Behind the first door to the right, Jamie fidgets at his desk. He leans back, peers out the window, finds no relief, and slowly returns to the open book.
Behind the second, Laura remains at her dressing table. She reaches into the dresser again and takes out a light green plastic compact. She looks at it, clearly displeased by its babyish appearance. She opens it anyway, takes the small beige pad from inside, and begins to rub it softly across her cheek.
Downstairs, my mother remains slumped in one of the little solarium’s white wicker chairs. She lets her eyes drift up from the book for a moment, then stares out at the rain as she absently fingers a small green leaf on a hanging fern.
I see my father as he begins to move down the upstairs hallway, his eyes on the first door to his right. He shifts the shotgun into position as he nears Jamie’s door.
Inside the room, Jamie turns as that same door opens seconds later. He stands up as my father enters, moving his desk chair against the back wall as he steps away.
Below, in the solarium, my mother’s body bolts forward with the roar of the first blast. Her lips part as she draws in a startled, unbelieving breath. The book slips from her lap and flutters to the floor.
Above her, Jamie’s body wheels to the left. His face disintegrates as his body lifts from the floor with such force that one of his tennis shoes flies off” and slams against the side of my lower bunk, leaving a small, rubbery mark against its light, pine finish.
In the adjoining room, Laura freezes for an instant, as if locked in place by the horrific tumult she can hear next door. She stands up, stares about wonderingly, and lets the light green plastic compact drop from her fingers, its small round mirror cracking softly as it hits the floor.
Below her, my mother rises, stricken, from her chair. Her shoulder brushes against the curtain of long green vines. Her right hand rises, trembling, to her throat.
Upstairs, my father is on the move again. He strides toward the second door, a cloud of smoke trailing behind him as he closes in upon it.
Another blast shakes the house, and my sister’s body plummets backward, the palm and two fingers of her right hand flying away as her chest explodes in a fine pink spray.
Through the translucent walls of the house on McDonald Drive, I see all that had been denied, diminished, or somehow brushed aside accumulate in the grim mortification of my mother’s face.
Above her, my father breaks open the breech of the shotgun and draws out its two spent shells. In slow motion, I see their slender red cylinders slip from his long fingers and tumble through the thick, powdery air.
The reins which had held my mother in place for so long snap as if cut away by a flying dagger, and she bolts from the solarium and rushes toward the kitchen. Once there, she spins around wildly, unable to focus, too driven by terror to initiate a logical scheme to save her life.
Above her, my father moves from room to room, looking for her in their bedroom, their bathroom, everywhere. Time is passing while he hunts for her, the several minutes that Mrs. Hamilton noticed between the second shot and the last.
Time is passing, while my mother spins like a human top in the kitchen, spins and spins, until her eyes catch on the basement door. She darts toward it frantically, instinctively, an animal’s flight to the underground safety of its earthen burrow.
My father is already coming down the stairs before she opens it. He is already in the solarium by the time she reaches the basement’s cement floor. She is spinning again by the time he closes in upon the kitchen. She has already padded through the basement’s puddled water and taken her place behind the cardboard box by the time he descends toward her from the dark at the top of the stairs. He stops on the third step from the bottom.
There is a third horrendous blast.
The vision ended abruptly, and I felt as if I’d been hurled against a bare wall. Reflexively, I jerked backward, my breath coming in quick, wrenching gasps. I could feel long lines of sweat move down my chest and back. A wave of tingling sharpness swept across my body.
In a kind of blur, I saw Rebecca lean toward me, her hand reaching across the table.
“Steve? Is something wrong?”
I shook my head, but fiercely, in a kind of manic up-and-down motion.
Rebecca stood up immediately. “Let’s go outside,” she said, then tugged me to my feet and led me out into the night.
For a moment, I leaned against a wall, still breathing heavily, unable to talk.
“Do you want to stop?” Rebecca asked. “You don’t have to go on with this.”
I shook my head.
“Are you sure?”
I nodded.
“Then let’s go to my place,” Rebecca said. “It’s more private. We can just talk, if you want. About something else.”
She walked me to my car, then pointed to hers. “Just follow me,” she said.
I fell behind her, keeping a close distance, first through the town, then out toward the lake, the yellow beams of my headlights rising and falling as we moved along the wavy, unpaved road. I felt self-conscious and embarrassed, as if I’d cracked under too little pressure. There were moments when I wanted to turn around, to disappear into the darkness. But at the same time I was driven to continue, to follow Rebecca all the way, as if my father were in the car beside her, riding along, his blue eyes staring out into the nightbound trees.
I’d calmed myself down considerably by the time I reached Rebecca’s cottage. It rested deep in a grove of
