collected.”
She grabbed the struggling boy and resumed dragging him toward the house.
“Ain’t nuthin’ wrong wi’ my family!”
Only in the last instant did she hear the footsteps running up behind her.
“You…!” He grabbed her in a clumsy, flailing lunge. “You hear me?” He shook her.
“Stop it!”
“Ain’t gonna stop, and there ain’t nuthin’ you can do ’bout it neither. Where’s your fuckin’ cop now?”
She pushed at him with her fists as his grip tightened. “Take your hands off me.”
He met her eyes and backed away. “You think there’s sumthin’ amatter wi’ me? You’re the one’s sick. Don’t gimme that look.”
“Matthew, come back here.” The boy had fled around the side of the house.
“I can see your face, bitch. I know that look, that ‘you’re disgusting’ look. That’s your opinion. Wally didn’t think so. An’ I ain’t stupid, neither. You’re the one. Too goddamn good for my family. Oughtta be too good ta live in our house then.” His voice rose as he worked himself toward frenzy again. “I’m a bum or what? Is that what you think? Oh God. I oughtta punch your face in. What do you think a that? Like ya think you’re some fuckin’ saint with…”
From the corner of her eye, she caught a blur of brown movement.
“…that ambulance crap, I—”
“No!”
The dog seemed to explode at him, paws striking his chest. Lonny careened backward.
“No, Dooley! Down! Down, I said! No!” She got hold of the old leather collar and pulled back as the snarling dog lunged again, jerking her forward.
Cloth ripped. Half crouched, Lonny held one arm protectively at his throat while the other beat the air as though still fending off the dog. “Hold ’im! Don’t let go!” He recoiled slowly, reflexes off.
Only now, watching him, did she realize just how drunk he really was.
He scuttled backward, almost falling. “Oughtta fuckin’ shoot that dog! Looka the size of ’im!”
Again, Dooley tried to go after him, dragging Athena. She yelled, planted her feet and held on to the collar with both hands. “I think you’d better get out of here.” She staggered forward, barely restraining the animal. “Down, Dooley! Down!”
Lonny stumbled near the edge of the yard. “Le’ me tell ya something,” he yelled, his voice horrible with fear, an aggressive whine.
Dooley barked furiously, front paws rising off the ground. “No!” Standing almost straight, the dog was as tall as the woman, and it took all her strength just to slow him down. Lonny’s shouts sounded incoherently obscene. Both arms wrapped around the dog now, she considered just releasing him. “Good boy,” she soothed. “Good old Dooley, take it easy, boy.” His barks—this close—hurt her ear drums.
The man’s voice slurred even more as he staggered into the trees. Even from this distance, she could see that his eyes had unfocused. The effect was one of gradual disintegration, as though he’d been held together only by purpose. “’S my house.” Only the rage remained, though grown confused and diffuse. “Oh Jesus, it’s my fuckin’ house.”
Saturated air hung over the pines like a heavy blanket. Dooley pulled away, raced to the edge of the dripping trees and stood baying at the departing figure.
“Shut up, Dooley!” Suddenly, she moved toward a sapling that had edged its way into the yard. She grabbed it with both hands and tugged. The roots gripped deeply, but thin branches stripped off, became whips that cut into her palms, leaving her hands full of wet needles. The green wood bled. Inhaling the acid wetness of the sap, she grunted, twisting the black bow of the trunk, pulling it apart. “Oh God.” She let go of the ruined sapling, wondering if she should go get the ax and put it out of its misery. The tree swayed, and she stepped back. She had to go find Matthew.
Hurrying along, she brushed her smarting hands on her work shirt, and gravel oozed underfoot like mud.
“Look what I found!” Waving, Pamela came along the road with the boy in tow. He weaved behind her like a balloon and seemed fine now, though his cheeks were still damp with the brine of tears and sweat.
“Sorry I’m so late, ’Thena.” Pam sped up her shuffling walk. She waded barefoot through the damp, loose earth, carrying her good shoes. Her best blouse—red—seemed to burn against the sodden grayness. “How come you’re still home? I mean, I thought you’d be down at the hall already. The reason I’m late is I was over at…Oh, ’Thena! Your poor hands!”
The palms bled. She held them out of sight. “Oh,” she said, noticing the tightness of Pam’s skirt. “So you do know he’s out.”
“What? I just thought maybe…” Pam clutched the boy, feeling his shirt. “Oh, c’mere now, baby. You’re all wet. Let’s go in the house and get you changed.”
Of course, she thought, looking away: Lonny could never have walked all the way from town in that condition. Nice of him to stop with his wife. She tried to put a hand on her son’s shoulder—he felt bony as a colt as he dodged past her and followed Pamela toward the house.
“Let me get you buttoned right, leastways, baby. Did you dress yourself this morning, huh?”
“Pamela? The roof leaked upstairs during the night. Could you mop it up?” She felt the pockets of her jeans. No car keys. But she couldn’t go back in the house. Not right now. She needed air.
“Aren’t you going down the hall? ’Thena?” Her voice sad and childlike, Pam called after her. She wanted so much to talk to Athena about Lonny, to brag and dream, but now…Miserable, she watched her retreating back.
Then Matthew stood at her side, rain-battered weeds clutched in his fist.
“No…don’ be sad, Pammy. Look…”
“Oh, Matty!” She brushed them to her face. “Black-eyed Susan! Oh, baby.” She kissed him. “How’d you know they was my favorites now, huh?”
The weeds around the town dump began to straighten and bristle, exuding their noxious perfume.
Marl Spencer scavenged for jars in the refuse. He lifted one specimen, inspected it, then chucked it. The impact made a damp thud. He saw another, partially buried, and began rooting it out. The jar held a black lump of ants. Then he jerked back with a cry, swatting at his head, and slipped on something rotten.
Flying slowly—and always lower—the huge insect whirred on darkly veined wings, and from where he lay in the rubbish, the boy followed it with his eyes. It struck a tree, clung.
Marl stared into the pines. All around him in the hard shadows lay the tracks of dogs.
Once out of sight of the house, Athena felt bigger somehow, more vital, as though she’d left behind a great pressure. Long strides carried her over rain-packed sand. Rapidly shrinking puddles reflected hot gray, and the air felt like a wet sweater. She veered away from the road and followed a nearly invisible trail across the springy turf.
With aimless determination, she passed a stream and breathed in the almost-pleasant smell of fecund water. The current made only the smallest hushed lappings. As she moved on, she examined the shallow cuts on her hands and decided it looked as though she’d been picking roses. Green scum lapped at the mud, and in the soft bank were pressed dozens of tiny tracks, no bigger than a house cat’s, with long finger like claws. A willow stooped low over the creek, casting shade thinner than the sunlight, and when she paused to lean against the trunk, a bird flustered in the branches. The trailing strings of the willow brushed her face as she turned away, and the bird began a faint trilling call.
Walk it off, she told herself.
The trail soon became no more than a gully, sides sloping to a rut in the center. Was it a dry stream run? Vines and dense wet growth tangled, harsh and green, on one side of the path, but the brambles and thorns on the other looked brown in the spray of sunshine. Of course, she realized—a fire ditch. Off the path, a teeming mound of ants seethed over a small dead animal, and she glimpsed white fur.
She ducked half-bare branches as the trail narrowed, needles and twigs crunching briskly underfoot. The ditch
