The Wolf Wants In

by Laura McHugh

  Her breath heaved in and out, a ragged rhythm. “I don’t feel her here,” she said, her face gray in the faint moonlight. I squeezed her shoulders, wishing there was more I could do. “I thought I might…that there might be something out here. A feeling. Like I might understand what happened. Like she could tell me somehow. But there’s nothing. She’s just gone.”

  Henley yawned as she dusted the picture frames in the hallway that led to the master bedroom. There were dozens of them, Daphne Sullivan looking out from each one, the camera seeming to focus on her regardless of who or what else was in the picture. Daphne had been especially photogenic, with her bouncy golden hair and expressive eyes and the smile of someone who had never met a stranger. There was an engagement photo with her left hand placed strategically on Earl’s lapel to showcase the glittering princess-cut diamond on her ring finger. A snapshot of Daphne with glorious feathered 1980s hair, posing with her preschool students. A radiant pregnancy portrait, her belly firm as a melon beneath her gauzy white dress. There were no photos of her after she’d fallen ill, here or anywhere else in the house. Henley imagined that was Daphne’s doing. She would have wanted Jason and Earl to remember her vibrant, glowing, alive.

  Henley had gotten a late start, up half the night fretting over her own mother, who had managed to get into trouble before Raymond and Junior could track her down. Raymond came by to tell her, sparing no detail, knowing she’d hear about it anyhow as the story worked its way around town, embellished and exaggerated by each mouth that spat it out.

  Missy had been involved in a failed robbery at the Casey’s convenience store, though it seemed most likely that Ellie had attempted the crime alone after Missy chickened out or became incapacitated, overdosing on a mix of fentanyl and heroin in the ladies’ restroom. Ellie, not even bothering to disguise herself, had approached the counter with a loaded Ruger hidden behind a bag of pork rinds. The Casey’s clerk had struck her in the head with a stapler, knocking her flat and cracking her eye socket, and Missy had been revived with a dose of Narcan before both of them were taken to the hospital, Missy’s hair clotted with vomit and Ellie’s pink ruffled blouse stained with blood. Henley felt faint when Raymond told her Missy had nearly died.

  Her mother had gotten into trouble before, but this had her shaken. It was unclear whether Missy would end up in rehab or jail, and Henley hoped for both. Wherever they put her, she’d be safer locked up, and Henley hoped she would stay there awhile.

  Henley carried the cleaning caddy into the master bedroom, her shoes sinking into the mauve carpet that covered the entire suite, including the bathroom. She scrubbed water spots from the brass fixtures and shell-shaped sink, wiped toothpaste specks from the mirror, lifted the toilet lid, which had a furry mauve cover that had probably been there since before Daphne died. She knew she should probably take the cover off and wash it, but she didn’t care. How had Missy been able to stand it, cleaning this house for so many years? Henley was more than ready to be done.

  When she finished the bathroom, she paused at the double doors to the closet. She had never gone inside—Missy claimed she only vacuumed it once a month, and Henley doubted it was necessary as often as that—but she remembered what Jason had said, about Earl keeping a box of Daphne’s jewelry stashed there. It wouldn’t hurt to look. She poked around on the shelves until she found it, a large leather box, the drawers lined with velvet. There were glittering bracelets, ruby earrings, strands of milky pearls, thick chains of herringbone gold. In the ring compartment was the princess-cut solitaire Daphne had been wearing in the engagement photo and a wedding band crusted with diamonds.

  It occurred to her for a fleeting moment that she could fill her pockets, pawn it all across state lines, and disappear into the mountains by sunrise. She thought of the modest heirlooms Memaw and Pawpaw had left behind: a silver-plated class ring; an engraved pocket watch with a chain. One look at those keepsakes could bring back memories of Memaw’s floured hands kneading dough for yeast rolls, tractor rides on Pawpaw’s lap, pressing her ear to the breast pocket of his overalls to hear the watch’s steady tick next to his heart. Her fingers went to the stone around her neck, the one Jason had given her. She had forgotten to take the necklace off before coming to the house today, and standing in the closet Earl had shared with Daphne, sorting through the jewelry he kept in her memory, she knew she couldn’t keep it. It meant something to Earl that it would never mean to her, and it hadn’t been Jason’s to give.

