Hush (20 page)

free. The table shook violently. He took an angry, irritated step and pinned his

knee to a goddamn corner of a goddamn open drawer.
He swore loudly and grabbed his leg like he could wring the pain right out of

it. And the boy just watching the video, not caring, not even looking at him, no

sympathy at all. His knee throbbed. He slammed the "off " button and the screen

made a fizzing sound and went blank. Now the boy looked at him. Goddamn right he

did.
You got to be nice to him. He'd told himself that a hundred times before, but he

was tired of listening. Hadn't done a bit of good with this boy. Maybe the

others, but not him. Maybe not being nice is what he needs; and for the second

that lives inside of a second he wanted to punch him, smash him, knock him into

the middle of next week. That's what his old man used to say, I'll knock you

into the middle of next week, Chester. And he'd do it too. Did you see stars,

boy? Did you? Standing over him, swaying back and forth, those fists hanging by

his sides. Then he left and the beatings stopped. But not the memories. They

never went away, or the scars. If he studied his face closely he could still see

them, rough ridges that had finally started to blend in with his age lines, as

if it had taken a lifetime for his body to absorb the beatings and make them go

away. At least he didn't beat his boys. He knew he wasn't perfect but he never

did that. He might want to, might have the urge, but he never did it. Not even

come the end, when he wanted nothing more than a fresh start.
Chet squeezed next to Davy on the floor. The pain in his knee had eased and he

was ready for the night's pleasure. He pushed aside the damned pad of paper, the

pencils too. The hell with her. The boy stared straight ahead, a blank face for

a blank screen. That's all he ever gives me, that blank look. Chet put his arm

around him, but Davy tried to squirm away. Chet didn't care for this one bit;

but he didn't bear a grudge, and when he pulled him close he played with him,

rubbing his head, a crew cut just like when he himself was a boy. Soft bristles

like those brushes she'd favored. He'd kept one of them. It was around here

somewhere. He always kept a memento, and sometimes he would take them out and

feel rich with memory. A charm from a bracelet, an earring that had caught his

eye, a hair plucked from a private spot, Mrs. Griswold's little notebook, the

one he'd found by the snake. And her panties, what was left of them, the shiny

part and lace. Small things. Most of them could fit in his pocket. Sometimes

they did. Sometimes he got them out and ran them over his skin— a hair, a brush,

they all felt good. And those pages she'd touched, they felt better than all the

rest, for they were the promise of what could come. He'd sat in his truck while

she killed the snake, and opened the notebook and seen those first few pages

with the flowers she'd drawn, like the ones in the house, those paintings that

looked just like their lower parts, dirty flowers from her fingers. Later, in

the dark, he'd fanned himself with the pages, their edges soft as feathers as he

reached down his body and closed his eyes and felt his skin blossoming against

each sheet.
A hair, a brush, the notebook, every one of them was a memory, and a woman too.

He liked the way they could reach out to him even now, years later, and flood

him with genuine joy. Their murders had made all things possible with their

sons, and their sons had made him happy with his life. He thanked them for this,

now and for —
Davy moved again, disturbing Chet's sweetest thoughts. He gripped the back of

his neck firmly, and his smudged fingers pressed against the boy's milky skin.

The smell of engine oil filled the space between them.
"Don't ever try and get away from me again. I don't like that one bit. When I

tell you to stay, you stay. When I tell you to come, you come."
But as soon as he released him Davy tried to inch away, and Chet knew the boy

would never love him as he loved the boy.
He grabbed him again, picked up the bowl, and threw it in Davy's face. The boy

sat paralyzed as milk dripped down and soaked his shirt. Bits of brown bloated

cereal stuck to his cheeks, nose, and eyebrow. Chet thought it looked like dry

dog food all spongy and swollen and puked up.
The boy remained absolutely motionless as those dirty fingers moved toward him.

Chet hummed as he tenderly picked pieces of cereal off Davy's face and placed

them in the bowl.
"Here, you better take off your clothes, they're all wet."
He hummed some more. The boy shook as his stepfather started to undress him.
"Hey, look at you, you're so cold you got the shivers. Come on, you need a

shower. Let's warm you up."
He knelt in front of Davy and lifted his T-shirt over his head. When the boy's

arms were up in the air and his face hidden, Chet leaned forward and kissed his

pale chest, his pink nipple. He could feel the trembling beneath the skin, the

place deep inside where the blood and bones come alive.
He would be good to the boy. He would. Just as long as he could.
29
Celia tensed as she turned out of their long driveway and headed down the county

road. She used to enjoy the drive to work, but now worried about the shepherd

whenever she neared the meadow. She'd spotted him twice this week off in the

distance tending his flock. But that wasn't the worst of it. The stand of tall

pines that had stood for more than two hundred years and given her so much joy

had been marked with red paint and chainsawed in just the past thirty-six hours.

It seemed horribly unfair that those ancient trees should take so long to grow,

and then should die so quickly in a disgraceful explosion of dust and broken

branches. But at least the loggers were friendly, unlike Mr. Boyce. He called

yesterday afternoon to say he wanted to see her later today. What a way to end

the week. Given the increasingly grotesque nature of Davy's artwork, she didn't

care if she ever saw him again. But that wouldn't be possible. You have to work

with the families too, she reminded herself; and she knew the boy would never

get better if she excluded Mr. Boyce. But then she asked herself if he'd ever

get better living with him. Davy's most recent drawings were eerie enough to

make her wonder.
The loggers were taking a break when she drove by. They waved and Celia returned

the favor. She may have despised what they were doing, but they were pleasant

enough. The shepherd made her positively queasy, and every day that passed

without her seeing him made her all the more certain that he would loom beside

the road on her next trip. She'd even begun to think about selling the house,

leaving the ridge. The hunters had been bad enough, but now she found herself

running into the likes of Mr. Boyce and the shepherd. They also had the fire

dangers to contend with. Another huge blaze had started near Wilkinson, about

forty miles to the north. Seventeen homes had been reduced to ash. You tell

yourself it can't happen to you, but there are a lot of yous out there that it

happens to.
Then there were the yellow jackets that had started finding their way into the

house. At first she'd come across one or two of them clinging lazily to the

inside of the screen. Now it wasn't unusual to see fifteen or twenty at a time.

