“I know wha’ tha’ bitch really wants.” Muttering to himself, Lonny began to get loud.
“I told you to lay off the stuff.”
“Ah, let ’im alone, Al,” somebody yelled. “It’s just getting good. What you saying, Lon?”
Lonny kept drinking. All around him voices blurred with the smoke, fogging into an uneven buzz.
“Yeah, tell us ’bout it, Lonny. Whatchya gonna do to ’er?”
“…what tha bitch…she ain’t takin’ nuthin’…’smy house, Jesus, ’Thena…what she really wants, my…”
“At’s a boy, Lonny!”
“You tell ’er!”
“Tha’ bitch!” He pounded his fist on the bar. Voices splashed around him. Words whirled about his ears, piercing his head. Hands slapped his back. Many hands. His friends—a flickering blur. Al laughed, and Wes kept pushing him, pushing him and yelling things. Someone—old Dan?—tried to take his arm, but he shook free like a dog throwing off water. And suddenly he was sailing toward the door, riding a crescendo of goading that seemed to carry him out into the night. The hollow roar of the gin mill burst behind him, then trundled away.
He couldn’t feel his feet, couldn’t see the ground, but he kept walking, somehow never falling, and one of the hounds that lay in the shadow of a truck got up to follow.
So strange to be outside. Such relief. No lights to hurt his eyes. But even here the air felt dense, stirring with damp heat, like the breath of a beast. His thoughts churned: it was his house, but he had nothing because of her. Choking, he loosened his shirt. He was a grown man, and they all laughed at him, because he had nothing, no home even, and all he wanted was to go home. He stumbled down the road. He was going home, and nothing could stop him.
His thoughts grew even more muddied. Had he lost his bearings? The house lay…that way. Ahead of him, pines swayed, and the breeze carried away the stink of the town dump.
The hound that followed idly, stopped and sniffed the air. It sat back on its haunches to watch the man’s progress into the woods. The dog stiffened. The beginnings of a growl stirred in its chest, then it twisted around with a wrenching movement and ran away as fast as it could.
As the sky began to flicker, the wind blew stronger.
Pine detritus crunched under the tires. Raindrops plopped randomly across the roof of the car, and dust billowed around the house. In the woods, a dog was howling. As Athena pushed the car door open, sudden wetness splattered over the windshield. Couldn’t wait two more minutes, could it? She sprinted toward the dry shadow of the house while all around her hot sand hissed and sighed.
Lightning illuminated the kitchen as she pulled open the back door. She slapped at the wall, groped for the switch. Thunder sounded distantly. The house creaked under the rising wind, and fitful rain tapped like moths at the windows. She moved swiftly through the first floor, switching on lights. Another clap of thunder detonated, the loudest so far, and through the rumblings came ragged shrieks.
“Matthew?” She raced to the foot of the stairs. “Matthew, what’s the matter?”
Shrill cries grew louder. She caught a flash of movement.
“Pammy! Where Pammy an’ Chabwok got in his m-mouth and red…all red?” Crashing down the stairs, the boy charged at her. No time to get out of the way—she clutched at the banister as he slammed into her, tumbling her backward.
The house lights went out.
Toppling in sudden darkness, she landed on her hip with the boy on top of her, pain and panic searing through.
“Pammy…d-dark now…Pammy red and the rain! Go and…got to!” They grappled furiously in the blackness, Athena struggling to get up, the boy screaming and shaking her, desperation in his voice.
“Matthew, it’s all right.” She got hold of his arms, tried wriggling free. “Everything’s going to be all right.” A glancing blow caught her on the side of the jaw.
“Pammy! Chabwok, the dogs! Save Pammy. Save!”
Somehow, she pushed him back, warded off beating fists. She tried to pull herself to her feet, but again he flung himself at her. He grabbed her around the waist and hung on, wailing with fear and need.
“Matthew, stop this, please. Let me up!” She managed to free herself from one clinging hand. “What’s wrong? Can you tell me?” Prying herself loose, she stumbled into the darkened kitchen to lean against the table.
Lightning probed at boarded windows. The boy hadn’t followed her. The flash showed him still lying on the floor, weeping as he hadn’t since infancy. Pam was in danger—his hysteria convinced her. “It’s all right now, Matthew.” She felt along the wall for the cellar door. The key grated, and the doorway opened deeply. An ammoniacal smell flooded the room: a damp musk, full of the stench of mouse droppings and dust-laden cobwebs. Steadying herself against the door, she reached for the shelf, groped among the cans and jars. Finding the flashlight, she turned it toward the choked sobs. “Everything’s going to be fine now.”
“Pammy…n-n-no no don…Chabwok!” The boy stood at the kitchen threshold, face running with tears. “Pammy, no, don wanna…” The glare of the flashlight made his tear-swollen features appear even more distorted.
She directed the beam back toward the shelf, then lifted down the kerosene lantern and took the rattling box of matches from the stove.
“…dogs…the dogs inna woods…” He dropped to his knees, then slid to his side, moaning. “…gonna get Pammy! Pammy!” An explosion of wind brought a cracking noise from the walls.
A quivering puddle of lantern light covered the table and overflowed into the rest of the kitchen. While the boy wept, she stood searching for her strength. She had to do something. Could the feral dogs really be near Pam’s trailer? And how could the boy know? How could he?
Something scraped the back door. “Pamela?” Hurrying, she pulled it open—a burst of coolness. Rain gushed in. A dark shape heaved up from the porch. “No!” She tried to slam the door, but the shape struck against it with a yelp, shoving the door out of her hands and knocking her aside as it plowed through. Claws skittered loudly across the floorboards. “Oh.” She clutched at her throat, feeling her pulse hammer while the door flailed in rainy wind.
Black and soaking, the dog ran twice around the kitchen, then stopped to lap at Matthew’s face before shaking, spattering her jeans and the room with mud.
Drifting mist surrounded her, and she breathed in the scent of the rain. Then she heard fiercely chaotic barking, murky through the storm, definitely coming from the direction of Pamela’s.
The boy grabbed her, startling her. When she put her hand on his head, he whined and shook all over. The words wouldn’t come out through his chattering teeth, and he pressed shut his eyes, his whole face clenching. The veins on his face swelled as though they’d burst at the temples if the choked-down sobs did not emerge.
She knew what she had to do. Freeing herself, she moved quickly to the cellar door, reached again for the shelf. “Matthew, you’re to stay in the house with Dooley.” Her voice sounded odd, and she tried to imagine the expression on her face. “The lights should come back on soon. You’re not to touch the lantern. Understand?”
The boy watched as she grabbed down first the shotgun, then the box of shells.
“Do you understand?” With a steady hand, she loaded two shells into the gun, then picked up the flashlight. The boy tried to follow her out onto the porch.
“I said stay in the house!”
The boy hadn’t moved in long moments. He stood rooted to the spot, staring at the back door. It had already swelled from the rain, and she’d had to shove it several times before it had closed properly. He’d watched it jerk and tremble, listened to her grunt against it. Then the lock had clicked. Since then all had been silent save the storm.