The Good Egg

Trust should be earned, not granted without evidence, not extended without proof of reliability.

There is a taste to this memory, and a texture, so vivid that to call it false would be to put at risk every memory I’ve ever had. To call it untrue would be to call my life nothing more than fiction, and I will not be a lie—I will not swallow lies. So, when the detective asks me why I’m acting defensive, insinuating deceit, I nearly throw him out, but what would that look like? So, instead, I play host.

“Would you like a cup of coffee, Detective?”

“No, thank you. Let’s talk about the bird and the…what was it again?”

“Snake,” I say.

I tell him how my mother never forgave me, called me rotten, and sent me to live with Grandpa Joe. He was meant to be the father figure I’d been lacking, to mold me into a man as if I were a piece of warm clay, and through his actions, I suppose he did mold me. He taught me what the world wanted of men: to be volatile, cruel, and prideful keepers who value money above all else.

“Luckily, I’m a poor student,” I tell the detective. “Not that I don’t enjoy the finer things, but I’d rather have friendship, and trust. I need trust, but don’t we all?”

He scribbles down my words in a small black book, occasionally glancing up, watching me watch him.

“A few years later,” I say, taking a sip of my milk, “Mother died of heart failure. She couldn’t handle the loss of her son. But here I am, still breathing.” I smile, but when the detective doesn’t return one in kind, I continue, “But Grandpa Joe did do me one kindness; he died. I was seventeen, still plotting my escape when he went. I’d be a liar if I said I wasn’t glad to see him in the grave.”

The detective looks up at me in surprise, as if he’s caught me in some sort of confession.

“Go on,” I say, motioning to his black book. “Write that down. My mother used to say, ‘Those who don’t trust are themselves untrustworthy.’ Besides, you’ll find the cause of his death to be suicide, not murder. Look it up. He decided to have a driveway moment in the garage with the door pulled closed. Anyway, it ended up being the best thing for both of us. I got his money, and he went straight to hell. Unless a man can posthumously buy redemption? Perhaps it depends on the deficit; his was hefty. Still, if it weren’t for Grandpa Joe, I guess I wouldn’t be living uptown, here in posh Lakeside. I would never have met Anthony—money grants opportunity, you know? Grandpa Joe was right about that.”

“Anthony is…what?” asks the detective, his pen no longer scribbling down my words. He reaches into a bowl on the coffee table that’s filled with decorative glass orbs and picks out a blue bobble.  

His smile makes me want to throw my milk in his face. Behind his thin lips are judgments and accusations.

“Is he your boyfriend?” he adds.

“Believe it or not, Detective, men can be friends. Men can love each other in all sorts of ways. I think it’s sometimes difficult for hard men like yourself to understand this, but it’s true.”

“I’m not so hard. You’ll find I’m just an old softy if you’re straight with me. Let’s talk about Cory Higson. You and he were good friends, right?”

“I don’t know why I need to tell you anything—it’s all on record from back then.”

It had been nearly seven years since I’d heard Cory’s name spoken aloud. A few days before a group of boys had found his body in the creek behind Grandpa Joe’s house in an old drainage pipe. I was devastated when I’d read in the paper that he was dead, obviously, but I also felt angry and scared; I knew the police would torment me again, just like they had seven years before. They hadn’t believed me when I told them I didn’t know where Cory had gone. They never trusted me because they’re untrustworthy.  

“If you wouldn’t mind sharing your story again,” said the detective. “I’m just trying to figure a few things out. You know, dot the i’s and cross the t’s. Shouldn’t take long.”

“Like I told the detective back then, I met Cory shortly after moving into Grandpa Joe’s house. I was twelve, Cory was fourteen. We were inseparable. We climbed every tree and threw every stone—always side by side. Never bored and never boring. He often remarked at how intelligent and handsome I was, and I admired his naiveté and openheartedness.”

“He thought you were intelligent and handsome?”

“Yes,” I say. “What of it?”

“It just seems like an odd thing for him to tell you.”

“He didn’t tell me as much as he showed me—through actions.”

“Through actions?”

