Groundhog Day

"Murder is horrible," is all he would say. "And as a man covers his tracks up it only gets worse."


H
ello?"

"He's dead."

"How do you know it's a he?"

"I turned him over. It was pretty obvious."

"Thank God. What are you going to do with him?"

"Do? What do you mean?"

"What do you think, Barney. You can't leave him outside. The neighbors will talk."

"I thought I'd stuff him in the trash can."

"And let the haulers know what's going on? They're the biggest gossips in the neighborhood. They'll tell Edie and she'll tell Barbra and then Tiffani and Elisabeth will know. We'll never be able to go to church again."

"All right, then, I'll bury him."

"Can't. It's against homeowner association by-laws. If Charles finds out, we'll never hear the end of it."

"But what am I going to do with him?"

"I don't know. Think of something. But get rid of it."

He sighed, "All right. I've got to run. My flight leaves at seven. When will you be home?"

"Late. They scheduled another presentation for 6:30."

"But what am I going to do for dinner?"

"Do I have to run your whole life for you, Barney? Go out. Or let Carmelita fix you something."

"Oh I'd hate to do that. She's working so hard on the fete."

"That's not until tomorrow night. Pick up something while you're out. Get something for me as well. Nothing with peanuts in it; I think I'm developing an allergy."

"All right. Bye-bye, Chynna."


Barney flipped the cell phone closed and looked at the groundhog sprawled on his back. Yep, a male all right. A big one, too; bigger than the biggest cat he'd ever seen. He had put up a terrible fight when Fido flushed him out from under the backyard shed, until the border collie clamped down on the back of the neck and snuffed its life.

He looked over the boxwood hedge at his neighbor's house. Their gardener had left earlier in the day, thank God, and Peter and Rachel were at work. He did a slow circuit of the other yards, riffling through his memory for their jobs and schedules: vacationing in Nepal, on a business trip, fraud deposition in court, at work. Charlie's home, but he rarely leaves his basement office until the cocktail hour. All of the brick and ivy-covered houses silent and empty witnesses to the terrible battle that had interrupted Barney while he was upstairs packing for his trip to New York.

He had just found his portable steam iron when he heard the explosion of hisses and barks. He went to the window and saw something out of the old "Wild Kingdom" show he watched as a kid: a battle to the death between dog and groundhog. By the time he rushed out, it was over, and Fido was standing over the body, panting and looking as happy as a dog could ever look. The thought of getting rid of it made his stomach lurch, but something had to be done. In this gated community of neatly manicured grass and geometrically-cut hedges, the corpse was an affront to order. It was tacky.

"Christ," he said to himself. " ‘Get rid of the body.' What am I? Vince Vega? And no Wolf to help. I've never done this before. Last dead body I had to get rid of was the kids' goldfish. Flushed that one away. Can't do it with this one. Chop it up? Urrk." He tasted bile and thought. The flies started to find the groundhog, who would have seemed to be asleep were it not for the unnatural pose. And the open eyes.

His cell-phone rang.

"Hello?"

"Well?"

"I'm still thinking."

"When's your flight?"

"Four p.m."

"That only gives you an hour, Barney. You need to move now."

"I will. I just had to think about it."

"Just put the groundhog in a box and dump it."

"Where?"

"Where? Anywhere, Barney. By the side of the road. Behind a store. They've got Dumpsters there. They won't notice."

"How about Abbott's Market? That's nearby."

"Don't forget the meat order. Carmelita needs it for tomorrow." She hung up.


It was the work of a moment to prepare the container. He found a case of creamed corn in the basement, the remains of a shopping expedition to the food warehouse. He emptied the box and lined it with two trash bags, an improvement on his wife's scheme that made him inordinately proud. Then he found where the gardener had put the shovel in the shed and approached the body.

Barney poked at it with the shovel. It quivered like a thickened bowl of gelatin, and a queasiness came over him. The first attempts to pick it up failed. The groundhog was larger than the blade, and it rolled off and hit the ground with a squishy thud. Barney tilted the box on its side, and succeeded in rolling the creature into it He uprighted the box with the shovel, and the shifting weight caused it to rock twice before settling. For added security, he taped down the flaps with clear packing tape. Didn't look so much like a body anymore.

Abbott's Market sat on a corner just outside the main gate. Barney parked in back by the Dumpster and breathed deeply the scent of rotting food and sewage. Life had always been clean and overlaid with artificial scents: apples in the kitchen, potpourri in the living room, cleanser in the bathrooms, heavily filtered and cooled air in the glass tower by the Capitol Beltway where he worked. Parking his BMW behind the market made him feel like he was part of a movie where a shady deal was about to go down.

He slid on his sunglasses; it seemed an appropriate response to the job at hand. He popped the trunk and rolled out of the driver's seat. He had just raised the lid when he heard a door slam open behind him.

"Hi, Mr. Bagwell," the voice came nearer with startling rapidity.

"Oh, hi, Frank," he said. "How's, um, how's the new job?"

