by Jack Ketchum
“Chris.”
His grip was surprisingly firm though the palms were smooth and soft.
“Hellova nice day, huh?”
“This time of year, Chris, can’t ask for much better.”
“You said it. What’s on your mind, Dean?”
“That obvious?” He essayed a troubled smile.
“How’s Diane?”
“The home’s real nice. They’re takin’ the best care of her I think they can. I want to thank you again, Chris, for putting in the good word for us up there. The lower rate helps. A lot.”
“Glad to hear it. Diane’s a fine woman. Deserves the best. She improving any?”
“Well…she’s more comfortable for sure, but…”
He didn’t want to go too far down that path with Dean. Diane wouldn’t be improving and they both knew it. Alzheimer’s. From what he’d heard, in the advanced stages. He slapped the man lightly on the shoulder. The ash fell off his cigarette onto Dean’s white t-shirt sleeve but he didn’t seem to notice.
“Hey. Why don’t you go in for a swim, old buddy? Clog the drain with all that hair. Do you some good.”
Dean tried on another smile. No fit.
“Yeah.”
Instead he pulled on his Budweiser.
There was the awkward pause he knew was coming. He leaned back against the birch tree and drank his beer. He saw that across the yard Belle had yanked Darlin’ off the picnic bench and was hauling her toward the house.
“You remember telling’ me to come to you first if I ever thought of selling?”
Here it is, he thought. I knew it.
“Yeah,” he said. “But I don’t feel like losing my best and only neighbor.”
“I just…I can’t concentrate down at the feed store anymore. Can’t find anyone who can handle the books the way Diane could. The competition’s killing me anyhow. You know I’ve lost customers I’ve had for thirty-five years over as little as two cents a pound?”
“They’ll come to regret it in the long run. Chain store’s not going to extend ‘em credit the way you do, prop ‘em up for months on end.”
Dean seemed not to hear him. He set his bottle down carefully against the tree.
“I’m in a hellova jam, Chris. And I got to be honest. I don’t really have the heart to try to pry my way out of it. I spend as much time as I can with Diane up at the home, but I’d like to spend more.”
“Understandable.”
“So what I want to do is…I want to sell it all off and get myself a little one-bedroom up around there so I can be with her these last few months. I don’t think she’s got much more than that.”
He flicked his ash this time before setting his hand down on Dean’s shoulder.
“If you’re really serious about selling, I’m glad you came to me. Come on down to the office on Monday we’ll see about drawing up some papers. I can’t give you the world for the place but I’ll give you a fair price.”
“I know you will, Chris.”
The man seemed looser already.
“Good thing about old friends is, you don’t have to worry about getting a lube job,” he said.
“That’s why I come to you, Chris.”
“You were right to. I got an idea. How about you and me getting ourselves a real drink? You’re a scotch fella like me, am I right?”
“Bourbon.”
“I bet we can shake some free.”
He picked up Dean’s bottle and handed it to him and turned him toward the house.
“You got any buyers for the store yet?”
“Not yet. Couple of feelers.”
“Okay, we’ll talk about that on Monday too. See what we might be able do. What the hell, right?”
“Sure. What the hell.”
And, arm over his shoulder, he steered Dean across the lawn.
~ * ~
When she got to Darlin’ her daughter had Danny Clapp’s face in both her hands and was pecking at him repeatedly on the mouth. The boy was in an agony of embarrassment as well he might be, tying to squirm away. Belle was furious.
“I told you! No more kissing! It’s…just inappropriate. Not to mention a good way to get yourself sick. I catch you at that again I’m gonna take you into the bathroom, you hear me?”
“‘Course I hear you, mama, you’re yelling in my ear!”
“You watch your mouth, little lady.”
This kissing thing. She hated it. There was something unnatural about it, she thought, something perverse.
