Hush (26 page)

and knew that she and Jack would appear affluent in their eyes, much as they

appeared poor to hers.
She left the bag of groceries on the deck and dragged the redwood picnic table

to the west side of the house so they'd catch the stars hanging over the valley.

With a white tablecloth she thought it would look quite elegant, especially with

the candles burning in the darkness. She hesitated over the idea of an open

flame in these tinderbox conditions, but assured herself that it wouldn't be a

problem as long as they were careful. She'd get out the wine bucket too. She

stepped back and saw how the stainless steel would bead with condensation, and

imagined too the growing warmth of the evening as she and Jack unwound beneath

the moon and stars.
Maybe selling the place was a bad idea. Maybe it's just as well that she'd never

brought it up with Jack. Sure, they had to put up with a creep like the

shepherd, but eventually he would leave; and in all probability so would Mr.

Boyce and Davy. That prospect stopped her short, the startling sense of loss she

felt over the possibility that the boy would be taken from Bentman, that all his

stepfather had to do was hitch up that trailer and by Monday they could be in

another town, or even another state. As silly as it seemed to her, the first

thought Celia had was that he wouldn't get to hear the end of the story she'd

been reading him. She wanted to see him laugh. She wanted to see him laugh so

hard that he'd forget all about his troubles and just be a kid.
She cringed when she remembered how Mr. Boyce had brushed off her attempt to

lend him the book. All the boy wants— Christ, all he needs— is some healthy

attention, but she knew he'd never get it from that man.
Celia stood on the deck in the darkness and saw Davy far away, in a new town

struggling all over again in a new school, and her eyes dampened. She tried not

to cry, but couldn't hold back. The job was just so goddamn depressing at times.

She looked down at the lights of the valley, blazing through her tears, and

thought of Davy in that dingy trailer all alone with Mr. Boyce. Her sadness

quickly turned to anger, and she asked herself what he'd done to make that kid

so afraid. I mean, what do you have to do to make a kid so scared that he crawls

onto a dirty floor so you can't see him being read to? Come on, she goaded the

darkness, what do you have to do to make a kid that scared? Her fingers clenched

her sides, and her whole body tensed. That fucker. She shook her fists at the

night. That fucker! What did you do to him?
She took a deep breath and wiped away her tears. She leaned against the picnic

table and considered how much worse off Davy would be if Mr. Boyce did take him

away from Bentman. What kind of life could the boy possibly have? He's already

so traumatized he doesn't even talk. There would be more school problems, a

future of dead-end jobs, if he could get any, if there were any left, and then a

family of his own where the whole cycle of abuse could repeat itself.
But she reminded herself that she had a more immediate problem— Tony. Right now

he was more likely to take Davy away from her than Mr. Boyce. The irony pained

her, but she knew that at least with Tony she could fight back. She'd start by

getting the evaluation done this weekend. On Monday she'd present her findings

and make her case for keeping Davy under her care. If Tony insisted on another

type of therapy, she could always remind him that the district had specifically

asked for her help with Davy. She had a good relationship with the

superintendent and his staff, and she knew she had some fans over there. A few

chits, too. So you don't have to put up with his bullshit. You're too goddamn

nice. Kick his butt. Ethan's right. He's a jerk.
She unlocked the door and stepped around Pluto to put the groceries on the

kitchen counter. He followed her from the mud room and rubbed against her leg

until she scratched his ear and made him purr.
As she pulled the green beans out of the bag she noticed the answering-machine

light and hit the "play" button. When she heard Jack telling her again to go

ahead and start dinner without him, she flipped him off and cursed so loudly

that Pluto scampered away in fright.
In a fit of anger she picked up the phone and called the agency. No answer. Of

course, she groaned, it's after hours. But they did have a system to get around

this, so she called back, let it ring twice, hung up, and called again. Still no

answer. She slammed down the phone. What's with him? She'd never known him to

work this hard. Twelve-to-fourteen-hour days? This has got to stop.
She tossed the chicken into the refrigerator and settled for a plate of green

