“Oh well, here goes.” Trying to watch the boy over her shoulder, she spooned batter into the skillet. But she’d filled the pan with cooking oil, the way she’d seen her grandmother do when making dumplings, and the pancake batter spattered and spread across the bottom, dry lumps bobbing to the surface. “Hell.” She stirred the mess distractedly, then turned off the burner. “Pancake stew.”
She looked around the kitchen at the litter of flour and spilled milk and eggshells. It seemed she’d dirtied every dish they owned. Even the old iron stove, which hadn’t seen use since Wallace installed the reconditioned propane range ten years ago, looked filthy. It occurred to her that this might be the first time anyone had ever cooked in this kitchen without Dooley underfoot looking for handouts. She scowled at the dog who watched in plain dismay. “Might as well dump this mess.” She took hold of the iron skillet, burning herself and cursing. Already singed brown at both ends, the dish towel she’d been using as a potholder lay soaking in the sink.
“Matthew?” She dragged the chair over to the cabinet again.
“How about a peanut-butter sandwich instead? Would you like that?” The five-pound peanut-butter jar sat on the top shelf—of course. Her leg twinging a bit, she reached it down, and the jar slipped from her fingers.
Dooley yelped as it crashed to the floor—a mass of tan putty and splintered glass. Before being blamed for anything, the dog hastily vacated the room as Athena glanced down at the boy.
He hadn’t reacted, just kept staring out the door.
Steve gazed wistfully at the bourbon, then chucked it in with the rest. Several bottles clanked noisily as he set down the wastepaper basket. Bustling about, he stacked boxes of trash by the front door, then picked up another flattened cardboard box and began folding it into shape. His shirtsleeves were rolled up, and dirt smudged his red face. He smiled.
The barest of breezes passed the window. He’d taken down the massive, dusty venetian blinds, and the sunlight, laying thickly on the dust, looked strange in this faded room. He glanced around and nodded, figuring they’d sell this place and use the money to start fixing up her house. He finished folding boxes, set one on a chair and scraped the contents of the table into it.
Glass tinkled from a framed photograph. For just a moment, he paused to stare at the wedding picture. He scarcely needed to look, could have seen it through closed eyelids: Anna’s pale, sharp-featured face, her black hair. The word “redemption” kept running through his mind. He shoved the picture in and closed the lid, then tossed the box toward the door.
He struck the chair with the flat of his hand, and dust lifted. He thought about putting all the old furniture outside to air, then thought about just putting it all out with the trash. Mopping his face and neck with a handkerchief, he glanced into the kitchen and groaned at the sight of the boxes stacked on everything.
Break time, he decided. Unbuttoning his shirt, he plopped into the chair he’d been about to move, and his eyes drifted toward one of the bottles in the trash. The fifth of scotch still held an inch of bright amber fluid.
His hand stopped, still outstretched, and he looked at it with annoyance…and then with wonder. He held up the other hand.
Steady.
Sitting back in the chair, he looked again at the bottle, then let his gaze wander about the room. Momentarily swamped by memories, he stared hopelessly at the mounds of junk. He rubbed a hand across his face, and the loud scratching startled him. He needed to shave. Needed to start taking better care of himself. For her.
He rose and resumed packing.
The sun became a ripe and bloody disk. Those adults who moved about outside did so only to perform tasks considered absolutely necessary. Children remained safely indoors. Locked within their shacks and trailers, men and women huddled and spoke little…and that little, in whispers.
Gradually, the hammering impact of the heat began to diminish.
Wes Shourd’s panel truck bounced and clattered over the scorched earth. There was no mistaking the truck. He had no license plate, just a bumper sticker that read JESUS SAVES, and he’d lashed everything he owned to the back. Hot wind stirred whirl pools of dust in his wake. Those of his neighbors who still remained noted his passage through shuttered windows.
A flight of crows swept through the fading sky, leaving loud cawings to settle on the rooftops. Floating on the warmth, one of the crows hovered on rowing wings against the sun as another dented vehicle, crammed full of junk furniture and children, lumbered noisily along the road out of town.
Redness touched the horizon, then spread rapidly along it, and shadows scythed the woods. As dusk sifted down, Athena carried trash out to the heap, broken glass tinkling in the bag. Muffled heat rose from the earth around her. Chimney swifts, circling after insects overhead, twittered, a high-pitched chattering that sounded like bats above the blurring trees. Crossing the yard, she passed the shed.
Faintly, a sobbing cry swelled in the twilight landscape, rising, growing unmistakably bestial. Motionless, she listened, shaking her head in denial. It surrounded her—a long, demanding yowl. She took a step backward. At times it sounded hungry. At times it almost whimpered. Always it seemed to change direction, drifting with the breeze. Almost dying away, it would begin again—like the cry of cats—no less mournful for being entirely sexual.
She ran, the bag of trash scattered on the ground. A wail of painful joy and triumphant fear pursued her.
Evening poured across the landscape, flowing strong and dense until it filled the world. The shadows beneath the porch melted and spread, merging. She reached the house.
“Chabwok.” Calmly, the child sat at the table and toyed with the white stones, while his mother stood gasping in the doorway.
“Chabwok’s dead!” she cried. “It’s over!”
“Ain’t dead.”
“I saw him die!”
The cry rolled again, louder now. The boy played with the pebbles, and his eyes, when he looked up, burned like living cinders.
Slammed the door, she bolted it. “It’s all right.” She backed away. “It’s going to be all right, Matthew.” She stumbled to the phone. “I’m going to call Steve.” Hands trembling, she began to dial. “They’ll just have to come and kill him again.” Even her voice shook.
A stone struck the wall by her head.
“Matthew!” She spun around. Another stone hit the dial of the phone, produced a broken ringing. The boy seemed not to have moved.
From outside, the muffled cry penetrated the walls. And suddenly the air was full of objects.
The phone pulled from her hand, yanked to the end of its cord, then slammed back and struck her on the side of the neck. As she yelled, stones flew and the table overturned. “No!” Dishes shattered all around the room. “What’s happening?” She cringed against the wall. “This can’t be happening!” The sugar bowl smashed against the sink, and she watched in disbelief as the pipes of the old stove began to shudder. Black dust dribbled down.
As though battered by invisible fists, the stovepipe wrenched away from the wall, and a century’s accumulation of soot cascaded, filling the kitchen, choking away the light.
“Matthew!” As the worst of the cloud settled, she saw the black dirt—still pouring from the ruptured pipe—slowly cover the boy’s body where it writhed and convulsed on the floor.
Saturday, August 15
“You the one? The bitch that’s been makin’ all the trouble?” His face went a deep purple, the mouth very wet and red inside his beard. “Everbody look at ’er! She’s the one ’at killed a whole town!” His hands clutched into gnarled fists.