteen years loading produce on trucks paid him with a bad back and a smoking habit. Oh, he'd had about eighteen good years before that, when his parents were still around to pay the bills, but those were so long ago and far away that they might as well have been in a book, or somebody else's memory.

  Once in a while over the years, he'd had stretches where getting out of bed wasn't such a lost cause. This last year had shown some promise, which made it the cruelest and slowest of them all. And the blame belonged squarely on Betty Ann Armfield. Betty Ann. Betty Ann.

  Larry gritted his teeth and laid the crown molding along the edge of the coffin to test for length. When you mitered the joints, you had to allow for that little bit of extra distance. There would be no putty or wood filler used on this job. No crack could be wider than a spider's leg. Larry's coffin had to be as airtight as possible so the rotting would be proper, from the inside out.

  The phone rang in the house. That would be her.

  Larry slammed his hammer against the work bench, causing his tools to jump and raising a ruckus among the hens. He looked at the angled box before him, six sides, planks straight, the knots aligned in something approaching art. Not that Larry had much use for art, besides the art of dying. But you did things right while you were on this earth, and let things take care of themselves after you were under it.

  The phone bleated again, as insistent as a pregnant ewe. Larry wiped the hammer handle and hung the tool from its pegs. The handsaw gave a dull grin, hungry for another meal of hardwood. Or maybe that was only his blurred reflection. He'd have to polish the saw later. But right now he had to answer the phone.

  He stepped out of the barn into sunshine and tasted the mountain air. Rocks, water, grass, and trees, he had plenty of those. He owned seven acres of dirt, some bottom land and a ridgeline. He couldn't own any woman, though, and he couldn't make any of them love his land.

  The walk to the house took thirteen seconds, another seven to get through the kitchen, and two more to get the phone to his ear. Betty Ann knew the distance, probably had an egg timer running at her end, and if Larry was ever more than five seconds late—

  “Hello?”

  Usually he just said, “Hello, Betty Ann,” but once in a while he got a call from work and those damned telemarketers had been trying to give him credit cards lately. He didn't believe in borrowing. You pay as you go, and when you had a chance, you paid a little bit ahead.

  “Larry.”

  “Hey, Betty Ann.”

  “Where you been?”

  “Working in the barn.”

  “You and your damned wood. You ready?”

  “We ought not talk about this kind of thing on the phone.”

  Her laughter sounded electronic, as if she were one of those pull-string dolls. “You've always been paranoid, ain't you, Larry?”

  “Just cautious, is all.”

  “Cautious, my ass. Chickenshit, you mean. If it wasn't for me, you think you'd ever have a woman? Think anybody else could stand you? Any other woman let you play smoochie and run your hand down her skirt and—”

  “That's not proper talk for a lady.”

  “I ain't a lady no more. Not after tonight.”

  Larry looked out the window, at the long dirt drive that led to the highway. “You sure you want to go through with this?”

  “You ain’t thinking of backing out on me now, are you? You better grow some balls and fast.”

  Larry expected the blue lights to come down the drive any minute, because cops could probably read minds. And if not, they knew how to tap into phone lines, and Betty Ann never could keep her damned mouth shut. “I—I'm with you, honey. I promised, didn't I?”

  “A promise from a man. Hah, that's worth about as much as an egg from a mule. You only promised because I was giving you my yummy sweet sugar at the time. Remember?”

  Larry clenched his hand around the phone. He nearly flung it at the Franklin stove, but the Franklin had been in the family for four generations. Maybe he'd start a fire with his coffin scraps and melt down the phone later. “Of course I remember, darling.”

  “And after, that part about snuggling in the dark. Bet you never heard pillow talk like that before.”

  He had to admit he hadn't. But he didn't want to admit it out loud. Not when they might hear. It was bad enough, him knowing. And Betty Ann knowing. And whoever Betty Ann blabbed to, at the hairdresser's or the Baptist Church or the Stateline Tavern.

  “You know that kind of thing gets me all worked up,” Larry said. “That's stuff's for in the dark, not out here in the daylight where God and everybody can see.”

  Betty Ann laughed. “You must have forgot about that time in the hayloft.”

  “Don't do this, Betty Ann. It's hard enough as it is.”

  “You know all about hard, don't you?”

  Larry looked out the window at the far slopes of granite, the worn edges of the Blue Ridge. When you got mad, you just had to look way off in the distance, his Daddy always said. Daddy wasn't born a fool, just ended up that way. “That's enough of that. I made a promise, and I'll keep it. Are you going to keep yours?”