She'd taken to vacuuming them up, but quickly discovered that she had to use

masking tape to seal the end of the long black tube. Otherwise they'd crawl

right back out. She used to say that when you live in the forest, some of the

forest lives with you, but her growing unease had made her wonder if the ridge

was really worth it. She hadn't broached the idea of moving to Jack, mostly

because she hadn't found him all that approachable these days; but she intended

to have a serious discussion with him right after his Trout River trip this

weekend.
As she drove she twisted her neck from side to side to try to work out the

muscle tension. Thank God it was Friday. Work didn't exactly fill her with joy

these days either. Since Tony's arrival the atmosphere had definitely become

stuffier, as if the entire staff except for Ethan had become emotionally

constipated. She promised herself that tomorrow she would take a good long hike.

Maybe you can exorcise this...this anxiety.
She remained so lost in thought that when the shepherd stepped into the road it

took her a full second to slam on the brakes. The car began to skid but the

shepherd never flinched as it floated sideways toward him. She spun the steering

wheel but with the brakes locked she couldn't get the Honda to straighten, and

with the shepherd standing in the middle of the road she couldn't just ride it

out. So she kept the pedal pinned to the floor and her hands frozen to the

wheel, and fully expected at any moment to hear the dull thump of his body. When

the careening car finally stopped it had stirred up so much dust that she

couldn't see which way she was pointed, or where the shepherd lurked. As the

dust drifted away it unveiled the meadow in front of her, and she understood

that she sat on the road crossways. A moment later she spied the shepherd's

fuzzy profile slowly coming into focus a few feet from her door.
"What the hell do you think you're doing!" she screamed as she rolled down the

window without thinking. "You damn fool!"
The shepherd walked slowly up to her and never said a word before slamming his

fist on the roof. He struck it so hard that Celia ducked in her seat, fearful

that his fury would drive his hand all the way to her head. He leaned over and

hissed in her face,
"Remember little Bucky?"
"What?"
"Little Bucky, my dog."
Oh shit. She stared straight ahead at the meadow. The sheep were chewing on the

few remaining wildflowers.
"Yes," she finally said with considerable anger. "I remember you telling me

about your dog."
"Good, I'm glad you remember."
She wished for just a second that she'd run him over. At least she'd be done

with him. She noticed the bright indicator lights on the dash and immediately

cranked the ignition. After a minor protest, it turned over.
"You better hear me out." The shepherd hadn't moved his filthy face, and the

odors from his foul body and rotting teeth assaulted her.
"No," she volleyed in as strong a voice as she could muster. "I'm going to

work." She found reverse.
"Just so you know," the shepherd said in his slow voice, "I went to the pound

like you said, but they killed little Bucky like he was nothin', like he was

nothin' but dirt. I had me little Bucky for eight years, and now he's just dead.

I didn't even get his body so I could bury him proper. They just take them dogs

and throw 'em in the dump and leave 'em rot. That's where my little Bucky is,

some dump."
"I'm sorry. I'm truly sorry." And she was. Her anger had turned to pity, guilt,

sadness, too. For the dog, even for him. But mostly she wanted to leave.
"You know what they told me down at the pound?"
"What did they say?" She spoke slowly, deliberately, not to be heard and

understood, but to hide the shallow breath that would reveal her fear.
"They said some guy brought him in, some guy that lives up here brought my

little Bucky to the pound. You know anything about that?"
Celia stared at the steering wheel. "No, I don't. I don't know anything about

some guy and your dog."
The shepherd shook his head wearily. "I think you're lyin', lady. I think you're

lyin' right through them teeth of yours, just sitting there lyin' and lyin' and

lyin'."
That's it, she said to herself. She found the courage to back up, but had to

move carefully because the last thing she wanted was to roll her rear tires into

the ditch beside the road. As she looked back over her right shoulder the

shepherd leaned in and spoke one more time. His horrible hot breath curdled in

her ear.
"I think you better tell that guy that you don't know nothin' about that he's in

a world of hurt when I get my hands on him. And if I don't get him I'll take

what's his and make it mine!"
He smashed the roof even harder than before. Celia found "drive," then turned

the wheel sharply and floored it. She felt her whole body shaking as the tires

spun. She knew she should ease up, but her fear wouldn't let her. She fishtailed

from side to side as she plowed ahead. When she gained speed she glanced in the

rearview mirror but saw little of the man who had frightened her so. He was

already disappearing into the dust cloud she'd left behind.
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Those words haunted her all the way to work. It

was as if they captured the real nature of a shadowy world that she had only

begun to glimpse.
30
Davy walked down to where the van picked him up for the Center. He was way

early, but didn't care. He'd rather wait an hour down here than stay in the

trailer. He kicked rocks into the brush, aiming carefully with the tips of his

scuffed-up shoes, hard brown shoes with holes in the bottoms where the pebbles

got in and hurt until he took them off and shook them out.
Chet had stuffed some paper and cardboard inside and told him he'd never know

the difference, but that was a lie. The rocks still hurt his feet and the kids

all knew about the holes and teased him bad. Davy wanted those soft shoes you