beans topped with a bottled peanut-and-garlic sauce that plopped most

unromantically onto her plate. The mushrooms, the wine, the moon and the stars,

they'd all have to wait. Maybe by Sunday she'd cool down enough to want to cook

again.
*
She nodded off watching a sitcom and remained asleep until the door creaked

open.
"Is that you?" she called out groggily, never dreaming it was anyone but Jack.
He walked over to the couch where she lay and kissed her forehead. She opened

her eyes, saw his familiar form, and clicked off the TV.
"Where were you?" She felt drugged with fatigue, and sounded it too. "I tried

calling. I was going to fix us a nice dinner because you're leaving. What the

hell is going on, Jack?"
"Was that you? I thought I heard the phone but I was working back in the vault.

Didn't you get my message?" He sat down beside her.
"Of course, but I don't care. That sucks, calling me up at the last minute like

that. I'd planned dinner on the deck. Candlelight, wine." She rubbed her eyes.

"What time is it?"
He glanced at his watch. "A little after ten."
"How little?"
"Twenty after."
"That's pretty late to be working, Jack." Her sleepy eyes stared at him. When he

didn't respond she shook her head and told him she was going to bed.
She straggled off to the bathroom, leaving Jack on the couch. The warmth of her

body rose from the cushions, and he knew without question that this weekend

would be the last time he'd cheat on her. He just couldn't do double duty in bed

anymore. And he did love her. Truly. And she sure sounded suspicious. Angry,

too.
She wandered back up with a quizzical expression and stared at his lap, which

made him acutely uncomfortable. He stole a look down, but no, nothing appeared

out of order, no revealing stains, just his hands hanging out on his thighs.
"What is it, hon? Something wrong?" He'd worked hard to steady his nervous

voice.
"Your ring, where is it?"
"My...my what?" he said as if she'd spoken Swahili. Panic rocked his system as

he looked down again, more obviously this time, and saw the pale stripe where

his wedding band used to be.
"Your ring. I thought something was weird but it didn't hit me till I started

washing my hands. It's your ring. You're not wearing it. How come?"
He tried to take heart in her tone: not too accusatory.
"No, that's true." He sighed regretfully. "The feeder in the copier jammed, so I

took it off so it wouldn't get scuffed up. I must have forgotten it. I'm sure

it's right where I left it. Sorry," he added sheepishly.
She nodded, her eyes still heavy with sleep.
"You want me to run by tomorrow and pick it up for you?"
He remembered with another bolt of panic that Helen's rings had been resting

right next to his. She might have forgotten hers too. Of course with the new

locks Celia would never get in, but that would beg a whole series of other

questions. "No, I'll swing by and get it on my way out of town."
"All right. Good night."
She walked away without kissing him, then turned around and came back. "I just

want you to know that if you ever stop wearing that wedding ring, you're going

to have to find someone to put up with it because I won't."
Jack definitely heard a new tone to his wife's voice, and it made him feel

cornered, exposed. He searched for something to say as she stood there looking

at him, but the best he could come up with rang hollow even to his ears.
"Don't worry, hon. I'm proud to be your husband."
35
A goddamn golden morning, that's what it was. Chet threw open the door of his

pickup and jumped out. He looked back toward the county road. All the branches

had filled in and he couldn't see past them. Good, he was in his nest all secret

and hidden, a crow's nest to watch her house. The right moment would come and he

would know it.
I didn't want to leave Davy all alone.
No, I'll bet you didn't, not when you could snoop around my place like you've

been snooping around my boy all week. Chet could have spit in her face. She'd

been close enough. Right there in his trailer. She'd been there the whole time,

looking around, seeing the mail. She must have. What else?
She deserved his attention, and now she would get it. She'd made Davy draw those

