The Wolf Wants In

by Laura McHugh

  When it was over, and she was leaning against the door catching her breath, she noticed that the conversation outside had grown heated. Jason lay on the floor, his eyes closed. She pulled on her shorts and cracked the door.

  Shane was hollering like she’d never heard him, jabbing his finger in the air and slurring his words, and Crystle whacked him across the chest, her rings glinting in the firelight. “Calm down!” she roared. “Chill the fuck out!”

  Junior grumbled something inaudible to Dex that seemed to rile him. Dex and Crystle were the only kids from Denny’s second wife, and they always stuck up for each other. Dex’s hair was a little darker, eyes more brown than green, and Junior often expressed doubt that Denny was his father, that he was a Pettit at all, something that pissed Dex off to no end. He leapt out of his chair and he and Junior went chest to chest. Raymond switched on the boom box, drowning everything out, an old cassette of some big-haired metal band, Ratt or Twisted Sister or Quiet Riot, they all sounded alike to Henley. The music screeched in her ears, and she watched Junior’s mouth move, his palm smoothing his beard. Her muscles tensed across her shoulders and down her spine, waiting for something, though she didn’t know what. Shane and Crystle moved toward the river, and she could tell they were still fighting, glowing cigarette tips swirling through the darkness beyond the fire. It reminded Henley of the Fourth of July, when she would write her name across the night sky with sparklers, her hand working in furious swoops to get the last letter out before the first one disappeared, the smoking remains of her name still burning bright when she closed her eyes.

  Fingers curled around her ankle and she yelped. Jason’s hands, their unbearable heat moving up her thigh. She shook him off. “Get up. It’s time to go.”

  I tried to reach Hannah after hearing the news that Roger’s remains had been found, but she didn’t respond to any of my messages. I was worried about her and hoped that she wasn’t alone, that she had someone to talk to, even if she didn’t want to talk to me. I regretted buying her an entire carton of cigarettes, if running out was the only thing that would get her to call.

  All week I looked forward to Lily coming home for the weekend. I bought three different flavors of Pop-Tarts, put clean sheets on her bed, gathered ingredients to make her favorite pie—lemon cream—and queued up Netflix movies for us to watch. I spiffed up Gravy for her arrival, too, or tried, anyway—I stuck him in the bath and inadvertently spilled most of his medicated shampoo when he knocked the open bottle off the edge of the tub. I called in a refill to the vet’s office on Thursday and was surprised when Dr. Hayward rang me back that evening after I got home from work.

  “Hey, did you run out already? Just wanted to make sure you’re only using it twice a week.”

  “Oh, yeah—I spilled it.”

  “Ah,” he said. “It happens. So…how’s Gravy doing? Notice any changes, good or bad?”

  “Not really, not yet. He hates the rice, though. Even with the chicken water on it.” I didn’t mind boiling chicken for the dog every day, but it didn’t seem to be doing any good.

  “It might take him a little time to get used to it. I’ve got samples of some different kinds of prescription food for him to try, if you’d like. You could get them from me when you pick up his shampoo tomorrow.”

  “That’d be great. But it probably won’t be until next week—my daughter’s coming for the weekend, and I won’t have time after work.”

  “Sure.” He almost sounded disappointed. “Hey, if it’d help, I can drop everything off on my way home tonight. I’m heading out now, and I live right outside Shade Tree.”

  “No, you don’t have to do that.”

  “It’s not a problem. Save you a trip.”

  I hesitated, wondering if it was common for him to make deliveries and whether it was a good idea—no matter how nice he seemed—to tell him where I lived. Of course, he would already have my address on file. That must have been how he knew I lived in Shade Tree.

  “We could meet on the square,” I said. “So you don’t have to go too far out of your way.”

  I’d already put on the flannel pajama pants and ratty college sweatshirt that I wore when I was in for the night, and it seemed silly to change for Dr. Hayward, so I zipped up my coat and coaxed Gravy out for a potty break before I left.

