October (13 page)

No
, he said to himself and found that curious, and disconcerting because he didn't feel as if he had really said it.

But he felt much better when he walked out into the sunny morning and breathed the air, and found a shaggy red setter in the parking lot, an abandoned dog with nowhere to go who checked him over once and then held back.

Go ahead, that disconcerting voice in the back of his head said to him. Take him with you. I don't need you yet.

"Here, boy," he said, smiling at the dog, and the setter soon came to him and stayed.

"Good boy. I'll call you Rusty. Want to go to New York?"

The dog barked once.

"Good."

James put his thumb out, pointing east . . .

"James?"

Once again, someone poked him. His mind's movie fast-forwarded, past the dream, to the present. Up at the top of his throat, something stirred, stretched, threw tendrils out. He could feel it taking hold of the projector, loading a new spool of film into it, not his own.

Now I need you.

James opened his eyes.

Ben Meyer was there, smiling down at him. James heard huffing, saw Rusty and Rags regarding him.

James stretched his arms up high over his head. He smiled. "Lord, how long did I sleep?"

"Sun's going down," Ben said. "Past suppertime. If you slept any longer, I would have had to throw a blanket over you, leave you to the cold."

James stood up, felt his cracking bones align, make him tall.

His foot, he discovered, was asleep; he stumbled forward, almost lost his balance. Ben Meyer grabbed his arm, steadied him.

"Heavens, boy, you're cold as ice. Let's get you down to the house."

Rusty regarded James curiously, head cocked to one side. James put his hand down to the dog's head, scratched behind the ears. "Don't worry, boy, it's just me."

The dog huffed.

Now
.

They walked out of the apple orchard, down the gentle grassed slope of the hill. It was late in the day. The sun had painted the west orange. Overhead, the fattening sickle of the coming hunter's moon was brightening, from pale yellow to bold amber. They could see their breath as they walked. Below, the farmhouse pushed a thin line of trailing smoke from its brick chimney.

"Martha!" Ben called as they set their feet on the curling stoned walk to the front porch. "Martha, get a tub ready!"

On the front porch, leaning solidly against the doorpost, was Martha's hoe, its blade lipped with dirt.

As Ben mounted the porch, James lifted the hoe in both hands, raised it blade side up.

Ben reached to open the door, and James brought the hoe down on the back of his head.

The lip of dried dirt flew in a neat line from the edge of the hoe. James heard the rushing breath, surprised little sound that Ben made. Ben collapsed to his knees, hands groping. James planted his feet, raised the hoe. Ben was reaching for the back of his neck when James hit him again, a stronger blow.

There was only the sound of the curved metal fastener between hoe and wooden handle hitting Ben's skull. James brought the hoe down again. The flat blade broke free, leaving the fastener intact, looking like a curled metal finger.

The dogs began to howl. James turned to them. Rusty backed away on his haunches, ears flattened back, barking fiercely.

"Come here, boy," James said.

Inside the house there was commotion. James heard Martha walking the creaking floorboards to the front hallway. "What's all this about?" she said.

James took a quick step off the porch. He feinted a blow at Rusty, then struck out at Rags, who had stayed on the edge of the porch. The blow caught the dog in the left eye. Rags yelped, backed off the porch into the dirt. James followed. A short, hard thrust and the dog lay still.

James faced Rusty, who had backed farther away. "Come here," he said.

The dog made a deep, growling sound.

The front door of the house opened, and Rusty turned and ran.

James quickly mounted the porch steps. As Martha's eyes registered Ben lying in a pool of blood, James drove her back with the hoe into the front hallway. She let out a broken cry. She fell onto the floor inside, and the screen door closed between them. James ripped it viciously open. Martha sought to rise and failed.

James brought the instrument down, a long sliding curve to the side of her head. Martha's eyes unfocused. He hit her again. A burp of blood spotted her tongue.

As the weapon rounded again on her, she locked her eyes on James and cried out, "Barry!"

He struck her once more, and she was silent.

James marched out onto the porch to look for the dog. It was nearly dark. He thought he saw Rusty up the slope, heading for the apple orchard, but he could not be sure. There was not enough moonlight to hunt by. The dog would have to wait.

In the barn, James found an electric Coleman lantern and a shovel. He set the lantern at the tilled edge of the garden and turned it on.

Its twin neon rods flashed to low, blue-white brilliance.

He dug two deep, wide holes, eight feet apart. He dragged the two bodies from the house. He threw Rags and the broken hoe pieces into the hole with Martha, spaded dirt into the holes, spread the remaining dirt over the rest of the tilled area. He worked on it for a long time, until it looked just as it had before.

Where he had hit Rags near the porch there was blood. By lantern light, on his hands and knees, he dusted it into the dirt.

There were stains on the porch and in the front hallway. He scrubbed them out. Then he put the lantern and shovel away and went into the house.

There was a low fire in the wood stove in the living room. He stoked it. He began to shiver. He heard a sound: his teeth chattering.

He lay down on the couch, head on one stiff arm, and stared at the ceiling.

He did not close his eyes.

Somewhere deep in the night, when it was coldest, he heard the mournful bark of a dog and said, not with his own voice, "Yes, I'm back."

Davey Putnam watched the black-and-white police cruiser stop in front of the house from his second-story window. He hoped for a moment it would continue on, pull away from the curb. But the door on the driver's side angled open and the crew-cut, square frame of Officer Johnston got out.

"Damn," Davey said.

Below him, he heard the front door open. He saw his foster father come down the walk halfway to meet the cop. "What is it now?" ole Jack yelled.