It had started up only last year. And it wasn’t just Danny Clapp or other kids who were the target. Belle herself was, at first. She’d put a stop to that pretty quickly once she realized this was going to become some sort of thing with Darlin‘ and not some occasional show of endearment. She was not one of those mothers who avoided corporal punishment. That was just liberal foolishness — a spanking now and then could be just what the doctor ordered — though she trusted she dealt them out fairly and without any loss of control on her part.
But then this kissing behavior had shifted to Peggy. Even to Brian. Who brooked it exactly once and then, the second time, slapped her. More punishment. That time, for both of them.
Where the hell was Brian, anyway?
“Where’s your brother, Darlin‘?”
“I dunno. Where we going?”
“Into the house. You’re going to sit down and watch some TV. I think you’ve had quite enough of playing with the other kids for today. You have to learn some control, Darleen Cleek, if you‘re going to be part of this family. Control, you hear me? You can get yourself a ginger ale if you want one. I’ll call you when we’re ready to leave.”
“Aw, mama…”
She marched her into the living room, found the remote and turned on the Sims’ TV. Sally Sims was not going to mind. She sat Darlin’ in a chair in front of it and handed her the remote. Darlin’ took it from her mother with one hand and shoved the thumb of her other into her mouth.
Four years old and she was still sucking her thumb.
She’d always been oral as hell. Nursing her, Belle had been in nearly constant pain. Not like Peggy or Brian. The only worse one was the other one. The one they didn’t talk about.
“I don’t want to hear a peep out of you until I call you outside, that clear?”
“Yes, mama.” She was already flipping channels.
Her daughter was sweet but she had the attention span of a gnat.
Belle sighed and stepped out to rejoin the party.
~ * ~
Brian Cleek sat in the driveway propped against the Sims’ basketball post rolling his Spalding under the palm of his hand and drinking his lemonade and watching the three ten-year-olds devil little Jenny Diva.
Sammy and John were lanky and long-armed like him but Frankie was a fatass. In this case, being a fatass came in handy. They had her against the hedges and she didn’t have much wiggle-room.
‘C’mon,” Sammy said, “don’t be such a chickenshit.”
He pushed her back into the hedges just a little. Just enough make her aware she was more or less trapped there.
“Stop it!“ she said.
“Show it!” fatass Frankie said.
“Show what?”
Sammy pushed her a little harder. This time the bushes scratched her bare upper arms.
“Ow! Stop that!”
“Frankie’s right. Show it. C’mon.”
“What are you talking about?”
She really didn’t understand. Well, at ten, guys were way ahead of girls. For that matter at Brian’s age, thirteen, they still were. The common wisdom — at least as pronounced by his sister Peggy — was that at some point they caught up big time. But Brian had seen no evidence of that.
He finished his lemonade and set it down, got up and moved back over the macadam and dribbled awhile, watching them.
“Your bush, stupid,” John said. “Show us your bush.”
“My what?”
He wondered if
you even had a bush at ten. He didn’t think so. He shot a free throw. Scored. Rebounded the ball.
“Grab her, Frankie,” said Sammy.
Fatass did as he was told, grabbed hold of both her arms and turned her toward Sammy. She let out a little mouse- shriek. Eeeek. Whether it was Frankie’s gripping her too hard or being pressed against his sweaty belly was anybody’s guess.
Sammy poked her in her skinny chest, punctuating his words, grinning.
“We. Want. To. See. Your. Bush!”
“No!” she said.
Jenny still didn’t seem to know what this was all about but she’d started to cry, tears welling up quietly. And then she did know because Frankie reached down to the waistband of her frilly two-piece bathing suit and started to tug it down, the boys all laughing at her as she squirmed every which way and kicked and struggled.
“Hey! Cut that out!”
Mr. French had a half-eaten hot dog in his hand and he was still chewing.
Mr. French was ex-infantry. He didn’t just approach. He loomed.
“What in the hell do you think you boys are doing here?”