  * * *

  —

  While Shade Tree’s town square was no longer the commercial hub it had once been, the park and pavilion at its center were still the heart of the community, where all important events were held: the annual Easter egg hunt, the photographing of high schoolers dressed up for prom, the farmers’ market on Saturday mornings in the summer. In recent years, the oak trees in the park had become diseased and started to rot, and the city was struggling to raise enough money to cut them down and plant new ones. A string of vacant storefronts surrounded the square, old two-story buildings with high ceilings covered in decorative pressed tin. The upper-level apartments, once coveted for their tall windows overlooking the park, were all empty save for the birds that came and went through the broken glass. The mayor’s grandson had died of an overdose in one of those abandoned rooms and wasn’t found until a foul puddle had leaked down to the floor below.

  On a typical day, there was little evidence of life. The barber pole outside Corner Cuts was still lit up on Tuesdays and Thursdays, old-timers gathering there for barely needed trims and an opportunity to gab about crops and weather. The VFW hall held the occasional bingo and beer night, and the community center, in what had long ago been a grocery, hosted wedding receptions and dwindling class reunions. On a weeknight, the streets were deserted, the only light coming from the lone streetlamp near the park pavilion.

  A Lincoln SUV gleamed beneath the streetlamp, and Dr. Hayward waved as I pulled up and parked. There was a moment of disconnect seeing him outside his office, wearing jeans and a leather jacket instead of a lab coat, like when you’re a kid and see your teacher at the grocery store for the first time. He came around to my window and I rolled it down.

  “Thanks,” I said, taking the bag of Gravy’s supplies from him.

  “No problem,” he said, his hand on the door, his face inches away, his eyes peering into mine. “Like I said, it’s on my way.” Something shifted in my chest, the moment feeling strangely intimate, and I dropped my gaze. His jacket had a rich luster under the streetlight, and I had the urge to reach out and stroke the leather, to see if it was as soft as it looked. He was watching me expectantly, and my face warmed, though he couldn’t have possibly guessed what I was thinking.

  “Oh.” It occurred to me what he was waiting for. “I need to pay you. I wasn’t even thinking when I left the house. I’m not sure I have any cash on me.”

  “No, it’s fine, I just put it on your account.”

  “Okay. I appreciate it.” I was about to roll up the window, but he was still standing there with his hand in the way, like he wanted to say something. The cold bled into the car and I clicked the heat up higher.

  “Was there…something else?”

  He cleared his throat, his expression uncomfortably pinched. “You don’t remember me at all, do you?”

  “What do you mean? Should I?”

  “I wanted to say something the other day, but it didn’t seem like the right time to bring it up. Shane and I—we were friends, back in school. Before I moved away?” He watched my eyes for any sign of recognition. “Remember that typing class prank?”

  “Who could forget that?” Dad had lost it, tearing into Shane, and Mom had tried to get between her son and the belt, receiving a stinging welt that cut across her face. Theo shoved his hands into his pockets, and I realized he must be freezing. “Do you want to…it’s cold.” I gestured to the passenger seat. “If you want to talk a minute.”

  “Sure.”

  The car rocked slightly when he climbed inside, his ears and nos
e pink from the wind, the scent of snow clinging to him. It was rare to have someone in the front seat with me—Lily still preferred the back—and the sudden proximity to Theo somehow felt awkward now that I knew who he was. A few dry snowflakes floated down outside, dusting the windshield.

  “We landed in detention together quite a few times,” he said. “Talking in class. Too many tardies. A few fights. There was this guy we didn’t like. Real jerk. He’d grabbed my backpack and stuffed it in a urinal. I had some fireworks at home, and Shane got the idea to scare the crap out of him. We sat behind him in typing, and the next day when the teacher said go and everybody started their speed test, Shane set the firecrackers off right under the guy’s chair, and everybody hit the floor.”