  “But you ain't said what you wanted yet.” She lowered her voice into the husky whisper that sounded like the result of a lot of practice. “But I got a good idea.”

  “I'll pick you up at seven. Like we planned.”

  “Like we planned.”

  “Bye, now.”

  “Bye. I love you.”

  The click of the phone rattled around inside his skull, bouncing against that word “love.” He'd heard that word a time or two before. And then push always comes to shove, and you find out it doesn't mean a thing. It's just a word.

  He went back to the barn. He spread the velvet lining in the coffin and stapled it into place. Most people went with black velvet, but Larry believed in Royal blue. There was something churchy and sacred about it. When you went under the dirt, you wanted all the comfort you could get.

  Glue had leaked from one of the corners where the angled wood met. Larry took a chisel from the workbench and scraped the clot free. He f
elt along the joint. Not a stray splinter, tight as a mouse's ear. He was getting better with practice.

  He finished up just as the sun set on the hills. He tested the fit of the lid one last time. The lid wasn't so heavy, and he'd drilled holes where the nails would go. This would work just fine.

  At least, the part you could count on. Wood was straight up and honest, you could shape it and trim it and make something that would last. You could build your own coffin with no problem. But you had to have somebody to drive the nails, because you damned sure couldn't do it from the inside.

  He set the lid aside, wiped his tools, and saw that everything was laid out on the workbench. He blew out the lamp and hung it by the barn door. It was time to pick up Betty Ann.

  Larry sat in his Ford and looked around the trailer park. Betty Ann could do better than this place. She was plenty dumb enough to marry some farmer and have a bunch of kids. You got married to the dirt up here, one way or the other. Some put it off for as long as possible, but the mountains always took you anyway.

  He blew the horn. Betty Ann wanted him to be right on the button, but she didn't mind a bit to keep him waiting. Finally, the trailer door opened and she waved.

  Larry swallowed hard. She was wearing the red dress. Not a good choice for what they were about to do, because it made her easy to remember. Larry remembered just fine. Maybe a little too fine, because his pulse was running hard, and he needed to be calm for what they were about to do.

  She slid into the truck beside him and squeezed his leg. “Ready for anything?”

  He pushed her hand away. “I keep my promises.”

  “So that's how you're going to be about it.”

  “The things I do for you.”

  “Don't forget the things I do for you.”

  Larry wanted real bad to lean over and kiss her. She was the prettiest of them all. But she said “love” too easy and often. She looked like the lying kind.

  They'd find out about all that later, whether this was for real or not. He had a promise to keep, and so did she. He started the Ford and headed toward Tennessee.

  They drove fifty miles, running past the dark quiet of Watauga Lake, winding through Shady Valley where the cows outnumbered the people, and then followed a gravel road along the river.

  “You scared?” Betty Ann said. She'd been quiet for the last half-hour, a long stretch for her. She must have been thinking.

  Larry had been thinking, too. “Not about this. I'm scared about the rest of it. About later.”

  “I'll take care of you.” Her hand was on his leg again. This time, Larry didn't push it away. He stared ahead where the black road met the headlights.

  “I know. Because you promised.”

  Betty Ann murmured happily beside him. She'd probably been looking for a dream man all her life. And that was what she found. A dream man.

  He said, “Other women made promises. Some got broken.”

  “Larry, you ought to know by now that I ain't like other women.” She leaned over and her breath was on his neck, and then, brief as a hummingbird, her tongue flicked across his skin.

  “You'd best quit that so I can drive.”

  They were under the lights now, on the four-lane. Cars skimmed by in the night. Larry wondered where the cars were headed. He was willing to bet that everybody else in the world planned on sleeping in a normal bed tonight, that they didn't have the kind of dreams Larry had.

  “Here it is,” Betty Ann said.

  The gas station had four pumps, and Larry was relieved they didn't take credit cards. An electric Marlboro sign flickered in the window. The man behind the counter was hidden by a row of fan belts. “You sure this is it?”

  “Trucker told me about it. The owner's weird, he don't believe in banks. Thinks they're all run by thieving Jews.”

  One truck was parked behind the store, a slow hunk of steel that had four wheels on the back axle. It was a Chevy. No need to worry about getting chased down.

  Larry parked by the door and left the engine running. If he had any sense, he ought to push Betty Ann out and let her thumb and screw her way back to North Carolina. But he didn't have a lick of sense, not where she was concerned. Plus, he'd made a promise.

  He took the gun from the glove box. It was Daddy's, a .32 revolver that didn't have much knock-down but was big enough to move money. He tucked the gun under his arm and opened the door.

  Betty Ann leaned over and kissed him before he got out. “For luck,” she said.

