Barb sponged the blood from around Martha's temple. The skin at her eyebrow was abraded there was one cut above her eyebrow which Barb thought might leave a tiny scar.

Page 156 ''You know, you're the best thing that ever happened to this family," said Martha, clanging her tea mug on the table. "All the rest of us are crazy. You're a fool of sanity, I mean a pool." Barb waited to hear more, but Martha changed the subject as quickly as she'd started it. "You should've met my husband. f.u.c.king worthless sonofab.i.t.c.h."

Before long Martha's eyelids drooped, and she said good night and stumbled up to bed for some of that undisturbed O'Leary sleep. Barb didn't follow but sat motionless at the table for more than an hour, until golden patches of light formed along the length of the countertops. As the sun grew brighter, the fibers of the house began to rustle and sparkle as though awakening, and Barb's own body came alive with it, her skin first, then the muscles and bones of her arms. She ran a bucket of water and knelt on the floor in a broad patch of light. She meant to scrub with the stiffbristled brush, but instead just sat in the warmth. Last week when she had washed those windows she had cursed them for being too big, for letting in too much weather. She looked into the dining room where three bright rectangles shone on the wood floor. She closed her eyes and faced the sun.

A little after six, Barb made coffee, and Rebecca's noisy arrival in the kitchen at seven jarred her nerves. Rebecca plopped into a chair. "Hi, Mom. Somebody was in my room."

"What?" Barb's heart pounded out of rhythm.

"Somebody put my dirty clothes in the hamper. I figured it was you."

What if Martha's guest had accidentally gone into Rebecca's room? Would the man have noticed that this girl was not Martha but only a baby?

Martin appeared, poured himself a cup of coffee, and sat at the kitchen table. Barb couldn't shake an image of Rebecca handcuffed to her twin headboard, and though she had turned on the water only to rinse her cup, she let it run over her hands. When she pulled them out of the stream, they were ice cold.

Rebecca finished her cereal, then climbed onto her father's lap. Martin wrapped both arms around her. The way Martin touched Page 157 Rebecca suddenly bothered Barb. When Barb had been on top of him in bed last night, hadn't he pulled her to him the same way? With those same hands, those fingers that had been inside of her. Rebecca squealed as Martin began to tickle her. Dear G.o.d, had he even washed his hands? Barb stared at the worst of the gray bucket rings on the kitchen floor. Would they never go away?

She hustled Rebecca to school and kissed Martin off to work, but still got a late start to the office herself, and then halfway out the driveway she saw something dead.

Barb rested her forehead on the steering wheel before getting out to go look, and when she finally approached it, three tiny rabbits scampered away. They didn't go far, but stopped in the nearest patch of weed cover, their tiny hearts beating, bright eyes wet, bodies small enough to fold into her hand. She picked up the mother rabbit by one foot and tossed her toward the woods. She didn't have time to bury her. The three babies stood perfectly still. Barb felt their terror and confusion move across the brush in little waves.

At 5:12 that evening, according to the kitchen clock, Barb dropped her potato peeler in the sink. The dog. Where was the dog?

She yelled upstairs for Rebecca, but there was no answer. Martin would be home any second. Barb ran down the flagstone path into the middle of the driveway.

Martin's truck approached her, going too fast. She put her hand to her mouth, but the rest of her muscles froze. Martin screeched to a halt and jumped out of the pickup. "What's wrong, Barb?"

"Where's m.u.f.fin?" she asked, panicked.

"I don't know," he said.

"You didn't hit him, did you?"

"Why do you think I would kill our dog?" demanded Martin. "Tell me. Do you think I'm some kind of monster?"

"You're just so d.a.m.ned careless!" said Barb. She didn't want to fight, but she needed to be heard. "You and your whole family! You don't see what's happening around you! You live like drunken cavalry."

"You want me to live like you, Barb? Scared of everything?" Color flowed into his cheeks.

Page 158 "The buckets, Martin! The buckets!" Barb's hands formed fists, as though she were clutching bucket handles. "You let your poor mother keep all those buckets of water! Those rotting, stinking, moldy buckets of potato water!"

Martin stared at her, eyebrows screwed up. His flush of color had disappeared.

Then into the curve of the driveway, from a path through the trees, stepped Rebecca, as fresh as a wood sprite, leading m.u.f.fin on a leash. "What's the matter?"

Rebecca asked.