  I hadn’t heard the reasoning behind it. I only remembered Shane pacing by the front window, the dread in his eyes as he waited for Dad to come home, the sound of the belt whistling through the air before it struck him.

  “Shane confessed right away, but when I saw how upset the teacher was, I got scared and denied I had anything to do with it.” Theo squinted, looking both ashamed and apologetic. “I imagine if it was anywhere else but Shade Tree, your brother probably would have been expelled, but he only got suspended for a few days. And he had to come in on a weekend and repaint the stripes in the parking lot. Do you remember that?”

  I shook my head. It was a minor punishment, I imagined, in comparison to the whipping.

  “I still feel bad about putting it all on him. I wish I’d apologized when I had the chance.”

  “I’m sure he didn’t hold it against you,” I said. “He got into plenty of trouble on his own.”

  “Well, I was like that, too, but not so much after that. I guess it scared me straight.” He smiled wryly.

  “At least something good came out of it,” I said.

  “Yeah. It’s too bad we didn’t cross paths at the clinic,” he said. “I moved back about a year ago. I figured I’d run into him sometime, we’d grab a beer, catch up. How was he doing, before?”

  “He had a job that he liked. Got married last year. No kids.”

  “Your family still around? I remember your sister.”

  “Yeah. Mom’s still in the old house. Becca’s nearby. We’re all still here,” I said. It was getting stuffy in the car with my coat on and the heat blasting, the windshield beginning to fog.

  “And what about you?”

  I shrugged. “Nothing too interesting. I’m in social work. I have a daughter. That’s about it.”

  He looked out the window, at the snow drifting down.

  “I remember one time I was out at your place, shooting cans with Shane. We were blasting heavy metal, mouthing off. You told us to quiet down, you were trying to study. Waved this big Latin book in my face. You were maybe in eighth grade. Shane said you were the smartest one in the family. That you’d be the first to go to college. He was proud of you.”

  The memory materialized when he described it, hazy, nothing I’d thought of in years. I’d gotten the dog-eared book at a library sale after one of my teachers mentioned Latin would be useful to anyone wanting to pursue a career in medicine or law. All I knew about careers at the time, aside from farming, came from television. The lawyers on Law & Order were smart and serious and made enough money to afford nice suits, and that was the shallow origin of my lofty goals. I was tired of being poor.

  “You weren’t a bad shot,” I said. “I remember.”

  “Shane was better,” he said. “Cans’d jump right off the rail, every one hit dead center.”

  He swung the door open, white clumps pelting his jacket and blowing in to melt on the dash. His smile was kind and sincere, the dome light reflected in his eyes. “Well, thanks for listening to my belated confession,” he said. “I hope Gravy likes the food.” Then he was gone, the door slamming shut, the car dark and smelling faintly of warm leather and fresh snow.

  * * *

  —

  An unfamiliar car blocked my driveway when I got home, and I flicked on my brights, approaching cautiously, one hand on my phone. A Hyundai hatchback with a tiny donut spare on the left rear instead of a regular tire. I cut around it, driving through the grass, and as I got closer, the headlights illuminated a small figure huddled on the porch. Hannah, knees pulled up to her chest, hair tossed by the wind, a cigarette burning between her fingers. I parked and got out.

  “You said come by anytime,” she said, her lips chapped and bloodless.

  “I meant it,” I said, helping her up. She dropped her cigarette, ground it out with her heel, and followed me inside.

  “I need something. A drink. My aunt doesn’t keep anything in the house. I can’t go into town.”

  “Are you sure you want to do that? Can you…?”

  “I can handle a drink, do you have something or not?”

  “Yeah. Yes.”

  Hannah trailed me to the kitchen and leaned against the doorframe, pressing her palms to her temples like she was trying to crush her own skull. Gravy, lying on his side under the kitchen table, opened one myopic eye and watched her without getting up. I handed Hannah a margarita pouch and she stabbed the straw in without question and drained it flat.