  The kiss tasted of sawdust.

  The lights were dim, probably because the cheapskate owner tried to save on the power bills. The beer cooler in back looked tempting, but Larry had a long drive home. Rounded mirrors hung in the corners of the ceiling, but there were no video cameras. He went up to the counter and chose a can of snuff, the real kind, not that sissy, grainy stuff in the plastic cans.

  He laid the snuff on the counter and met the man's eyes.

  “That all?” The man looked to be a hundred-and-fifty, or maybe it was the bad fluorescent lights. He looked mean and cheap. Larry didn't dread this anymore. It was just another chore, something you did to get what you wanted. It was like making two pieces of wood fit.

  He pulled out the gun, and the rest of it went like they were in a movie, like they both knew what to do and wanted to get it over with. The old man cleaned out the register, handed over his wallet, and even put the snuff in a bag. Larry backed out, checked for traffic, and tucked the gun under his arm. The old man even waved good-bye.

  “Here.” Larry tossed the money and the wallet into Betty Ann's sweet lap. “Like I promised.”

  “I love you,” she said.

  Larry glanced into the rear-view mirror. He wondered what kind of description the old man would give. Should have shot him. But that wasn't his way. You met the dirt when the time was right. He gunned the truck out of the lot and roared away into the Appalachian night.

  They went back to his farm, the way they had planned. Larry had to admit the whole thing had gone smoothly. At least the first part of it, her part. He wondered if his part would be smooth, too.

  They stood under the stars. Not a streetlight marred the dark view. This was how a man was supposed to live. Too bad none of his women wanted to live this way.

  “Seven hundred and twelve dollars,” Betty Ann said. “Plus some change.”

  “I could get the tractor fixed with that.”

  “You and your tractor.”

  “All you think about is getting out of here. You know how many gas stations you'd have to rob to even make it to the Mississippi?”

  “It's a start.”

  “No. You're born to this mountain dirt. You belong to it.”

  “Don't start getting weird on me again, Larry.”

  “You're the one that keeps talking about love. And promises.”

  Betty Ann shut up for the second time that night. Larry would have to remember that for the future. If they had a future.

  “I kept my promise, what about yours?” he said.

  She came to him and hugged him, pressed those curves against him. The bills in her hand scratched his cheek. Her lips were soft. The red dress was thin.

  “Want to go inside?” she whispered.

  “The barn.”

  “Ooh. The hayloft again.”

  Larry took her hand and led her down the path that he knew so well. The barn was still, the animals mostly asleep. Old Zaint had put himself up in the stall, and the chickens had their heads tucked under their wings. Nobody would see.

  Except maybe the cops. One day they’d get around to digging behind the barn. But maybe Larry wouldn’t be here when that happened. Betty Ann might be, or might not be, depending.

  He lit the lamp and took her to the workbench. The coffin glowed in the lamplight. It was his best ever. He couldn't keep down the pride that warmed his chest.

  “What do you think?” he said.

  “Damn, Larry. It's a . . .”

  “What
do you think?”

  “What's going on?”

  “Your part of the promise. I need to know if I can trust you.”

  Betty Ann backed away. She looked scared, but she didn't let go of the money.

  “Do you love me?” Larry said. He picked up the hammer. And the most important part, the nails.

  Betty Ann made it to the door, but Larry knew about how they tried to run. The first one had almost made it to the creek. Almost. But Larry had fixed the door after that.

  She pressed against the wood, her eyes rolling around, looking for a place to hide. There was no hiding from promises. Larry approached her, holding out the hammer and nails.

  “You promised,” he said.

  This time her whisper wasn't the husky, practiced kind. “Don't hurt me.”

  “I would never hurt you. I love you, remember?”

  “What do you want?”

  “I did for you, now you do for me.” He pointed to the coffin, hoping she'd be impressed by the craft he'd put into it. “I want you to seal me up.”

  She didn't understand. They never understood. “Bury you? But you ain’t dead yet.”

  “I’m just trying it out beforehand. Dying’s too important a business to put off till the last minute. Need to check for size and comfort, and I can't do it alone. It takes two.”

  “You're crazy.”

  Larry stared at the lamp until his eyes burned. “You love me. At least, that's what you said. I risk life and jail and reputation for you, and you won't do one little thing for me.”

  He turned away. She was like the others. You ought to know better than to hope. You ought to know by now that love is just a word, a selfish, lying, hurting word.

  Then her hand was on his shoulder. Something had changed between them. Maybe, seeing that Larry was willing to kill for her if necessary, Betty Ann had found a strange respect. “I always knew you was weird.”