"See, Barb, m.u.f.fin's fine. Everything's fine." Martin's expression showed concern. It occurred to Barb that Martin thought she was going insane. An O'Leary worried that she was crazy. Barb looked down at the driveway gravel and shook her head, feeling the distance growing huge between herself and her husband and daughter Martin walked with Rebecca up the stone path toward the house, one arm draped over the girl's shoulder Barb followed. "Let's build a bonfire tonight," said Martin.

"We've got to burn that rotten wood your ma and I took off the roof."

"Cool, Dad."

"Where's your aunt?"

"In her room," said Rebecca. "She won't come out."

"Oh, I'll get her out," said Martin. "Hung over still, is she?"

"Please don't bother her," said Barb. "She had a rough night."

"Oh, I'll bother her, all right." Martin let go of Rebecca and rubbed his hands together. "Martha's a girl who needs to be bothered."

Martin had already freed himself from his anger, dropped it like a bundle of shingles, but Barb's stuck in her esophagus and her bronchial tubes. She didn't want to yell anymore. She wanted to arrange her thoughts, phrase them intelligently, so sanely that Martin would have to agree with her "What should I do for the fire, Dad?" asked Rebecca.

"Collect all the sticks you can find, and logs, kitchen chairs, whatever. Pull stuff out of the woods. I'll pour kerosene over it, and we'll eat supper while it soaks in, then light it. Boom!"

Page 159 "Boom!" repeated Rebecca and threw her arms out in an explosion, inadvertently yanking the dog up short. m.u.f.fin yelped.

After supper, Barb said she had to go to the store but instead drove to town and parked beside the mortuary, across the street from her old house. It was a family house, with welldefined rooms, one for eating, one for cooking, two for sleeping. No crazy, disintegrating rooms where love letters reeking of infidelity fell like paint chips and plaster dust, where rain could pour down on people in their beds, where dirty, muscular strangers entered without warning.

A car pulled into the driveway of the brick house, and a tall man in a white shirt and gray pants stepped out of it, jacket over his arm. She'd met him at the closing, but she'd felt no connection to him then. He glanced in Barb's direction as he made his way up the front steps, then took out his key and unlocked the door. Before entering, he turned and looked again through wireframed gla.s.ses. His jaw was dark with the day's growth of beard. He slept in the room where she used to sleep. He hung his pants over the back of a chair beside the bed. She remembered the feel of her naked feet on the padded bedroom carpet.

Barb let herself fall back against the headrest. She thought of one afternoon two weeks ago when she and Martin had been working on the roof, driving nails into opposite sides of a fourbyeight piece of plywood. Barb had stopped and watched him pound. She feared he would miss and smash his thumb. More than that, though, she feared she wouldn't stop herself from reaching for him, climbing on top of him on the sloping roof. Rebecca was twentyfive feet below them with the dogs and rabbits and opossums. Barb imagined herself and Martin rolling and sliding toward the edge of the roof, plywood splinters driving into their skin. She had awakened from this thought when she noticed Martin had stopped nailing and was watching her. "You look worried," he'd said. "What's the matter?" Barb had answered, "Nothing."

Barb unclenched the steering wheel, and when she looked back at the house, she saw it differently. The kitchen, she remembered, had almost no counter s.p.a.ce, and the windows didn't let in much light, Page 160 especially since the southern exposure was entirely blocked by the house next door. The roof hung so close to the ground. Rebecca's bedroom had been tiny, perfect for her as a baby, but maybe she couldn't have grown up if they'd stayed there. Barb had a strange feeling that even her own body had grown larger since they'd moved out, that this house couldn't fit her any more, that she'd have to duck as she pa.s.sed through doorways. But if she didn't belong in the big O'Leary house, and she couldn't return to this place, then she was on her own. Barb put the car in gear and headed along the secondary highway and then slowly up their dirt drive, watching out for innocent creatures. She couldn't change the O'Learys, but tomorrow, when it was light, she would find and bury that poor mother rabbit. And when she got her paycheck this Friday, she would not buy shingles as she ought to. Instead she'd buy chicken wire, and she'd nail it to trees and string it along the driveway herself, even if it took all night. As she approached the house, she saw a great blaze.