“Yes, Detective. Anyway, when I told Cory about what happened to my brother, he didn’t scoff like my mother, arrogantly nod his head in sympathy like the doctor, or look at me with skepticism like the detective back then—like you’re doing right now—he believed me.”

The detective reaches over to the table beside him, moving a bronze osprey statue to the side to pick up a gold-framed photograph. The yellow light from the table lamp reflects off the glass, making the detective look like a disheveled saint.  

“Is this Anthony?” he asks. 

“Yes.” 

“Nice boat. Where are you in this picture?” 

“Detective, I don’t see—”

“Does he believe your story?”

“Anthony never believes anything I tell him, even when he says he does. Do you know how you can tell when a man is lying, Detective?”

“He rambles?”

“No. You can tell when a man is lying by how his pupils move. Slow dance, there’s a chance. Rapid eye, there’s a lie. Even just thinking about him not believing me makes my stomach hurt. I’ll need to have another glass of milk to calm my ulcers. I’ve had ulcers since I was a boy. Fun stuff. You probably get them, too. Your line of work must be stressful.”

“Can be, yes. And what line of work are you in?”

“Author.”

“Fiction?”

“Sometimes.”

“Published?”

“Querying.”

“I see. Go on.”

I tell the detective how we’d been sitting in Grandpa Joe’s backyard beneath a walnut tree, Cory and I. He showed me a pocketknife he’d swiped from his cousin’s house. It was a beautiful, pearl-handled thing with a shiny blade. Cory ran a leaf down the knife’s edge, and the leaf split in two like it had been told to do so. I was mesmerized. We were looking for things to cut, and when we’d gone through everything from sticks to the rubber sole of my shoe, I climbed up a walnut tree and fetched a nest. Inside were two medium-sized eggs. They were pastel-blue and reminded me of Easter candy, like if you bit into one of them, there would be chocolate inside.

I set the nest down on the ground in front of us.

Cory opened his knife and, cutting down the middle, giggled as it cracked open, the yolk spilling out onto the dirt and coating the blade of the knife in yellow goo. 

“I feel a little bad for the mother bird,” said Cory. 

“I don’t. The mother abandoned it here.” I prodded the yolk with a twig.

“That reminds me,” said Cory, holding the remaining unbroken egg between his thumb and index finger. “What were you going to tell me earlier? You said it had to do with a bird, right?”

“Well, I guess I’m a little nervous to tell you because nobody has ever believed me,” I said.

“I’ll believe you. I promise.” Cory was sitting criss-cross applesauce, looking at me with those big doe eyes, the perfect representative of our age of innocence.

“I was nine years old,” I said, “it was Thanksgiving Day. The whole family was over to celebrate. The game was on, but my brother Peter and I weren’t big into sports, so we went on a walk around—”

“You have a brother?” asked Cory.

“Not anymore.” I wanted to stop talking, to send Cory away and cry in my room, but I continued, “We went on a walk around the neighborhood. These kids were gathered around a terrarium in an open garage. I called out to them to ask what they were doing, and one of the older ones motioned for us to come take a look. So we did.”

“What was in the terrarium?” asked Cory, opening and closing the pearl-handled knife.

“A snake.”

“Cool,” said Cory, grinning.

“That’s what we thought. The older boy, the snake’s owner, was dangling a live mouse over the hatch. He dropped it in and the snake gobbled it up—swallowed it whole. I thought it was cool, but Peter was horrified. Then a girl said they should try putting something else in the tank—to see what would happen—and within minutes, a kid came back cupping a parakeet.”

“They put a parakeet in with the snake?” said Cory in delight.

“They did. Peter wasn’t happy at all—he wanted to go. But I wanted to see what would happen. Do you know what happened?”

“What?”

“Nothing. Not at first. The parakeet and the snake stared at each other, neither of them moving an inch. The snake’s tongue licked the air, and the bird’s breast moved up and down, but there was no sound—no movement. Even the youngest kids were as still as statues. But, after a while, kids started peeling off of the pack, heading home, until it was just me, my brother, and the boy who owned the snake.”