  She reached up to unfasten the necklace and heard the click of a door closing. She froze, her stomach lurching, and had to remind herself that she’d done nothing wrong. Earl wasn’t normally at home when she was there, but she’d gotten a late start, and there shouldn’t be anything strange about her emerging from his closet. He had likely seen her car outside and knew she was there. Still, she didn’t want to face him if she didn’t have to. Despite Missy’s insistence that Earl had a soft heart, Henley didn’t know him well enough to feel comfortable around him and had always found him intimidating.

  She waited, regulating her breath, her feet mired in the spongy carpet, until she heard a jangling smack from the direction of the bathroom. It sounded like a belt buckle being dropped on the counter, like Earl was getting undressed. She pushed the closet door open a crack and peered through. The bathroom door was slightly ajar, the light on inside, and Henley figured that if she was quick, she could sneak out without Earl seeing her. She shoved the cleaning caddy into the corner and darted out of the closet, her breath leaving her as Earl stepped out of the bathroom, dressed in his boxers and undershirt.

  “Henley,” he said, not appearing the least bit startled. “There you are.”

  She had rarely been so close to him. He was even taller than Jason, with the same sharp jaw and sinewy build, though he could easily pass for Jason’s grandfather, his hair gleaming silver and his sun-worn face lined like a farmer’s.

  “Hi,” she said, managing a small smile, because she wasn’t sure what else to do or say. Earl was watching her with intense interest, his eyes bright as a bird’s, and a spasm of panic clenched her chest as she became acutely aware that the diamond necklace was still clasped around her neck. His gaze traveled down and back up, his expression shifting slightly. Did he recognize it? He had to. And she had just emerged from the closet where he had kept it hidden. She could tell him that Jason had given her the necklace and hadn’t told her it was Daphne’s, but she’d be lying, and Jason would suffer the consequences. She could tell him the truth, that she’d meant to give it back, though he wasn’t likely to believe her.

  “Henley, Henley, Henley,” he said, his words soft and unhurried. “Why don’t you sit down? We can talk.” He stepped around her, his arm brushing hers. “I was about to pour myself a drink.” He opened the antique wormwood cabinet next to the dresser, revealing a small bar. “Can I get you one as well?” He turned back toward her. “It’s all whiskey, I’m afraid, but I’ve got quite a selection. I’m partial to the Macallan.”

  “No, thank you,” she said, waiting awkwardly while he poured the liquor into a tumbler. He’d asked her to sit, but there was nowhere to sit aside from the huge canopy bed, and she felt more comfortable with her feet on the floor. She wished he would just get it over with—fire her, or ask her to apologize, or whatever he planned to do now that he thought she was a thief, if that’s what this was all about.

  Earl took a long swallow and sighed, crossing the room to set his drink on the nightstand. She noticed that his gait was slightly unsteady. He leaned against the bedpost and shook his head.

  “It’s been hard without Missy here,” he said. “You don’t realize how much you appreciate that womanly touch until you’re living without it. But you’re here, now.”

  The liquor smell on his breath was sharp and astringent, the whiskey obviously not his first pour. Missy had told her that he drank too much sometimes and got sloppy, usually i
f something was troubling him, or Daphne was on his mind, and she’d have to help him to bed. He was studying her face with a gentle smile, though his expression was distant, as if his focus lay elsewhere. Her panic eased. He was drunk. Maybe he hadn’t noticed the necklace at all.

  “She was ready to move on one way or another. It was her idea, mostly, you taking her place. I wasn’t sure a young girl like you would be interested in taking care of an old man like me, but here you are. And I’m glad you’re here.”

  “Yeah,” she said, inching backward. “Thank you…for the job.”