"In the house, please," Johnston replied, and firmly, the cop got him to turn around and bring the argument into the house.

Argument it was. Davey went to the hole in the floorboards next to his bed, where a cable-TV hole had once been drilled for the former owners. He couldn't hear what was going on below. They had moved into the back of the house, probably the kitchen.

Davey got up, opened the door to his room a crack. He heard the low, unintelligible voice of the cop. Then he heard ole Jack nearly shout, "I don't care if the kid's old man tried to have you fired! That's between you and him! Stop getting on my ass about it!"

That was all he heard for a while. Occasionally, there was the thin, piping rasp of The Mouth, her mousy, annoying whine contrasting with the two male voices. Johnston was talking long and even. After a while he was doing all the talking.

After twenty minutes or so Davey heard Officer Johnston say, "All right." He heard the cop approach the front door and leave. Davey went to the window and watched Johnston get into his black-and-white, rev the engine, pull sharply out from the curb.

Davey sat on the bed and watched the sweep second hand on the old electric clock next to his bed. He thought of it as a game. The longest it had ever taken for them to call him after the cops had come was four minutes and fifteen seconds.

Five minutes went by, and nothing happened.

He went to the door, opened it again, listened. A scraping sound, a snatch of a weak hum. The Mouth in the kitchen, getting dinner ready.

Where was ole Jack?

Davey heard the back door creak open. He heard ole Jack say, "Where the fuck is that other beer?"

Timidly, The Mouth said, "That was the last one. I told you."

"The hell it was! I bought two extra, there were only eight! Now where the hell is the last one!"

"Jack, there were seven—"

"That kid take it? Get the little fucker down—"

He heard The Mouth protest, heard the refrigerator door bang open, bottles rattle. She was probably moving things around desperately. The only way to avoid the beating was to find the beer. "Maybe you're right, Jack," she whimpered. "Maybe you're right—"

Then, a bray of triumph from ole Jack. "You dumb slut! Right here on the door shelf! I told you there were eight!"

The refrigerator door slammed shut. The back door slammed open and shut, ole Jack proclaiming The Mouth's stupidity. After a moment of whimpering, The Mouth returned to the scraping sound of preparing dinner.

The back door creaked open again, flew closed with a bang. Ole Jack yelled, "Where is he!"

"Jack—" The Mouth began.

"Where is the little bastard! Get him down here!"

The tone in his voice told Davey this was not something she could talk him out of. They all knew the drill. There were levels to ole Jack's violence, and this was near the top. A quick flare of fuse had been lit, reached the bomb in no time. When that powder went off, everybody got burned.

"I said get him down here!"

Davey heard the giving, hard slap of flesh against flesh, heard The Mouth's whimpering cut to a sudden cry, followed by moans. Another slap. Ole Jack cursed, grunting with each blow he gave her. His voice vibrated in cadence with the hits: "WHERE—THE—FUCK—IS—HE!"

Between her whimpers she said, "Up . . . stairs . . . he's . . . upstairs . . ."

Davey heard her gasp as ole Jack left off hitting her. Ole Jack tramped down the hallway, approached the stairs. Davey saw the small, balding head appear above the floor line before he slammed the door shut and put his weight against it.

Ole Jack hit the door hard. It gave an inch before Davey reclosed it.

Ole Jack yelled, grunted against the door again.

Davey kept his weight on the door, digging his sneakers into the nicked floorboards.

"Shit!" ole Jack yelled. The pressure eased against the door. Davey stepped back away as ole Jack hit the door full force. The door flew open, and ole Jack fell into the room.

Davey bolted for the doorway. He was out into the hall before a heavy hand fell on his shoulder. He was pulled back into the bedroom. His foster father put both hands on him, turned him around, held him tight on the shoulder blades.

"You think that's funny?" Ole Jack was panting, face sweaty. "Answer me!"

"Fuck you," Davey said. By whipping his head back, he was able to deflect partially the first slap.

Quick blows with narration followed: "You—little— fucker—calling—me—that."

Davey threw up an arm finally, warding off a blow. He struck his foster father smartly on the nose.

"Jesus!" ole Jack said. He pulled his hands away from Davey, covered his nose.

The Mouth appeared in the doorway. As Davey backed away, she took hold of him, yelling at ole Jack, "That's enough! Leave the boy alone!"

"He broke my nose!" ole Jack screamed. He sat down heavily on Davey's bed, touched his nose tenderly. His hands were covered in blood.

"Don't you—" The Mouth began.

Ole Jack reached into his shirt pocket. He pulled out a bottle cap stamped GENESEE. "I found this in the backyard!" he whined accusingly. "The boy's been drinking. Ask him!" He rose menacingly, winced at the pain in his nose, sat down again, covered his nose with his hands. "Shit!"

"Come with me," The Mouth said to Davey. She dropped her thin arm around his shoulder, drew him out of the room, glancing at her husband to make sure he hadn't risen from the bed.

She brought Davey into the bathroom, closed and locked the door, put the toilet seat cover down, sat him on it, made him turn his face up toward the light.

"He smacked you good," she said.

Her own face was puffy, her hair stringy, a red mark turning black under one eye.

"He's a bastard," Davey said.

She paused in her ministrations, stared down at him. "He can't help it."

"I hate him."

She took a soiled washcloth from its rack next to the sink, ran cold water over it. She dabbed at the marks on his face, flinching. "You really popped him good," she said, smiling mischievously. "Good thing he already had his beer, or he'd be on us now. I bet he's asleep by now. If we're lucky, he'll forget about it in the morning."

As she rubbed at a long bruise on his left temple, Davey held her hand away. "Why was that cop here?"