  “They’re done, finally,” she said. “Took longer than they thought, but they’re done collecting their evidence. Looking for clues. They didn’t want me out there, before, but I want to go now, to the woods. Where they found them.”

  “Hannah…why don’t we sit down for a minute? It’s dark. It’s starting to snow. You just had a drink.”

  She didn’t move. Her wool coat gaped open, a flimsy summer blouse underneath, her clavicle exposed. She was too thin. “You can drive,” she said. “If it makes you feel better.”

  “I’ll take you in the morning.”

  “You said you were here for me.” Blue veins showed beneath her ashen skin, her features sharp and delicate, like Macey’s. Desperation lit her eyes. “You said anything I needed. I need to go see where they found my baby. And I can’t go alone. I need you to come with me.”

  * * *

  —

  The snow was too dry to stick to the road. It swirled and flew sideways and collected in the leaf-clogged ditch but left a clear path for us. We started down Wildwood Lane, branching off well before Leola’s house onto an overgrown path mostly used by hunters this time of year, to access conservation land. We parked in the rutted lot and Hannah led the way into the woods, sticker bushes tugging at our pant legs, depositing tiny burs that would have to be picked off later, one by one. We followed a sloping glade until it ended abruptly in an outcropping of stone. Below, in a narrow gully, was the cedar thicket where the woman had found Macey’s skull.

  The spot couldn’t have been more than a quarter mile from the road, the thicket inaccessible enough to keep anyone from wandering by and discovering the bones until the hunter sought a private place to relieve herself. Hannah stopped just short of the drop-off, snow dusting her shoulders and catching in her hair. Yellow tape still flapped from a tree trunk, though in the darkness there was little evidence of the investigation, nothing to indicate that a crime had taken place.

  I pulled my hood up to cover my ears and wedged my hands deep into my pockets.

  “Gunshots,” Hannah whispered. “Both of them. I thought he killed her. That’s what I thought, maybe, before they found him. And after. That he killed her and then himself.” She wiped her nose on her coat sleeve. “I’d been thinking about it for so long, imagining every different way it might have happened, like one of those choose-your-own-adventure books, but every choice leads to the same fucking end.”

  I touched her arm and she didn’t pull away. The cedars shuddered as the wind swept through the gully.

  “It wasn’t Roger,” she breathed. “They didn’t find the gun.”

  “Oh, Hannah…”

  “
They were shot. Here. Or not, maybe. It’s not so far, they said…that they couldn’t have been carried. Killed somewhere else and dumped here. It’ll be in the news, I guess, before long. They’re not treating me like a suspect yet, but I’m sure it’s coming.”

  I wanted to tell her she was wrong, that no one could possibly think she’d had anything to do with it, but I couldn’t. I remembered the waitress at the diner, the elderly woman. How they’d so quickly blamed Hannah. Accused her of being a bad mother. People would talk. People who didn’t know her, and people who did.

  “I wished he was dead,” she said. “During the divorce. I know I said it out loud, I don’t know how many times, who heard me. Everything would be easier. When you’ve got a kid with somebody, that’s for life, you can’t escape. Feels like this weight crushing you and you can’t breathe and you’d do almost anything to get out from under it. I said I wanted him dead, but I didn’t really mean it. Chad offered to take him out for me, to shoot him through the balls, and we laughed about it.”

  Her arms hung loose at her sides, her coat flapping open. I wanted to button it up against the wind, like I might do for Lily, pull up the collar, insulate her from the cold.

  “We brought Macey camping out here one time,” Hannah said. “Before me and Roger split up. That little campground way over on the other side. She didn’t like the woods at night. All the noises—owls, coyotes, things moving in the trees. I told her we could go home, but she didn’t want her daddy to know she was scared. I had to sing her to sleep. Had her arms locked around my neck all night till I thought she’d choke me.” Her words caught in her throat, and I could feel her shivering, tremors rocking her slight frame. “She was out here, without me. She would have been so scared. I wish I could have been with her, instead of Roger.”