exorcism. She read down a bit farther. The child’s body was badly burned, and police had taken scrapings from the walls of the oven.
People are crazy, she thought and turned the page.
The lumps in the pancake batter wouldn’t go away. Athena stabbed them with a fork. She stirred them furiously, tried squashing them under the surface as though to drown them, but they only stuck to the tines. “This doesn’t look right.” She glanced over at Matty to see if he was impatient for lunch, but he just sat at the table and stared out the screen door. She watched him without seeming to. He was so still, so quiet.
Dropping the fork, which immediately disappeared into the batter, she pulled a chair over and climbed up on it. She dug through the kitchen cabinet, trying to find where Pam had put the eggbeater. With one hand, she steadied herself against the wall—its texture like the flaking skin of an elderly lizard—as she crashed and rattled things around on the shelves. No eggbeater. She did, however, find a utensil that vaguely resembled a cross between a cheese grater and brass knuckles, the proper function of which she couldn’t imagine. “Oh well, maybe this’ll work.” Hopping down, she got the oil out from under the sink and put the large skillet on the burner, turning the flame way up.
The dog lifted his head from the floor and sniffed the thin odor of scalded metal.
She tried mashing the lumps, and batter dribbled over the side of the bowl. She glanced over at the boy, who continued to sit in silence, still apparently traumatized by Pamela’s…disappearance. She didn’t know what to do to help. As she reached for the wooden spoon on a hook, heavy objects in her pockets banged against the stove. “Oh, I forgot. Look what I found while I was cleaning your room, Matthew. It’s those stones you used to play with. Remember?” She hopped down, but he only stared impassively. “Don’t you want them?” She felt his forehead again—no fever—but those hot, sunken eyes disturbed her. She touched the metallic sheen of his hair, lightly stroked the curling blades. “I’ll just put them h ere for you.” She laid the stones on the table.
“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.