pictures, and she knew, she sure as hell did. She as much as told him so

yesterday. First, trying not to say much—I'll have the evaluation done by

Monday, Mr. Boyce— and then talking about how a kid can't draw a lie, but people

get caught in talking lies all the time. Don't they Mr. Boyce? Like she couldn't

resist poking him, her voice like some goddamn needle. And then finally saying

it:
Just one thing, Mr. Boyce. Has the boy been abused, Mr. Boyce?
She knew. She knew!
Hell if he didn't know something too. A picture's worth a thousand words, and he

had a picture as clear as a nail to the juicy end of a hammer: Mrs. Griswold

going for the door, like his wife had done too. Except he had grabbed her and

told Davy to watch. He did too, like a good boy, a real good boy.
But Mrs. Griswold had brushed right past him, used his name like he was nothing.
Good-bye, Mr. Boyce.
That's what she said. That's what she said! His voice crackled in his head like

sparks in a woodstove, and then he heard his answer like a cool liquid bathing

his brain.
Good-bye, Mrs. Griswold. Good-bye.
First a whisper breezing through his body, then a scream, GOOD-BYE, MRS.

GRISWOLD. GOOD-BYE. But every syllable silent to the world outside his skin.
The boy's still drawing like a goddamn machine that never quits, sitting in the

cab drawing on that fucking pad she gave him, like he drew that picture she

didn't want me to see. I saw the look on her face when I took it, like I'd

pulled down her pants or something. Where he feels safest. A bunch of guns and a

prison. That's what I saw. But she saw a lot more.
Oh yeah, she knows.
He leaned back into the cab and grabbed his thermos, poured out a mouthful of

coffee. He'd also packed some sandwiches, and the kid had his pop. "We're going

to be there awhile, Davy," he'd told him back at the trailer, "so bring

something you can play with in the truck." He'd wanted to make it clear as clear

can be that this was no goddamn picnic they were going on. So what did the kid

do? Brought that pad she gave him, and there he was drawing, drawing, drawing.

Let him, he warned himself. No harm in it now. Not after today.
He screwed the top on the thermos and tossed it back in the cab. He walked

around to the front bumper where he could see both cars, the new pickup with the

sign for the insurance agency on the side, and her old piece-of-shit Jap car.

The sun had already risen high enough to make him squint and it wasn't even

eight-thirty yet.
He watched another half hour before anything stirred. It was her, letting out

the cat. He still couldn't believe they didn't have a dog. Even a little yippie

dog could cause all kinds of problems, and here they were out in the middle of

nowhere with all this land and no dog to keep an eye on it. And no guns! They

are living on Mars.
He liked the way she looked in her nightgown, kind of sleepy and stupid standing

there watching the cat while he watched her. Chet wondered who might be watching

him and turned around, and sure enough that kid's eyes were drilling holes in

the back of his head. As soon as he caught him, though, the boy got busy drawing

again.
What the hell is he up to? He slapped the hood louder than he should have and

walked over to the passenger side. Davy's hand froze with the pencil tip an inch

or so above the paper. Chet spotted the wings, the mask, and leaned close to his

ear.
"You draw all the goddamn pictures you want, but she's never going to see them.

She's through looking at your pictures, you got that?"
No answer. He'd rather draw Batman for her all day long than say one word to

him, and that infuriated Chet, made him feel slighted by a kid who owed him a

lot. Owed him his life when it came right down to it because He could take it

anytime He wanted to. He had a mind to reach in right now and grab the pad and

tear it the fuck up, snap those pencils to pieces. But he controlled himself.

Let him draw. They're just pictures now.
He heard the distant sound of a door opening and looked up to see Mr. Griswold

walking out of the house with his briefcase and a suitcase. "What do you know

about that."
Then Chet understood that both of them might be leaving, and he saw his plans

turn to dust. But a moment later she appeared, still in her gown, holding a

coffee cup and talking to her husband. Good girl, he whispered, you just stay