I slid down next to her and pulled out the gun. Her gold-flecked eyes looked at me with something like gratitude as she moved closer and nuzzled against my chest. I reached into my pocket and pulled out the small blue tag that had fallen from the envelope.
“Still Mr. Slow-on-the-Uptake, I’m afraid.”
She made a soft, pained noise in the back of her throat and I heard the echo of her voice from the phone call that night: If I put out, they didn’t treat me like I was some kind of dog-and I’d spent so long being treated that way I started to believe that’s what I was-I still do, sometimes.
I tossed away the tag and embraced her. “You shouldn’t have left the house that night,” I choked into her fur. “I would’ve made it all right.”
She rolled her head to the side, licked her lips, then pressed her head against my shoulder: I know.
I looked at the silver tag hanging from her collar. I wondered if anyone was watching us at this moment. I made a small wave and mouthed the words “Hi, Mom.”
A loud crack from above shook the floor as they broke through the bedroom door and began shoving the bed out of the way. At the other end of the crawl space, one of them knocked aside the trash cans and knelt down, his goggles casting their eerie light on our faces.
I looked at the gun. How many shots had I fired? God, please let there be two bullets left.
I ejected the clip.
It was empty.
But one bullet remained in the chamber.
I looked into her eyes. She shook her head, raised a paw, and batted the gun from my grip.
I held her close as the trapdoor was wrenched open and the Bowler at the other end began crawling toward us.
Then I remembered Carson’s question about swans, did I like them and did I know what made them different from other animals? 338
“Swans,” I muttered to her. “They mate for life, don’t they?”
Yes. Pressing closer against me. I would never let her go. Never.
“Then it’ll be swans.”
I closed my eyes.
Her breath against my neck was like summer sunlight. I could smell the cooking from inside. Mom and Mabel were preparing dinner. Dad was busy collecting eggs from the henhouse while Whitey butchered a too-loud rendition of “Hello, I Must Be Going” on the out-of-tune piano in the parlor. My sister and Carson were on the front porch. Carson was attempting to draw her picture. One of these days he’d get it right.
An old man is chasing his hat across the highway in a comic dance. Thank God there’s no traffic at this hour. This will make a great story at dinner. I will tell it with perfect timing and make Whitey proud.
Beth is there, smiling, holding out her hands. I will take them, and we will dance in the autumn twilight, turning, turning, until we turn round right. I will say something funny, and her laugh will ring like crystal. We will look into one another’s eyes. And her smile will linger; oh, how it will linger.
I touch her face, revel in the perfect texture of her skin. She moves closer. A moment, a breath, a sigh. Now.
The world is returned to the way it should have been.
Her smile and touch tell me all I need to know.
I kiss her gently in the lilac shadows…
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