  “Thank you,” he said, taking her hand in his. There was a tenderness in his voice. “You don’t know how much I needed this today.”

  She tugged her hand away, but before she could move beyond his reach, he fumbled toward her, pressing his mouth onto hers and losing his balance, his momentum knocking her backward onto the bed. As soon as she registered his weight on her body, she shoved back, wedging her arms between them and pushing him up off her chest. “What are you doing?” she hollered, wriggling free. Earl looked at her, confused, grabbing at her wrist as she got to her feet. Henley jerked out of his grasp, banging the side of her head on the bedpost, and a horrified expression manifested on Earl’s face.

  “Oh, god,” he said. Henley backed toward the bedroom door, pressing her palm to her stinging ear. “Your mother,” he slurred. “I thought—and you were here waiting—” She bolted and he came after her, his hand clawing out and falling short. “Henley!”

  She ran down the hall, the carpet muffling her escape. “Wait!” Earl called after her as she fled down the staircase. She sprinted out to her car, her breath ragged in her throat, leaving the front door of the Sullivan house wide open. She burned down the blacktop, pushing the car to seventy-five, the wind tearing through the open windows, slowing before she hit gravel to check the rearview mirror with blurred eyes, but no one was chasing her.

  Lily and I took Gravy out for a long walk on Saturday morning. It was freezing, but the sky was clear, the sunshine blindingly decadent after a string of dreary days. I had hugged Lily too many times when Greg had dropped her off the night before, and she had finally squirmed away, declaring that she was half starved and rooting through the cabinets for junk food. She ate two Pop-Tarts as an appetizer and half a frozen pizza for dinner, making me feel a pang of guilt when she complained about the healthy meals Heidi made, and then fell asleep on the couch before our movie finished. I had to wake her up to go to bed. It seemed like it wasn’t so long ago that I could carry her up the stairs, but at some point, without me noticing, she had gotten too big for me to lift her. One of the many small milestones of motherhood, of our children outgrowing us. Now, as I watched Lily playing in the sun with Gravy, I wondered how many other little changes had slipped by me, unnoticed.

  “Should we head back now?” Lily asked.

  “Want to cut down to the creek? He’s still going strong.” Gravy seemed to tap into hidden energy reserves when Lil was around.

  “Through the woods?” Lily paused to tug at her socks. They were so low they were getting swallowed up by her shoes, but she no longer liked the kind that covered her ankles.

  “Yeah. I think he can handle it. Look at him.” He was actually pulling on the leash. “Maybe the new food’s starting to do him some good.”

  “Is it safe, though?” Her dark eyes were uncertain. She fidgeted with her bangs, which were smashed to her forehead beneath her stocking cap.

  “Sure,” I said. “Why wouldn’t it be?” We had walked down to the creek all the time when she was little, sending leaf boats down the current and hunting tadpoles.

  “Dad said Macey was found in the woods.”

  “Oh, sweetie.” I reached out to squeeze her hand. “Yes, she was, but I don’t think it had anything to do with the woods not being safe. We don’t know exactly what happened. We’re on our own property here.” She stayed rooted in place, unconvinced. “We’ve got a guard dog.”

  She didn’t smile. “Mom.”

  I tried to remember the last time she’d called me Mommy. I felt like I was already forgetting how it sounded. “We’re safe here,” I said.

  “How do you know?”

  I didn’t know how to tell her that there are no guarantees, that mothers, despite their efforts and intentions, have no magical ability to protect their children, though she was already beginning to sense that on her own.

  “Come on. Let’s see if it’s frozen.”

  Gravy led the way down the overgrown path, seeming to know where he was going despite never having gone this way before. I loved the fresh smell of the cedars, the way the trees closed in around us, encasing us in a hidden world, the delight in Lily’s voice as she laughed at Gravy and told him, possibly for the first time ever, to slow down. The creek, when we reached it, was an unimpressive trickle, the edges clotted with ice, and Gravy trotted right into the frigid water and began to lap it up.