Barb got out of the car and walked in darkness along the path toward the bonfire where the three O'Learys moved in strange relief against the flames. Martha held Rebecca's hand, and Rebecca held her father's as they traveled around the fire in a line. Rebecca hesitated once and stumbled over her feet, and Barb couldn't help but think of her flying into the fire. Barb imagined she saw not only the three, but the rest of the family as well, moving among the flames: Martin's mother, sluggish and thick, doped up on Thorazine Martin's sister Suzanne waving her long thin limbs, her wrists transparent and scarred the lost brother, forever seventeen, with pretty gray eyes and wild curls like a woman's. The rest of the family swayed and grasped, ancients with round faces, small noses, and wideset eyes. She imagined the howls of O'Leary men tied to medieval racks or chained to dungeon walls, their arms and legs stretched obscenely. Pearshaped women wore their makeup skewed, lips blurred into noses and chins. The flames were hot blankets beneath which the figures clinched and writhed. The fizzing and popping and creosotestink were messages from one generation to the next.

Martin, Rebecca and Martha disappeared around the far side and then reappeared. Martha wore the leather jacket the man had left Page 161 in her room. It flapped toobig around her and the zipper glinted, its wide teeth grinning into the fire. As Barb stepped into the light, Rebecca and Martin spun off and fell onto the ground beside each other, laughing, with m.u.f.fin licking at them. Their faces were turned toward the sky, open to whatever enlightenment might fall down from the heavens or waft out of the fire. Their wrists were joined by a bright steel chain.

"Martin," said Barb. She wanted Martin to acknowledge the handcuffs. Then maybe she could explain about the potato water, and tell him she intended to buy chicken wire. But Martin's forehead glowed in the firelight, and she knew she'd never be able to explain. He bent down to kiss Barb, and his shirt front was hot. One of his plastic b.u.t.tons singed her neck, but instead of pulling away she pressed harder against it. When Martha grabbed Martin's hand, Martin tried to pull Barb along as well, but she resisted and stepped back. When Rebecca began baying like a wolf, Martin and Martha joined in, moaning, "Owowowoooo," to the moon.

Barb was surprised how cold the air became just a few yards from the fire. Lights shone from the house, from the kitchen and Martha's bedroom, but beyond that everything was dark. Barb wrapped her arms around herself, then felt the warmth of other arms. The three fleshandblood O'Learys closed around her, their limbs and breath like those of a hundred people. "Ringaroundtherosie," they chanted. The musky smell of sweat rose off them. At first Barb stood stiff against their bodies, but when she looked into those faces, all like her daughter's, she felt a surge of love too large for her chest to contain.

"Ashes, ashes," the three said in unison, and Barb prepared to fall with them into the cool gra.s.s.

Page 162 Shifting Gears The sun glowed red in the gloss finish of Tommy's threequarter ton F250 fourwheel drive longbox pickup. The paint glistened like fresh blood, as clean and smooth as something just born, something whose outer layers had been peeled away. The truck's beauty still overwhelmed Tommy though he'd been driving it for a couple weeks now, since the end of September. He'd traded in the old blue bomb which now sat in the Ford dealer's bargain lot. Tommy would not be lying on the cold ground under that hunk of junk this winter. He stood in the driveway with one hand on the hood, soaking in the warmth of the engine. Though he was home, he was in no hurry to go into his house.

Ever since his wife had left him, the house seemed reptilian, as lifeless as a snake cage at the zoo. He took all the overtime he could get these days, and he drove the truck everywhere he could think of, but eventually he had to come home each night. When his neighbors Bob and Sharon stepped out of their house into the late sunshine, Tommy waved. He unlocked the front door of the house only to let his dog out, then headed over to Bob's. Sharon was nine months pregnant with her first child, so what was she doing? She had picked up a fan rake and was dragging it across the lawn. She seemed angry and impatient, as usual.

Page 163 "Ought she to be doing that?" Tommy asked Bob.

"Her sister told her it'll make her have the baby."

Even though he was getting fat, Bob had those blond, athletic looks women seemed to like. He didn't have any problems talking to women. Tommy was smaller by about eighty pounds with a thin moustache that he worried between his thumb and forefinger. Bob worked at a paper converting plant, first shift, Sharon worked at the Harding's grocery, and Tommy worked at Taggert Plumbing Supply, filling orders and making deliveries.

Bob went into his house and brought out two beers. He walked on the b.a.l.l.s of his feet like the football player he used to be in high school. Bob could surprise you with his abilities, like this Labor Day weekend when he put up vinyl siding on his house. He started it on Friday evening and finished on Monday, the trim around the windows and everything. A perimeter of paint chips surrounded Tommy's house-bluegray and green patches showed through the latest coat of white paint. The two men sat on the picnic table, which afforded them a good view of both Sharon's raking and Tommy's truck.

"You ought to get a new truck, Bob," said Tommy. "That '83 is dying."

"It's an '84."

"It needs an exhaust. I heard you clear down to M98 this morning."