The detective puts his black book down on the side table next to the picture of Anthony and the bronze osprey, then leans back with his hands on his knees.

“Anthony thought I was weird,” I say to the detective, “for wanting to see what would happen, but Cory didn’t laugh. He wanted to know what became of the bird. In some ways, I think I gravitate toward Anthony because he’s the opposite of Cory. Anthony is a skeptical man by nature, but he’s trustworthy. One time, his watch was missing from his nightstand, but he never once accused me. Turned out it had fallen behind the nightstand, but I’ll never forget how he trusted me like that. I don’t forget things like that. Cory, on the other hand, was a gullible boy.”

“Okay…and what happened with your brother Peter?”

“Peter wanted to leave, and after an hour of watching the standoff between the snake and the bird, I was putting on my jacket to go when the bird flew at the snake, burying its talons in the snake’s eyes. It writhed, flinging its scaly body in all directions—like a live wire—trying to bite the bird, but it couldn’t. It couldn’t bend its neck enough to bite the parakeet that was clenched on its head. It was almost comical for a moment. The boy who owned the snake cried out—his snake wasn’t looking so hot—and when he threw open the hatch to grab the bird, it flew up and out of the garage into a tree. The boy ran inside, and when he came back out, he was holding a rifle—”

“A rifle?”

“Yes, a fucking rifle. You can imagine our shock?”

The detective smirks and picks up his black book, furiously scribbling something. I see the skepticism on his thin, chapped lips. It makes my stomach cramp and burn.

I walk over to the kitchen and pour myself another large glass of milk, then grab a bottle of whisky from the shelf and say, “Detective?” To my surprise, the detective puts his thumb and forefinger together to say, just a little. I pour him two fingers and continue, “Peter stood in front of the boy—told the boy he’d need to go through him to get to that bird….

“You know, Detective, when I was telling this story to Cory, I couldn’t help but to look down at that nest and spilled yolk and think about my brother. That bird never had a chance to fly. Sort of like Peter, dead before he’d ever really lived.”

“Dead?” says the detective.

“Excuse me?”

“You said dead. The police never found your brother. What makes you think he’s dead?”

“It’s been nearly twenty years, Detective. He’s dead—I need him to be dead because the thought of him being out there alone would be too much for me to bear.”

“Tell me what happened to Peter that night.”

“I wanted to go home. I was hungry and bored, but Peter wanted to help the bird and return it to its owner. So he set about climbing the tree, and that’s the last time I saw him. Grandpa Joe went to look for him but came back two hours later alone. Said he couldn’t find him. They blame me for Peter going missing…I guess I blame myself, too.”

“Did the police visit the boy with the snake?”

“Yes, the boy said we’d only stayed for ten minutes and that Peter and I had left his house together.”

“What about the snake? The gun?”

“The police said there was a snake, but it looked uninjured, and the boy didn’t own a gun—but it happened!”

“But the snake was uninjured?”

“Maybe it wasn’t as hurt as I thought—maybe he’d gotten a new snake—I don’t know! But it was real, that boy lied! He told a lie. He lied, Detective. Said that he’d never even spoken to me...he lied.”

The detective swallows his whisky in one go, licking his top lip and nodding.

“Good stuff,” he says, nodding at the whisky.

“Japanese,” I reply. “Anthony’s. He doesn’t like it when I drink his liquor, but he’s not around to say anything about it. So there you go.”

He keeps nodding as he continues, “But Cory believed you when you told him this story?”

“Yes. Yes, he did. But he believed anything I told him. That’s something I never liked about Cory, how he’d believe anything you told him. That, to me, is almost worse than not believing anything. Trust should be earned, not granted without evidence, not extended without proof of reliability. I’ve always gone above and beyond to prove myself trustworthy. I’ve always been that way. Mother taught me that…”

But I don’t think the detective understands. He pushes his glass forward and says, “Mind?”

I take his glass and pour him another, this time slightly larger.

“Thank you.”

I continue, “I wanted to give Cory evidence of my trustworthiness, so I made a deal with him.”