  “Look, he loves it,” I said. Lily followed him along the creek bed, careful to keep her tennis shoes out of the water.

  “How’s social studies?” I asked. “Did you get your project back yet?”

  “Yeah,” she said. “I got an A. Heidi helped me with it.”

  “That’s great. So everything’s going okay at Dad’s?”

  “Yeah,” she said. “He works a lot, but Heidi makes him come home so we can eat dinner together. She’s picky about things. Like food, obviously. And keeping my room clean.” She rolled her eyes. “And she’s super crabby if she misses her morning yoga. Did you know she can stand on her head? And she’s trying to teach me to meditate. She says it’s good for anxiety.”

  “Nice,” I said.

  “It’s harder than you’d think,” she said. “You have to sit still, and breathe, and if a thought comes into your head, you just let it go. She said it takes lots of practice.”

  “I’m sure it does.”

  The sun barely penetrated the wooded valley, the shadows deep on either side of the creek. You couldn’t hear traffic from the far-off road, or the wind chimes clanging back at the house. There was only the breeze ghosting through the branches, and the screeching of jays, and the muted gurgle of the water. Lily stopped here and there to examine an interesting rock, to pull her socks back up again. She’d forgotten her earlier worries, no longer thinking about her safety. She was still a little girl in some ways, like Macey, not yet expected to always be on guard, not listening for footsteps, not looking over her shoulder like I was, as mothers were required to do.

  * * *

  —

  Mom was asleep in her recliner when we arrived for lunch, a Hoarders marathon playing on the TV. She liked the show because it made her feel better about her own clutter. A dead cat! she’d say. My knickknacks might be dusty, but I’d notice a dead cat behind the bookcase! On the side table next to her chair, carefully distanced from a sweating can of diet soda, lay the sketch of Gravy she’d torn from Shane’s notepad. The edges were curled like she’d been holding it in her palm.

  “Grandma.” Lily sat on the arm of the recliner and tugged her sleeve, and Mom startled awake with a gasp.

  “Just resting my eyes,” she said, squinting at us.

  Lily hugged her. “Smells good in here.”

  “Well, since you were coming, I fixed something nice. Found a hambone in the deep freeze and cooked up a pot of bean soup.”

  I didn’t want to know how old the hambone was. She used to make ham and beans all the time when Dad was still alive, ladling it over slices of white bread. None of us kids particularly liked it, but it was comfort food, bland and familiar.

  “Is Becca on her way?” I asked.

  “I reckon so,” Mom said. “Lily, I need you to come in the kitchen and clear off the table for me before she gets here. She starts thinking I can’t keep the place up on my own and she’ll ruin l
unch talking about nursing homes.”

  I stayed in the living room, digging into the cracks of the recliner to find the remote and switch off Hoarders. It was too depressing watching a frail elderly couple argue about how many storage bins of old magazines they could keep while a sewage leak rotted away the floorboards in the background.

  I set the remote on the table and picked up Shane’s drawing. It wasn’t detailed like any of his finished work, just a pencil sketch, the sort of thing you might doodle absentmindedly while talking on the phone. It was smudged, and I imagined Mom tracing her fingers over the lines, knowing it was the last thing her son would ever draw. The lead had smeared into the indentations of whatever he’d written on the pages above, and I pressed the edges of the paper to flatten it. A few letters stood out, in block print rather than his usual sloppy cursive and drawn with a heavy, deliberate hand. I looked more closely, trying to make out words, tilting the paper to catch the light.

  The front door cracked open and then slammed full force against the wall as Becca’s boys, Colton and Logan, burst in and ran to find Lily and the dog, Becca hollering from the driveway for them to slow down. I set the paper down and went to see if Becca had anything she needed me to carry.

  We all ate together at the kitchen table, then Becca and I waited until Mom retired to her recliner. Lily took the boys outside before we started on the dishes, the running water masking our voices so we could talk.