The boys had no answer for that. They looked at one another. Saw no answer there either. How much the man had actually observed coming around the side of the house they didn’t know but they were going to catch hell anyhow for messing with a girl and they knew it. Frankie let go of her arm and she stumbled to the tarmac, crying. Sammy, John and Frankie took off like they were rounding third base for home with the ball in play. Even Frankie had a fire under him.
Brian shot another free throw. Sunk it. Rebounded.
Mr. French helped Jenny up. Then turned to Brian, scowling.
“Why were you letting them do that, Brian?”
“Sir?”
The eyes narrowed. The scowl now read contempt.
“Sir? Did you just call me sir?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Listen, you little smartass…”
“I was just shooting some free throws, sir.”
“Right. Sure you were. And you know damn well you should have stopped them. They’re how much younger than you? Three years? Four years?”
“I really wasn’t paying attention, sir. I was concentrating on my free throw.”
“You…jesus christ.”
He shook his head in disgust. Brian couldn’t have cared less if he was disgusted. He was an ex-marine with a gut on him. Fuck him.
He shot. Hit the rim and missed. Two for three. Not bad but he could do better.
Mr. French led Jenny back to the picnic.
Brian rebounded.
~ * ~
Chris glanced in the rear-view mirror at Darlin’ sleeping in the back. There was mustard on his daughter’s chin. He smiled. Brian got in beside her and slammed the door. She didn’t even flinch. The sleep of the innocent.
“How’d you do, buddy?”
“Eight for ten, dad.”
“Consistently?”
“Just the last time and once before that. I think I’m getting the hang of it, though.”
“Can’t win games unless you hit your free throws.”
“I know.”
He watched as Belle and Peg approached the back of the Escalade — Belle carrying two beach chairs and Peg a neat stack of wet towels. He hit the auto lock to unlock the tailgate.
“There’s Roger,” Brian said. “He’s got this major thing for Peggy.”
Cleek checked the rearview again and saw this towheaded pigeon-chested kid walk by with his parents to their own car and it looked like his son was right. The kid was fairly beaming at her. He said something Chris couldn’t hear to her and she shrugged and said something back. Whatever it was turned his smile into a frown.
Busted, he thought. Poor guy.
He couldn’t blame the kid for trying, though. His daughter had turned into quite a looker.
Belle closed the tailgate and they came around to the passenger side and got in, Peg in back next to her sister and Belle in front and quietly shut their doors.
He turned to his daughter.
“Never went in, huh?”
“Chlorine makes my hair gross.”
He laughed. He thought the laugh came out just fine. It usually did.
“Well,” he said, “we wouldn’t want that now, would we?”
He put the Escalade in gear and pulled away.
~ * ~
It was the unpaved road that woke her up. The unpaved road meant they were almost home.
She’d been dreaming about the castle again.
She and Max and Cindy and Teddy — Max was her elephant and Cindy was her ragdoll and Teddy was…well, Teddy — were out on the lake in her little boat and Teddy was rowing as usual because bears are strong and the breeze was in her hair and it was a nice sunny day. The waves were gentle.
She had her picnic basket with the little-man cookies and bright red candy apples at her feet and she’d already told Cindy that no, they’d have to wait for the candy apples to get warmer so they could get kinda sticky and drippy and easier to eat. She was about to open the basket to give her a cookie instead when the sky went dark and the wind got much stronger and poor Teddy had to struggle. And then it got so dark she couldn’t see any of them at all. Like she was alone.
But she wasn’t alone. She saw that when the boat landed and the sky cleared a bit and they were all of a sudden right there with her standing in front of the castle. The castle was big and tall and old and crooked-looking and Cindy was scared but Darlin’ wasn’t.
We’ll have our picnic in there she said and the next thing she knew they were in this great big dining room which was crooked too but it had a long wide table so she set the basket on the table and they all sat down while she unpacked the little-man cookies and the red candy apples which were still not sticky enough so she put them back and handed them each a cookie.