“What sort of deal?” says the detective, leaning back in his chair. He appears less stern now. I swallow my milk. My face feels tight. 

“I picked up the egg,” I say. “The one that hadn’t been cut open yet, and I made a deal with Cory that I would swallow the egg whole in exchange for his pocketknife.”

The detective sits forward, placing his forearms on his knees. “That’s more of a bet than a deal.”

“Is it? It seemed more of an exchange to me. He got to watch me swallow an egg whole, which, let’s face it, for a young boy, is an experience, and I got a knife. But more than this, we’d both have shown trust that the other would honor the agreement.”

I double over in pain. My ulcers are on another level, and the milk isn’t helping. I let out a moan.

“Are you okay?” asks the detective, placing a hand on my back.

“Yes. Just need a minute.”

After a moment, the pain subsides. I need fresh air, so I walk to the window and slide it open. Outside on the street, a busker is playing violin.

“Swan Lake. You like Tchaikovsky, Detective?”

“Sure. Who doesn’t?”

“Grandpa Joe used to play this song whenever he was upset. He played it the night he ended it all.”

“That right?” says the detective, getting up and walking to the window. He’s close enough that I can smell his aftershave. It’s the same aftershave Grandpa Joe wore. I press my fist slowly into my stomach.

“Yes. He listened to it while inhaling the fumes from his idling Oldsmobile, where Cory found him.”

“Cory found him?”

“Yes,” I say.

“This is the same night that Cory went missing, right?”

“It is.”

“It seems…unlikely to be a coincidence to me. Where were you the night your grandpa died?”

“I was in my room listening to music. I came out when I heard Cory shouting. When I came to the garage, it was filled with smoke. Cory and I dragged the body out into the open to the grass in the yard. I remember Grandpa Joe looking so peaceful out there beneath the stars.”

The detective nods his head, looking up as if trying to work out a puzzle on the ceiling. “When did you hear Swan Lake playing that night? The report didn’t mention anything about the car radio being on.”

“He played it earlier that evening, is what I meant. Before he went outside.”

“And what do you think he was upset about? You said he played the song when he was upset.”

The detective’s eyes search me, hunting for the truth.

“He was drunk,” I say. “Drunk people say things they shouldn’t say, and I don’t always hold my tongue when I should. He blamed me for my mother’s death. See, she thought I’d killed Peter, too. Just like you do—just like everyone does. My mother couldn’t cope with what she’d thought I’d done.”

The violinist begins playing Shostakovich. The staccato notes mimic the pangs in my gut. 

“Did you kill Peter?”

“No.”

“Did Cory kill Grandpa Joe?”

“No. Cory would never have done that.”

“Did you kill your brother?”

“No.” 

The violin is louder than it should be—the music is reaching through the glass, poking its finger through my chest. My stomach feels like it might erupt, and my heart is beating too fast—it’s on the verge of bursting. 

The room sways with each stroke of the violinist’s bow. I lick my lips; they taste of rosin.

“I don’t believe you.”

“I’m telling the truth about Peter. I don’t—”

“Do you still have the pocketknife? Your friend Cory was stabbed twenty-seven times in the face—twenty-seven times—I’m betting it was done with a pearl-handled pocketknife. You know what? I don’t believe anything you’re telling me, and if you want to avoid going to prison for life, you’d be smart to start telling me the truth. Did you kill Cory?”

The detective is draining his whisky, and before I realize what I’m doing, my glass is shattering against the side of the detective’s face. Strawberry-red and cream splashes onto my cheeks and shirt. 

He stumbles back, and I know I’m in too deep, now. 

I rush forward and push him over the side table, toppling the table lamp. I see my shadow on the wall: I’m a giant with an osprey for a hand; the bird is crying out for its supper—I bring its beak down onto the detective’s head over and over until he stops moving.

The violinist stops playing; the song is over. A solitary spectator claps for the busker. I sit down on the couch and lean back; it’s over.

“I did not kill my brother Peter,” I say, just above a whisper. The detective still doesn’t believe me; I can see it in his lifeless eyes. I lean forward and pick up the osprey, and with a decorative pillow I wipe the blood off of its bronze beak. It feels as if a dozen yellowjackets are eating a dead rat inside my gut. I put my finger down my throat, trying, unsuccessfully, to make myself throw up.

