Read Online The Last Days of Dogtown by Anita Diamant - Free Book Online

about her marriage to Caleb Boynton after it happened, as had everyone else: not even Tammy knew about it in advance. She’d bet on December for the baby, Easter chose January, but neither of them turned out to be right. In fact, Polly had grown thinner, and now Boynton was dead. A man of fifty years or more, he was almost old enough to be Polly’s grandfather, but not quite old enough to be dead. Oliver puzzled over Polly all the way home, where everything seemed quiet.
    Tammy was probably asleep, and he was suddenly taken with the idea of sneaking inside, putting the blankets over her face, and pressing down hard enough and long enough for it to be over. He’d empty the larder and eat until he couldn’t swallow another bite. Then he’d take whatever was worth selling — some tools and the knives at least — and head for Riverdale. Steal a rowboat, make his way to Salem and then on to Boston.
    It was an old fantasy, but it had never before seemed so easy. He’d sell the tools and buy a suit of clothes. Sleep in a bed at a real inn. Buy passage for New York or Canada. He could get away with it, too.
    Oliver’s heart raced at the idea, even though he knew he didn’t have it in him. As much as he hated Tammy, he had never been able to kill so much as a chicken; even fishing made him feel wrong with the world. He would never be able to do murder. That’s what those fellows must have meant when they called him a Dogtown pussy. He was weak as a kitten, all right.
    The noise of Stanwood, puffing and muttering, startled him.
    “I get here quick enough for you, little girl?” he asked as he pushed past Oliver and kicked the door open.
    Tammy was sitting in her chair facing the door. Her face was gray, and her eyes narrowed at the sight of him.
    “What the hell are you doing here?” she said. “Salted-down prick.”
    “Aw, now, Tammy, what harm I ever done you?”
    “What did you bring this horse’s ass here for?” She glared at Oliver. “You fetch this sack of shit here to kill me?”
    Oliver slinked over to the wall and looked at the floor, frightened that Tammy had somehow divined his thoughts.
    “Now, Tammy,” Stanwood soothed, “he came to me ’cause Hodgkins is away. Oliver’s just looking after his aunt Tam, ain’tcha, boy?
    “I’ll fix you up better than that clod of a carpenter,” Stanwood said, as gently as a mother talking to a baby. “You know he’s dumber than dirt. You and me, Tammy, we’re the only smart ones left up here. You take another sup of that cider for courage. I’ll have a pull too,” he smiled, “if you don’t mind.”
    Tammy’s breathing slowed as Stanwood sweet-talked her. She was barely awake as it was, worn out by pain and dulled by drink. He poured her another and fed it to her, sip by sip, and then took her by the arm and led her, shuffling, to the table. He put his hands on her waist and lifted her, grasped her ankles and brought her legs around and up, tucking the skirt under, proper and respectful. He placed a hand beneath her head and lay her down, softly. She closed her eyes and fell right to snoring.
    “Hodgkins does it on the chair,” Oliver said softly.
    “Well, that’s just wrong,” said Stanwood, who lifted the jug and swallowed, two, three, four times, before setting it down. “This is the way they do it in the navy.” He uncoiled a length of rope and tied her wrists to the table legs.
    “Hodgkins doesn’t use rope.”
    “Well, I seen it done this way a hundred times,” Stanwood snapped, dropping the show of concern. He looped another piece of rope around Tammy’s arms and waist, binding her down.
    “This way, your patient keeps real still. It’s easier to get a grip like this and then I can do it faster. And faster is better, ain’t it, Tammy.”
    She moaned softly.
    “You’ll see if this ain’t the easiest time you ever had.”
    Stanwood reached into the burlap bag he’d brought and withdrew a mallet and a six-inch wooden wedge.