Burt disappeared as well. Suze took a step or two closer. Her thumb was in her mouth, and her wide-staring eyes seemed the size of quarters, large and innocent and frightened.
“It’s okay, sugar. Mommy’s just…she’s just real tired.”
“Daddy?”
“Yes, hon.” He answered absently, not taking his eyes from Catherine’s face.
“What’s that?”
“What’s what, hon?” After living for so long with four children, Willard could handle this kind of question- answer dialogue without even hesitating.
“There.”
“Where?”
“There.” Suze’s voice had that oh-Daddy-you-can-be-so-silly-sometimes lilt that he liked to hear when they were teasing each other but that now seemed horribly out of place.
“Where?” he repeated, not taking his eyes off his wife’s still face, her sallow cheeks, her dry lips that had begun moving as if she were trying to murmur something.
“There. On Mommy’s foot.”
Catherine screamed. She sat bolt upright, her foot extended so stiffly that Willard half believed he heard tendons and bones shatter from the pressure. Suze screamed as well, and Will and Burt burst into the room as if they knew Nazi hordes had descended on the Huntley home and only they could combat them…with maybe just a little help from Superman or Spiderman or Iron Man or even Indiana Jones. Willard grabbed at Catherine’s foot.
There was a sticky-looking smudge of something dark and crushed and partly fluid pasted on her instep.
An insect.
No, he realized with a flash of understanding that answered Suze’s question as well as many unspoken ones of his own. It was not an insect, no.
It was a cockroach.
He grabbed a tissue from the box on the end table and swiped at the sole of Catherine’s foot, wiped again and again to remove all of the squashed guts he could, then folded the thin white tissue in on itself to hide as much of the oily dark brown stain as possible, and thrust the soiled mess at Will.
“Toss this.” Will took it gingerly between finger and thumb. Willard watched his son disappear into the dark kitchen, all the while holding Catherine tightly.
He whispered reassuringly to her, “It’s all right, baby, it’s all right. Everything’s under control. Relax.”
He felt weirdly as if he were coaching her through the Lamaze births of each of their four children-all the stress and fear and pain compressed into a single trauma that he was only now beginning to comprehend. “Relax, Catherine,” he whispered soothingly.
“But…, ” she whimpered once. Her eyes had lost their fixed, glazed-over look. Her breathing sounded more regular. Normal color was returning to her face.
“Shhh,” Willard whispered. “Not now. It was just a bug. Don’t worry.”
She closed her eyes and allowed her head to slump against his shoulder. Then she jerked rigid again. “No, there were…”
Will, Jr., emerged from the kitchen. She saw him come through the darkened doorway, saw him move with a maddening slowness that more than anything convinced her that whatever she had seen in there-had thought she had seen in there-was no longer visible.
“…More,” she finished lamely. “There were…more.”
“Shhh.”
Burt and Suze moved closer. Burt handed Suze Catherine’s pillow-it was almost bigger than she was, and in other circumstances it would have been comic to watch her struggle with it. Burt picked up the blanket Will had dropped and began spreading it over Catherine’s legs.
“Mommy.” This was a new voice. Sams stood alone in the entry hall, one hand balled up and wiping sleepily at his heavy-lidded eyes. His voice stirred Catherine out of her shock.
“Come here,” she said, sitting up and opening her arms to all four of the children. Will stepped closer but didn’t try to get too near. Burt and Suze crowded alongside Willard, their small hands touching their mother’s legs tentatively as if to make sure she was really there, that the white screamy thing that had only sort of looked like Mommy was gone and that Mommy-the real Mommy this time-was back again, leaning on the arm of the couch and reaching out to touch their hair. Sams crawled onto the end of the couch and made his way up Catherine’s legs, as he always did when she was lying down. He couldn’t seem to get near enough to her any other way. He perched cross-legged just below her stomach and studied her, a blue-eyed, tow-headed Buddha staring innocently at her and absently sucking on the matted, stained, sour-smelling satin edging of his blanket. He didn’t speak.
No one spoke.
Finally, as if he had abruptly decided that things were somehow wrong and that only he could take the one action that would set them right, Sams moved. He took the blanket in one hand, careful to grasp it so the damp satin ribbon was folded out, and extended it toward Catherine.
“Here, Mommy,” he said slowly, in his most solemn, precise, toddler-almost-a-little-boy voice. “This will make you feel better.”
From a yard away, Willard could smell the stench of the thing; his stomach roiled with a sharp, nauseated twist that cut like a dagger thrust. No matter how often Catherine washed it, it always smelled like a dishrag wadded in a corner and left to ripen for a week. He shuddered at the image as much as at the smell. But Catherine only smiled, a weak smile to be sure, but it was a smile.
“Thanks, Sams,” she said, accepting the outstretched blanket just as solemnly as the boy had offered it. She took it and laid it, satin edging out, against her cheek. “Thanks, Sams,” she repeated. “I’m sure this will help.”
From the Tamarind Valley Times, 15 November 1989:
DISAPPEARING VALLEY BUSINESSMAN STILL A MYSTERY
A spokesman for the TVPD confirmed today that, in spite of every effort, investigators have no new leads in the disappearance of Tamarind Valley realtor Bryan Sidney, 47, who disappeared over two weeks ago. The TVPD source did reveal that Sidney’s partner, Andrew McCall is no longer considered a person of interest in the case.
According to the spokesman, “Sidney may have panicked at the prospect of facing…”
Chapter Four
Halloween 1991-June 1992
The House in Waiting
1
“Chicken!”
“Am not!”
“Chicken!”
“Am not!”
“Chicken…shit.”
With that single syllable, Brady Wilton crossed the invisible line that defined the boundary of off-handed squabbling and escalated the stakes immeasurably. There was no backing out now. Kyle knew it and stood ready to face the consequences.
“Chickenshit,” Brady repeated slowly, his tongue savoring each syllable as if he were trying to infuse as much authority into his boyish treble as his big brother Frank had in his sometimes warbly, mostly teen-age bass when he used that word.
“Chickenshit.”
“Am not!” Kyle Jantzen yelled, painfully aware of how lame that retort was next to Brady’s sudden explosion