“I’m not a liar, Detective. I loved my brother. We trusted each other. But Cory…he trusted me until he didn’t. He found me dragging the old man out to the garage, and I took a chance, told him all about what a sick fuck Grandpa Joe was and how he’d told me through drunken slurs how he took Peter to the woods that day, when he’d gone to find him, and how he’d killed my brother and that if I said anything, he’d kill me, too. He thought I was weak, but I’d made up my mind right then and there to kill him.”

I grab my gut and scream. Out on the street, I hear someone say, “Did you hear that?” I stand to go wave down to them, to tell this unknown person it was nothing, but I fall to the floor. I’m sweating. The detective’s head is turned toward me, his dead eyes are judging me.

“Cory begged me to go to the police instead of killing the old man,” I say to the detective. “I told him I had to do it. I had to. He said that if I killed Grandpa Joe, he’d tell the police. He told me he believed me. That murder wasn’t the solution. But Detective, I don’t think he really believed me that night. He was thinking maybe I did kill Peter. Maybe I was a liar. I laughed it off, told him I was only going to scare the old man, that of course we’d go to the police. Let’s go down to the creek for a smoke where we could figure it all out, I’d said. I stabbed him in the gut as I lit his cigarette. The way he looked at me when that knife slid in…it was too much—I stabbed him in his gullible, untrustworthy face!”

I punch myself in the stomach, but the pain only increases with every passing second. I shove my hand into my slacks and pull out the pearl-handled pocketknife. “I stabbed his cheeks and eyes—I stabbed him over and over until my hands and face were covered in his sticky blood. I stuffed him in that drain, and then went home and washed up.”

Another burning wave. I flip the blade open and run the tip across my stomach. Flowers of blood blossom across my crisp, white button up.

“I placed Grandpa Joe in the garage with the car running.”

The knife slides into my gut without much effort, just like it had for Cory. I’m disappointed in myself for waiting so long to do this. This new pain distracts me from the burning explosions happening within me. Outside on the street, sirens are blaring, and when they finally get here, they’ll see it all: the blood, the death, the cause—they’ll see the truth. My mouth is dry.

I stick a finger into the hole in my stomach, hooking and stretching the skin, pulling it open to search for the truth. Then I stick my entire hand in up to my wrist; it’s hot inside, an oven fueled by betrayal. It takes a moment to find what it is I’m searching for, but soon my hand is gripping around its smooth, hard texture. I pull it out and hold it high above my head, my oblong trophy. I’ve stopped sweating now, and the burning is gone. In its place, a feeling of profound loss.

“What do you think of that?” I ask the detective. “What shall we do now?” There is a humming coming from within the egg, like the sound of a bee with its legs stuck in a doorjamb, a violent buzzing that makes the emotion within my bosom ebb and flow, a polarity of feelings that suffuses my soul, pleasantly drowning me. “Shall I crack it open?”

The detective answers with his impassive face. A drop of milk hangs from his nose, threatening to fall.

From a thousand miles away, the police are banging on the front door, shouting for me to “Open up!”, but it’s hard to hear anything over the mesmerizing buzz coming from within the egg. I wipe away two dots of blood for eyes and a dash for a smile and I’m reminded of painting Easter eggs as a child. Peter and I would dip our eggs into vinegar and dye. We’d always make a special one for Mother. 

“I’ve never had one person believe me, Detective. Not one person.”

The buzzing stops; I reach out and place the egg into the bowl with the colorful glass bobbles. 

I feel light. The breeze coming from the window feels nice on my face, and the violinist has started back up; he’s playing Brahms. I pat the detective’s hand; it’s still warm. “You believe me, don’t you? Yes, you believe me.” 

---

The apartment smelled of disinfectant and potpourri. Anthony missed the sunshine of Belize, and was already thinking about where to go on his next trip. Maybe Morocco, or Rome. 