"Great," Frank set down the stack of crushed boxes and stretched. "I've got another two weeks before school starts."

"Great, great," Barney thought he sounded like a parrot. He edged closer to the trunk to try and block Frank's view of the box. "And, um, how are your parents?"

Frank shrugged. "Not so good. They've been seeing a counselor about their marriage."

"Oh," Barney never knew what to say when confronted with information like this. Frank didn't seem sad about it. "My condolences" makes it sound like the marriage had died. "They'll work it out," sounds like a lie. He'd seen too many marriages not work out. He fell back on the standard line: "I'm sorry."

"Hey, is that one of our boxes?"

Barney jumped like he had been nudged with a taser. He laid his hand on the creamed-corn box.

"You shouldn't been seen doing this, Mr. Bagwell. At least not during daytime."

"Yes, well . . ."

"Best time for that is night. You don't know who's going to drive by."

"Yes, well . . ."

Frank looked around Barney into the trunk. The box seemed to grow bigger in Barney's imagination until he wondered how he had been able to close the lid in the first place.

"Of course, you'd need a flashlight to see by . . ."

"Right, right, flashlight."

"I've done it lots of times."

That stopped Barney cold. "You do?"

"Sure. Happens a lot around here."

"Really."

"Lots. You wouldn't believe who I've seen back here."

"Really? And they were . . ."

"Dumpster diving. We throw out a lot of stuff here that people pick up. Outdated food, busted or bulging cans, ripped paper products. Opened my eyes. I thought people around here were too rich to be rooting through trash cans."

"Oh, ah, well. I guess I better be going."

"That's a good idea, Mr. Bagwell," The teen leaned closer and actually put his hand on the older man's arm, "before someone sees you and tells."

"Yes, yes. I'm grateful." A sudden inspiration seized him, and he lifted the box. "Let me put this back, so you don't get into trouble."

"No, no," Frank eased the box back into the trunk and closed the lid. "If you need it, you should have it. God loveth a cheerful given, you know."

There was a pause, and Barney caught the gleam of expectation in Frank's eye. He knew Frank's father, a real estate speculator who seemed to have his fingers in a lot of deals. Just to be on the safe side, he pulled out his wallet and forked over a twenty.

"Thanks a lot, Mr. Bagwell. You won't regret it," Frank said. He picked up the flattened boxes and headed for the Dumpster, and while Barney turned the BMW around, stood there, waving.


A little later.

"Hello?"

"Did you do it?"

"Not yet."

Through the tinny connection, he could hear his wife sigh.

"Barney, what is the problem?"

"It's tougher than it looks! I got caught at the market by Frank Junior's kid." He knew better than to mention the twenty he paid to haul away a dead animal. "I checked the Staples; they have their sealed."

"Staples? Why didn't you try Office Depot? You always go there."

"Same thing. A lot of stores have locks on their Dumpsters. I guess more people dive through them than I expected."

"Where are you."

"On the bridge, heading west."

"You don't have enough time."

"I will, I will. I just won't be able to pick up dinner."

"That's all right. We're ordering in. Pot stickers and Thai. We're going to be here late."

"OK, I'll see you at the party tomorrow."

"Fine, but just get rid of it. And don't get caught."


Barney flipped shut the phone and tapped the wheel nervously. He reflexively checked his watch, counting the minutes until he had to catch his flight. He never knew how hard it was to get rid of something surreptitiously. By habit and inclination, he had always followed the rules. He had never put himself in a situation where he had to justify his actions to any authority (except his wife). Now, he was outside the rules, making it up as he goes along. It felt dangerous and stressful, this push into unknown and unexplored territory.

Inspiration came in the form of a passing sign: Rest Area Ahead. He needed to pee badly, but even better, there were trash cans there. Barrels chained to trees and poles. A plan sprang fully formed, and Barney felt light-headed from the unfamiliar sensation. He would use the bathroom, then park in the farthest corner and dump the box into one of the barrels. If he hurried, he could still catch his flight.

The parking lot was nearly deserted when Barney pulled up to the main building, next to a plain black VW van with tinted windows. He got out and looked around, telling himself to slow down, there's nothing illegal about a man trying to find a secret place to dump a dead animal. Much.

The rest stop was nestled amid a stand of pine trees, and the intense scent seemed more unnatural to Barney's nose than diesel fumes. He did his business in the bathroom, walked out, and looked around.

At the far end of the parking lot, near barrels ideal for his task, sat a sports car. The driver could be seen through the window. Two guys in overalls was listlessly raking a picnic area, and he could near snatches of lively talk and jokes. Another man in overalls could be heard alongside one of the buildings, rattling a metallic bucket and splashing water. Barney hesitated, unsure of what to do next. Dumping the box in front of a witness made him nervous, but he didn't quite know how to bring off a studied nonchalance. He settled for leaning against the side of the van and pretending to look in his wallet.