Bob's dog, a female beagle some guy had sold him because she wouldn't hunt, walked across Bob's yard and lay down on Sharon's pile of leaves.

"Stupid b.i.t.c.h!" screamed Sharon and whacked the dog with the rake.

The b.i.t.c.h-that's what Bob named the dog-picked herself up and followed a zigzag path of scents, then lay under the picnic table.

Tommy's dog Moe rolled on his back and crunched leaves. Moe was a black lab who until six months ago spent a good part of his time chasing females in heat. Six months ago, Tommy's wife had gotten Moe neutered. Tommy had to admit that now, with his wife gone, it was a comfort to have his dog sticking close to home. And bailing him out of the pound had been getting expensive.

Page 164 Tommy produced a second pair of beers from his house and gave one to Bob. As they were cracking open the beers, Sharon turned and pitched her rake through the air at the picnic table. It fell way short of them.

"What's the matter, honey?" yelled Bob.

"Why don't you two just stay out here all night and drink beer. I'm sick of your faces. You make me want to scream." She went inside and slammed the door.

"I wonder if she's going to make supper," said Bob.

The yellow leaves on Tommy's front yard maple flickered like gas jets. Tommy imagined Sharon inside peeling potatoes, gouging out the eyes with the end of the peeler. Tommy and Bob sat outside until after the sun set, nursing the beers until Sharon appeared in the doorway barefoot, wearing only a thin bathrobe. The light from indoors was shining right through it, outlining her swollen shape. Tommy watched her without turning to face her. He knew that Sharon had never much liked him, and because she was close with his wife she liked him even less since the divorce. Sharon didn't ever talk to Tommy, but spoke to the air around him or to anybody else who happened to be in the vicinity. Lately, Sharon didn't seem to like Bob all that much either. Even so, Tommy took comfort in seeing Sharon every day, at home or in the Harding's checkout line. Standing there in the doorway, with her hair hanging in her face, she looked different than usual, frail. Tommy thought of a storm traveling east across the sky. He wanted to go to Sharon, to fall down and wrap his arms around her legs and feet, confess that he'd do anything for her. He pushed these thoughts out of his head, on the off chance that Bob could read his mind.

"Bob, I think Sharon wants you," he said.

Bob drained his beer and crushed the can in his hand. He stood up and called the b.i.t.c.h. When she didn't come, he pulled her out from under the picnic table by her front legs, and carried her home in his big arms. She laid a shiny cord of drool all along the sleeve of his flannel shirt.

Tommy dragged Moe inside by the collar and poured some nuggets into his bowl. Suppers always caused Tommy trouble. Breakfast was coffee and a doughnut at work. Lunch he could eat at the Page 165 Greek's with all the other working guys. But supper never felt right now that he was alone. He imagined that next door Bob was sitting across the table from Sharon, eating some fresh squash and mashing b.u.t.ter into a potato alongside a hunk of New York strip or a Tbone. Maybe tomorrow Tommy'd pick up a piece of meat on the way home. He could see his truck sitting in the Harding's parking lot, as pretty as a picture beside all those other beatup trucks like Bob's. He'd stand in Sharon's checkout lane if she was there. Tommy settled on a Salisbury steak frozen dinner that he microwaved and ate in front of the television.

When Tommy heard noises next door, he pressed the mute b.u.t.ton on his remote control, put on his hunting jacket, and stepped out into the leaves. The sharp coldness of the air made him think about his wife again. He'd liked being married, liked his wife's roundness and the shampoo smell of her hair. He'd looked forward to coming home after work so much he'd turned down overtime. But after about a year, his wife was always mad at him. She'd said he wasn't capable of really caring about anybody, not even himself. Tommy's maple swayed above, spilling leaves over him. As he brushed a leaf out of his hair, painful thoughts of his wife began to fade, to be replaced by disconcerting visions of Sharon waddling pregnant out to the mailbox or scanning the items he'd bought at the grocery store, one by one, without looking up at him.

The sky was dark and metallic, punctured by a crescent moon and some sharp stars, just the kind of weather for a first hard freeze, the kind of weather that made you think of pumpkins carved with ghouls' faces. In the moonlight Tommy's truck looked almost black, lacquer black like his wife's mirrored dresser, of which there was nothing left but imprints in the carpet. On top, she'd had hundreds of pairs of earrings in neat rows, some scarves, and a wooden inlaid jewelry box lined with velvet.