“They did a bang-up job cleaning the apartment, Mother,” said Anthony into the black receiver. “I’m not sure we’ll be able to sell it for as much as Daddy would like, with what happened. But I’ll be glad when I can put all of this behind me. I can barely stand to be here!” 

From the kitchen, Anthony stared at the now-hardwood floors of the living room where Helena, the maid, had found his roommate and the detective lying in a pool of blood. His father had seen to it that all of the living room furniture and decorations were replaced before his son had made it back from Belize. Anthony would miss the bronze osprey he purchased in Monterey last autumn and the glass bobbles that sent red and blue streaks of magnificent light across the walls and ceiling at cocktail hour when the sun was low enough to work its magic, but it was all either evidence now or covered in blood. 

Anthony continued, “Just thinking about what happened makes me feel sick to my stomach. Would it be terrible if I came to stay with you and Daddy for a few weeks while I look for something new?”

Anthony knew his roommate had troubles, going on and on about trust, and always holding his belly as if he were with child, but he didn’t realize just how deep those problems ran. He thought about what would have happened had he not left town for the week on a whim. All this while he was lying on a beach in Belize. 

“Yes, Mother, no more roommates for me, especially not from the classifieds. I thought it would be nice to live with someone my age…if I would have known about his past...well, you’ve read all about it in the paper. They’re fairly certain he killed his brother, too.” The black telephone cord stretched across the kitchen as he opened the refrigerator door and peered in, the cool air pressing gently on his face. There wasn’t much to eat: butter, an assortment of condiments, shredded cheese, milk, and a carton of eggs. “Listen, I’ll be home for dinner—please tell Daddy not to be cross with me—it’s only temporary, mind you. I know, I know…yes…yes—I know he’ll be glad to have me. I was pulling your leg. I’m going to have some breakfast now, Mother. See you soon. Kiss-kiss.”

Anthony shut the refrigerator door, hung up the phone, and sat down on the new black leather couch in the living room. To think a man had been murdered here, and by his roommate no less. He could only thank heaven for small mercies that Helena had found the bodies and not him. He wasn’t sure he would have been able to bear the sight of all that blood and death. Still, he couldn’t stop staring at the floor. 

He recalled the last conversation he’d had with his roommate. They were having their morning coffee, and his roommate had slammed the Sunday paper down on the table and said, “I just think that, if you’re going to go away for the week, you should have let me know in advance.”

Anthony was surprised by this outburst; they’d only known each other for a few weeks. “Most roommates would be pleased to have some time alone,” Anthony had said. “I thought you’d be glad to have a little privacy—you should have a friend over...or write! Finish that tome you’ve been working on. Tell me, will it be a thriller?” 

“It’s about trust.” 

“Yes, trust, so very important,” he’d replied to his roommate. “How can one function in life without trust?”

They’d ended on a friendly note. Anthony had apologized and told him he would bring him back a souvenir. Of course, he’d forgotten to do so, but he supposed it didn’t matter now. 

Anthony opened his cigarette case and took out a stick, running it beneath his nose before lighting it. What strange fellow, he thought, blowing out a white cloud of smoke that reminded him of the clouds he’d seen in Belize. 

The idea of eating breakfast at his apartment, where one man had been murdered and another had taken his own life, didn’t do much for his appetite. Still, he didn’t want to waste the entire morning going out to eat when there was still so much packing to do, so he stood and walked back to the kitchen, puffing on his cigarette like a locomotive leaving the station. He placed a slice of whole-grain bread into the toaster and pulled out a pan from the cupboard. He fetched butter and the carton of eggs from the fridge while humming Fools Rush In, then spooned a dollop of butter into the pan, tilting it from side to side as the butter melted and frothed. 

He opened the carton, reached for an egg, and then paused; among the white eggs, was a rusty-brown one. He plucked it from its slot, examining it. He turned the egg in his hand and laughed when he saw the smiley face. A fun gift from Helena, he thought. 

“Cute,” he said, then cracked the egg on the side of the pan. 

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Thank you for reading, The Good Egg, written by Sean Thomas McDonnell, edited by S.E. Reid.

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