The sound of a car door opening drew his attention. A tall, thin man with horn-rim cheaters eased himself out of the sports car, and, with one fluid motion, tossed a small package into the trash can. He eased himself back into his car, put it into reverse, backed out of the space, and pulled onto the ramp leading to the interstate.

Something in the man's confident motions spurred in Barney the need for action. "Just do it," he said. He got in his car and backed it out. In a fit of elan, he continued backing toward the parking space, weaving slightly as he did, and didn't stop until the wheels came in contact with the curb next to the barrels.

Barney popped the trunk, swung out of the car and lifted the box. That's when he saw the rifles.

Men with rifles. Big men. Coming out of the woods. Toward him. Big rifles. Cannons, actually. Barney froze and gaped.

Through his peripheral vision, he could see equally large shapes pass on both sides of him, equally armed, some with handguns, others with rifles mounted with scopes. Like in a dream, passing before his eyes were large yellow letters that resolved into words: FBI and POLICE.

"May I see some identification, sir?" A man taller than Barney was clearly invading his personal space. Barney looked up, but any sign of humanity, of humor or of salvation, was lost behind the mirrored sunglasses and the cop's hat with the deeply engraved badge pinned to the brim. He thrust the box at the officer and reached for his wallet, fumbled it once, then handed it over. A pause. He realized that the officer still held the box, Barney awkwardly took it back before finishing the transfer.

While the officer wrote down the information, Barney could see the FBI agents and police root through the trash can. One of them came up with a plain box and tore off the wrapping.

"That it?"

"Careful, we'll try for prints."

"On tape?"

"Got it all."

"What do we do with him?" Barney's officer tapped him on the chest with a pen.

One man detached himself from the group around the trash can. He was wearing a heavy black jacket and had an ID badge with a mug shot as severe as the expression he was wearing. His eyes scanned the clipboard and at Barney's driver's license.

"Let him go." The man looked at Barney with an expression of distaste mingled with indifference, but he got the feeling that in that moment, all pertinent information had been stored deep in the man's memory.

Barney shifted the box back and forth in his hands, wondering if he should still try to drop it in another trash can, but his reason and nerve failed him. He tossed it in the trunk, and shakily pulled away from the scene.


"Hello?"

"Is it done?"

"Yes."

"About time. Where are you?"

"On my way to the airport. I gotta hurry."

"OK, see you tomorrow?"

"About six."

"OK, bye."

"Bye-bye."

Barney folded the cell-phone and dropped it into his pocket. He closed the front door, tested the knob to see that it caught, and trotted to the car. He checked his watch again. He'll miss the flight, but there was another one leaving in an hour, and he can make that. He inhaled deeply several times, then held his breath like his breathing guru had taught him before letting it out slowly.

As he pulled away, he tried to recall when his wife last looked in the freezer.


He had forgotten about the groundhog by the time the he walked into the back yard the next day and saw that the party was well under way. He greeted the guests and accepting their compliments for the spread laid before them, the smoked Camembert and roasted Brie, the pate, the admirable selection of wines. Fido was in his element, passing among the guests, daintily accepting nibbles of everything and subjecting himself to a stream of pats and praises.

But while Barney was playing the role of host, he also felt distracted from it. Seeing the shed reminded him of yesterday's events, and he knew he had to get rid of the groundhog. He would try one more time, after the party was over. He would take Fido to the park, and the box with it.

He passed like a ghost from the backyard to the patio and from there to the kitchen, where he found Carmelita bustling between stove and refrigerator, issuing orders in Spanish to the servers bearing drinks and trays of canapes. She stopped when she saw Barney.

"Mr. Bagwell," she came closer and spoke in a lower tone of voice. "I must regret to say that I must resign."

"Resign?" Barney said.

"Yes, resign. I have been asked to do a lot here, and I have never complained. You wanted free-range chickens; I cook the chickens. You want the weeds, the arugula, the sprouts, the lettuces from space; I prepare those as well. I've cooked vegetarian, vegan, lactose-intolerant and kosher, at your command. But not wild game. I did it this time, because that's what you bought. I do good with it. But it was not enough, and I had to go get more, and the skinning and boning I do not like. If I wanted that, I would stay at home. So I must quit."

Barney felt himself even more disassociated with events around him. He wandered into the living room, then the enclosed patio, nodding pointlessly and making patting motions on the backs of the men and air kisses near the women, as if he were an alien imitating those around him.

He felt a buzzing in his pocket like a bee that had found itself trapped, and it took a moment before he realized it was his cell-phone.

"Hello?"

"Are you here?"

That was a question Barney didn't quite know how to answer. Chynna's voice grew more insistent, as if scolding a small child.

"Are you home?"

"Yes," he said. "I'm in the Florida room."

"Good. I'm upstairs. Did you get rid of the groundhog?"

"Oh, I don't think he'll be bothering us anymore."

"Good. And talk to Carmelita. She seems upset about something."

"Carmelita. Right."

"And try the canapes. They're delicious."

"No, thanks," Barney said. "I don't have much of an appetite."