Tommy's dresser, then as now, had a heap of clothes on the top. His wife used to beg him to put his clothes away. A few times he'd cleared off the dresser, putting the socks and underwear in the top drawer, the shirts in the second, the pants in the third. But the dresser looked so empty. He liked his clean clothes in plain sight, liked them the way they came out of the dryer, twisted together in a ball from which he could extract what he needed.

Page 166 He followed the noises next door and found Bob sitting in his truck, trying to start it.

''Sounds like you flooded it, Bob," he offered.

"Jesus Christ, of course I flooded it. You think I don't know that?"

"Let her cool down for fifteen minutes."

"Sharon's having the baby," said Bob. "I don't have fifteen minutes."

"Where's Sharon's car, anyway?"

"She loaned it to her d.a.m.n sister."

"Call up her sister, have her take Sharon to the hospital."

"I'm taking her," said Bob. "Let me borrow your truck."

"h.e.l.l, Bob, I haven't let anybody drive my truck."

"All right, then you drive us to the hospital."

Sharon appeared at the back door with her bangs falling over her eyes. She looked desperate, the way a person who is never helpless looks when she is helpless.

Tommy felt that pang again, that unholy desire to throw himself at her feet, and though he meant to speak, his mouth just hung open. He worked his moustache with his thumb and forefinger.

"Are you going to get your truck or am I?" Bob looked about as big as Thor standing there in his driveway.

The keys were in Tommy's pocket, so without even bothering to go in and turn off the TV, he crossed the lawn to his truck. He touched the tailgate as he pa.s.sed and let his fingers trail along the left rear body panel. Tommy started to like the idea of driving Sharon to the hospital-Bob couldn't get her there, but Tommy could, by G.o.d, quickly and safely, and in the comfort of his new faux suede upholstery. He backed into their driveway with his arm over the back of the seat, stopping in front of Sharon, who stood there waiting like a lost stormcloud. Tommy leaned over and opened the door, but Sharon stood until Bob appeared carrying a duffel bag. The truck sat pretty high off the ground and Sharon, who was short to begin with, was in no condition to jump. First Bob boosted her up into the pa.s.senger seat, but she couldn't wedge herself over the gear shift in the middle, so she slid back out and insisted that Bob get in first. Then Bob about pulled Sharon's arm off getting her up after him.

Page 167 "d.a.m.n stupid truck," she spat, once she was inside. She was panting hard and rubbing her shoulder. "Don't ever ask me to get in here again."

Bob reached across Sharon's belly to slam the door.

This was the first time Tommy'd had two other people in the front seat, and with one of them as big as Bob it was a tight squeeze. Good thing it was dark so n.o.body'd see Bob and him pressed up against each other. "I'd rather have sat next to Sharon," Tommy mumbled.

"Well, she doesn't want to sit next to you," said Bob.

Sharon held her stomach and squeezed her eyes closed. "Shut up and drive," she said to the air inside the truck cab.

Bronson Methodist Hospital was in town, ten miles away. When they turned onto M98, Bob said, "Step on it, Tommy."

"Dealer said I ought not go over 55 for the first 3000 miles."

"Listen, Tommy. All you care about now is getting us to the hospital."

Tommy edged the speedometer up to 60 mph, then to 65, but no faster. Bob's right foot was pressed against the floor as though he was working his own accelerator pedal. The road poured out dark and empty before them, and the railroad tracks sped along beside. Tommy had to admit that driving fast on this dark, smooth road felt good.

As they pa.s.sed the Ford dealer, Tommy searched the lot for his old blue bomb, but the spot where it had been sitting this morning was empty. Somebody else would be busting his knuckles on that hunk of junk now. Somebody else would be driving with his hand rested on that oversize gearshift k.n.o.b that he'd taken from a '56 junkyard Ford. Somebody else would jiggle it carefully into reverse.

"Why you slowing down?" asked Bob.

"You know, Bob, you ought to buy yourself a new truck," said Tommy. When Bob didn't respond, he continued. "I always know that my truck's going to start, every time I turn the key. Ford dealer's got good financing, too."

Bob said, "I'd buy a Dodge."

"You'd be crazy to buy a Dodge."

"I always buy Chrysler."

Page 168 "I know a guy bought a new Dodge Ram truck," said Tommy, "Ten thousand mile warranty runs out, he's got that thing in the shop every week. First it's his front end, then it's his midship bearing. Mopars are nothing but trouble. Like that truck you're driving now, flooding out, backfiring. That's your Mopar."

"That truck's over twelve years old. And it needs a new exhaust. In ten years your Ford's up on blocks. Fix Or Repair Daily. That's your Ford."