Under the Dome

7

“Hello, Sammy,” someone said. “How are you?”

Samantha Bushey didn’t recognize the voice and turned toward it warily, hitching up the Papoose carrier as she did. Little Walter was asleep and he weighed a ton. Her butt hurt from falling on it, and her feelings were hurt, too—that damn Georgia Roux, calling her a dyke. Georgia Roux, who had come whining around Sammy’s trailer more than once, looking to score an eightball for her and the musclebound freak she went around with.

It was Dodee’s father. Sammy had spoken with him thousands of times, but she hadn’t recognized his voice; she hardly recognized him. He looked old and sad—broken, somehow. He didn’t even scope out her boobs, which was a first.

“Hi, Mr. Sanders. Gee, I didn’t even see you at the—” She flapped her hand back toward the flattened-down field and the big tent, now half collapsed and looking forlorn. Although not as forlorn as Mr. Sanders.

“I was sitting in the shade.” That same hesitant voice, coming through an apologetic, hurting smile that was hard to look at. “I had something to drink, though. Wasn’t it warm for October? Golly, yes. I thought it was a good afternoon—a real town afternoon—until that boy…”

Oh crispy crackers, he was crying.

“I’m awful sorry about your wife, Mr. Sanders.”

“Thank you, Sammy. That’s very kind. Can I carry your baby back to your car for you? I think you can go now—the road’s almost clear.”

That was an offer Sammy couldn’t refuse even if he was crying. She scooped Little Walter out of the Papoose—it was like picking up a big clump of warm bread dough—and handed him over. Little Walter opened his eyes, smiled glassily, belched, then went back to sleep.

“I think he might have a package in his diaper,” Mr. Sanders said.

“Yeah, he’s a regular shit machine. Good old Little Walter.”

“Walter’s a very nice old-fashioned name.”

“Thanks.” Telling him that her baby’s first name was actually Little didn’t seem worth the trouble… and she was sure she’d had that conversation with him before, anyway. He just didn’t remember. Walking with him like this—even though he was carrying the baby—was the perfect bummer end to a perfect bummer afternoon. At least he was right about the traffic; the automotive mosh pit had finally cleared out. Sammy wondered how long it would be before the whole town was riding bicycles again.

“I never liked the idea of her in that plane,” Mr. Sanders said. He seemed to be picking up the thread of some interior conversation. “Sometimes I even wondered if Claudie was sleeping with that guy.”

Dodee’s Mom sleeping with Chuck Thompson? Sammy was both shocked and intrigued.

“Probably not,” he said, and sighed. “In any case, it doesn’t matter now. Have you seen Dodee? She didn’t come home last night.”

Sammy almost said Sure, yesterday afternoon. But if the Dodester hadn’t slept at home last night, saying that would only worry the Dodester’s dadster. And let Sammy in for a long conversation with a guy who had tears streaming down his face and a snotrunner hanging from one nostril. That would not be cool.

They had reached her car, an old Chevrolet with cancer of the rocker panels. She took Little Walter and grimaced at the smell. That wasn’t just mail in his diaper, that was UPS and Federal Express combined.

“No, Mr. Sanders, haven’t seen her.”

He nodded, then wiped his nose with the back of his hand. The snotrunner disappeared, or at least went somewhere else. That was a relief. “She probably went to the mall with Angie McCain, then to her aunt Peg’s in Sabattus when she couldn’t get back into town.”

“Yeah, that’s probably it.” And when Dodee turned up right here in The Mill, he’d have a pleasant surprise. God knew he deserved one. Sammy opened the car door and laid Little Walter on the passenger side. She’d given up on the child-restraint seat months ago. Too much of a pain in the ass. And besides, she was a very safe driver.

“Good to see you, Sammy.” A pause. “Will you pray for my wife?”

“Uhhh… sure, Mr. Sanders, no prob.”

She started to get in the car, then remembered two things: that Georgia Roux had shoved her tit with her goddam motorcycle boot—probably hard enough to leave a bruise—and that Andy Sanders, brokenhearted or not, was the town’s First Selectman.

“Mr. Sanders?”

“Yes, Sammy?”

“Some of those cops were kinda rough out there. You might want to do something about that. Before it, you know, gets out of hand.”

His unhappy smile didn’t change. “Well, Sammy, I understand how you young people feel about police—I was young myself once—but we’ve got a pretty bad situation here. And the quicker we establish a little authority, the better off everyone will be. You understand that, don’t you?”

“Sure,” Sammy said. What she understood was that grief, no matter how genuine, did not seem to impede a politician’s flow of bull-shit. “Well, I’ll see you.”

“They’re a good team,” Andy said vaguely. “Pete Randolph will see they all pull together. Wear the same hat. Do… uh… the same dance. Protect and serve, you know.”

“Sure,” Samantha said. The protect-and-serve dance, with the occasional tit-kick thrown in. She pulled away with Little Walter once more snoring on the seat. The smell of babyshit was terrific. She unrolled the windows, then looked in the rearview mirror. Mr. Sanders was still standing in the makeshift parking lot, which was now almost entirely deserted. He raised a hand to her.

Sammy raised her own in turn, wondering just where Dodee had stayed last night if she hadn’t gone home. Then she dismissed it—it was really none of her concern—and flipped on the radio. The only thing she could get clearly was Jesus Radio, and she turned it off again.

When she looked up, Frankie DeLesseps was standing in the road in front of her with his hand up, just like a real cop. She had to stomp the brake to keep from hitting him, then put her hand on the baby to keep him from falling. Little Walter awoke and began to blat.

“Look what you did!” she yelled at Frankie (with whom she’d once had a two-day fling back in high school, when Angie was at band camp). “The baby almost went on the floor!”

“Where’s his seat?” Frankie leaned in her window, biceps bulging. Big muscles, little dick, that was Frankie DeLesseps. As far as Sammy was concerned, Angie could have him.

“None of your beeswax.”

A real cop might have written her up—for the lip as much as the child-restraint law—but Frankie only smirked. “You seen Angie?”

“No.” This time it was the truth. “She probably got caught out of town.” Although it seemed to Sammy that the ones in town were the ones who’d gotten caught.

“What about Dodee?”

Sammy once again said no. She practically had to, because Frankie might talk to Mr. Sanders.

“Angie’s car is at her house,” Frankie said. “I looked in the garage.”

“Big whoop. They probably went off somewhere in Dodee’s Kia.”

He seemed to consider this. They were almost alone now. The traffic jam was just a memory. Then he said, “Did Georgia hurt your booby, baby?” And before she could answer, he reached in and grabbed it. Not gently, either. “Want me to kiss it all better?”

She slapped his hand. On her right, Little Walter blatted and blatted. Sometimes she wondered why God had made men in the first place, she really did. Always blatting or grabbing, grabbing or blatting.

Frankie wasn’t smiling now. “You want to watch that shit,” he said. “Things are different now.”

“What are you going to do? Arrest me?”

“I’d think of something better than that,” he said. “Go on, get out of here. And if you do see Angie, tell her I want to see her.”