“You bite the heads off first, little girl!” came the voice. Which was the witch-who-turned-into-a-wizard-and-then-a-witch-again‘s voice.
And they turned and saw her there all in black standing by a great big fireplace that hadn’t been there at all before and she was waving her crooked black wand at them and she had all those teeth that seemed to turn out from her mouth like dirty nasty forks, curved-like, but even as they screamed at the sight of her she turned into this giant, this flat-headed man with a pointed hat and bulging red eyes and the wand became a club like a table leg and the teeth turned inward like dog’s.
He roared at them and they ran. They ran out the door and the boat was so far away. And she heard her turn back into a witch again and say, real close behind her, scary close, laughing that scary laugh, I’ve still got the wand, little girl! I’ve got the wand!
And she woke. Still scared like she always was.
And there was the house. Her house. Home.
THREE
The Woman sleeps by the banked embers of the fire, the wolf pelt and browse-bed beneath her.
Her sleep is troubled.
At first this is not so. At first she is running though a thicket, almost dancing through the thicket, graceful and keen with the hunt, eyes wide, all senses alert, her prey in sight. The others are all with her save for the Cow, Second Stolen only steps behind with spear at the ready. The Woman feels a flush of pride in her. Second Stolen has the makings of a leader.
Suddenly a baby wails and she is back in the cave, mating with First Stolen. And if this is not entirely pleasurable, his grunts and thrusts behind her and the smell of his sweat are at least familiar. It is the baby’s wail that is unfamiliar. This is not her baby. Nor Second Stolen’s. She knows their voices.
“Babai,” she says.
She looks around the cave in the flickering light for the source of the sound. Past the pile of axes, hammers, hatchets and other tools and weapons. Past the fire. Past the heap of clothes. And finally there it is. Hanging between three skins, rabbit, fox and human, on the far right wall of the cave. A baby in a knotted clear bag lying
in its own piss and shit. The baby writhing, howling. But dead.
Inside this new cave, alone, The Woman turns in her sleep and moans. Her hand goes to the weed-dressed wound in her side. She makes a fist and digs in.
The Woman in her dream uncouples from First Stolen, pushes him back away despite his protests, despite his erection. She gets to her feet and goes to the baby. Stares up at the baby in wonder. How can it be alive and yet dead? She can see its tiny face pressed against the bag.
It snarls at her.
Suddenly the cave erupts in gunfire. First Stolen spins away. Somewhere a woman screams. Another woman presses the face of one of the Twins into the fire and he screeches as his face is burned away and she can hear the sizzle of him amid flying crackling sparks and flames. Then more gunfire, more screaming, groans and the rattle of chains.
Inside this new cave, alone, The Woman’s fingers knead her wounds until they bleed.
In her dream it is quiet again. She is surrounded by the dead.
Even the baby now is silent in its bag. She takes it down and lays it on a blanket by the dying embers of the fire and peels the bag away. The baby’s eyes are wide so she closes them. She wraps it in the blanket against the morning chill and places a single grey gull’s feather on its breast.
In her new cave her hand goes slack at her side. She sleeps.
FOUR
An hour and a half before dawn Cleek sat showered and shaved and fully dressed at the kitchen table, working on the rifle. He oiled it carefully — and sparingly. Too much oil and a Canadian Whitetail could smell you coming a mile away. The rifle was a total honey, a Remington 700, bolt action, with an ergonomically contoured classic walnut stock and textured grip, a raised cheek piece for rapid scope-to-eye alignment, fitted with a 3X9 Leupold scope. It took a 7mm Remington Magnum cartridge. He could blast a woodchuck all to hell at three hundred yards with one of those babies. And had.
At three grand it was a bargain.
Belle was at the coffeemaker, pouring. She brought them each a second cup. Black for him. For her, cream and sugar. She sat down and sighed.
“You hear Peg last night?” she said.
“Yep.”
“Sick as a dog, Chris.”
“I know. Speaking of dogs. You feed them?”