She was snapping beans when Danny Sizemore passed on his way to the church. She watched him idly and then went back inside. She dipped water from the stove reservoir into a stewer and added the beans. The stove was hot enough so she put the bread pans in the oven, then wiped the perspiration dewing her upper lip with the cuptowel. She rolled up the door of the high closet and took a chicken leg to nibble while waiting on the bread.
Seeing Danny reminded her she should go to Mavis's and check on her washing and ironing. She knew it was only an excuse to take a walk and get out of the hot kitchen, because Mavis would bring them around when she finished. That was one thing Robbie had insisted upon. She argued she was still capable of doing her own laundry, but rather gratefully gave in when he put his foot down.
Screams of terror drifted in the kitchen window from the direction of the school.
Robbie Callahan was the constable of Morgan's Cleft. There wasn't much for a constable to do in the valley: an occasional lost child or lost cow, a little too much corn liquor on Saturday night, an infrequent territorial dispute between farmers, a boyish prank gotten out of hand. The people were hard-working, self-reliant and Cod-fearing. They didn't really need a constable. Besides, everyone knew everyone else and it was virtually impossible to get away with anything. But they needed and wanted a figure of authority: someone to organize when organization was necessary, someone to collect taxes, someone to preside at town meetings, someone to help when help was wanted.
Robbie was only twenty-six, but he had broad shoulders, long legs, sandy hair, an easy grin and could lick practically anybody who gave him trouble. He was well-liked and trusted and had married Meridee Morgan three years earlier. His connection with the Morgans hadn't hurt him at election time.
But, as there wasn't much for a constable to do, and because the job only paid ten dollars a month, Robbie worked at Watson's Mercantile. He kept the accounts, went to Utley twice a week in the truck for the mail and ice and anything else needed from the outside. For all practical purposes, Robbie had been in charge of the store since old Calvin Watson began failing six years before.
The Mercantile smelled of coffee beans, licorice, cheese, dill and leather—especially leather. He opened another crate of harness, entering it in his inventory as he hung it up: bridles, lines, traces, pads, back and hip straps, breeching, breast straps, martingales, hames, spread straps.
Frances Pritchard, who clerked for Robbie, was showing yard goods to her mother at the front of the store. Mrs. Pritch-ard always found it necessary to unroll every other bolt before she made up her mind. She fingered ivory silk crepe with one hand and mais chiffon mull with the other, but Frances knew her mother was only daydreaming.
"I can't make up my mind," Mrs. Pritchard said with a whine. "Which do you like best, Frances, dear?"
Frances smiled tolerantly. "The crepe is very nice, mother, and it's two ninety-eight a yard. The mull is fifty-five and," she pushed two other bolts forward, "the chambray is nine cents a yard and the calico is ten." She cocked an eyebrow at her mother. Mrs. Pritchard sighed in resignation.
They heard a commotion from the direction of the school.
Edith Beatty sat at her desk looking at the huge smear of blood where Bobby MacDonald's body had been. Other smears led to the window where the body had been removed. Her brain felt like cotton. She couldn't think or reason. Her arm was numb. She held it tightly to stop the bleeding. She felt light-headed and her ears rang.
Several people came into the room. She recognized Mrs. Bledsoe and Robbie Callahan but the others were back in the deep shadows. Strange there should be so many shadows in the middle of the afternoon. Robbie leaned over her, talking to her, but she couldn't understand what he was saying. The shadows had overtaken Mrs. Bledsoe, covering her like greasy black fog. Robbie was doing something to her arm but she couldn't tell what because of the shadows.
Meridee watched Morgan's Cleft through the kitchen window as she cut away the burned crust of the bread. The inside would be fine for making bread pudding, she decided. She wrapped it in a cuptowel and put it m the high closet of the stove. Not tonight; she would make the pudding tomorrow. It was nearly sundown but the street was filled with milling, confused, sometimes hysterical people. Robbie would be home soon, hungry as a bear.
She made biscuits and put them in the oven and warmed up the leftover chicken. Even with the beans it didn't seem like much so she fried bacon and eggs.
She had gone to the schoolhouse with everyone else. It had all seemed unreal, like she was reading a storybook. No one could explain what happened. Everyone stood around while the stunned children told what had taken place, trying to make sense of it all. Mrs, Beatty had passed out and was carried to Doctor Morgan's office. The bite on her arm seemed already infected. The parents of the missing children had gone into the woods after them, and weren't all back yet.
A team and wagon had ripped and rattled into town. The horses had been wild with panic, rearing and screaming, their eyes round and shining, bloody froth on the bits. The wagon was empty except for sacks of oats in the bed and blood on the seat.
Robbie had sent her home when Caroline Walker ran the two miles into town carrying the body of her five-year-old Pretty. Caroline's arms were covered with bites and she screamed she had killed Pretty. They couldn't get her to say anything else. She just repeated it over and over and fought them when they tried to take Pretty from her. Then she fainted and they took her to Doc.
Meridee ate the bacon and eggs because she was so hungry and fried more for Robbie.
Pauly Williams felt sick to his stomach. He had a bite on his chest and another on his arm. Both throbbed and itched. Doc Morgan had swabbed them with something that stung and bandaged them. Pauly was embarrassed and ashamed. Delton Reeves was only ten years old and Pauly was twelve, but he hadn't been able to fend off Delton's ferocious attack, hadn't been able to keep Delton from biting him twice. He had never been so grateful for anything in his life as he had been when Mrs. Beatty clobbered Delton on the head with her shoe.
He scratched at the bandage on his chest, but his mother pulled his hand away. The skin around the bandage was red and the inflammation seemed to be spreading. She felt his forehead. It was hot. He had taken a fever. She pulled the covers around Pauly's neck and told him to go to sleep. She turned the lamp low, making sure the wick didn't smoke.
She went onto the front porch and looked through the moonlight toward the road that skirted the corn field. She wished Joe Bob would get home. The chickens hadn't been fed, the eggs hadn't been gathered and the milk still sat in the smokehouse unseparated. She had half a mind to take the lantern and do all three, but Joe Bob had told her to stay in the house with the door locked while he and the other men looked for the children.
It was hard to believe that Wayne was out there in the dark. He was only seven and had never been very strong. Pauly was the strong one. Wayne was the smart one. Thunder-heads were building on the west ridge. She hoped it wouldn't rain; Wayne was sure to catch cold if it did.
She had been watching the movements of the cornstalks for several minutes before she realized what she was seeing. The tops would sway slightly as something brushed against them lower down. It was only a small area of movement. It had started at the road and crept across the field toward the creek.