Hush (7 page)

the dog issued another shrill warning that carried with piercing clarity around

the corner of the deck. Then she listened to the quick shuffling of Jack's

shoes. Celia figured he was jabbing at the dog with his foot again. She didn't

consider this the greatest training technique, but Jack had made it clear that

he didn't want any pointers on how to deal with the dog.
"Go away," he snapped.
The dog barked again, as if bearding Jack. It had been barking at her husband

all week. It was as if the critter were allergic to him. Perhaps it sensed

Jack's dislike. Whatever the reason, Celia could tell they weren't exactly

bonding.
Jack wheeled around the house, glancing back at the disgruntled cur.
"Christ, that thing's a pain in the ass."
He handed Celia her glass of zinfandel and sat down. She thanked him, and

watched the animal settle quietly on the far end of the deck. She decided not to

comment on the latest skirmish. They were both males. Maybe it was some kind of

turf thing.
When Jack opened his beer she continued telling him about Harold.
"He's really a great kid, very bright."
"What's that?"
She frowned at him. "Harold, the schizophrenic boy who's been drawing for me. I

was just telling you about—"
"That's right. Sorry. I got a little distracted with the hound from hell."
Celia waved away his forgetfulness. "That's okay. Like I said, he's a bright kid

but he comes from a really bad background. Both parents are substance abusers

and just don't give a damn about him. I'll tell you, we have to work so hard

just to build up trust with these kids. That's the biggest issue so far. Most of

them don't trust anyone anymore, and who can blame them?"
She tasted the wine, letting the liquid swirl over her tongue, as she watched

the dark outline of a hawk floating almost motionlessly on an updraft. She

studied the elegant hooked beak— the distinctive predator's profile— and made a

mental note to incorporate the lines in a future painting.
"Anyway," she added, "that's what it always seems to come down to— trust and

family. That's what's really important. At least I've got that with you."
Jack nodded slowly, and she reached over and tenderly touched his hand. It felt

cold and damp from the bottle and gave her a chill.
"The fact that Harold started letting me see into his world was a real

breakthrough, but then to see the horrors that poor kid sees every day. That was

kind of hard to take. Of course, Tony"— she shook her head—"still seems to think

that art therapy is some kind of voodoo."
She looked at Jack again, closely this time, and saw that his eyes were far

away. She resisted the urge to shout at him, and continued in the same casual

voice as before.
"So at lunch I pulled Tony into my office and went down on him, and now he

thinks art therapy is the greatest. He smiles every time I bring it up."
Jack continued to nod listlessly, and Celia rested her wineglass on the small

redwood table that separated them.
"Jack," she snapped, "you haven't heard a single word I've said."
He looked at her, clearly startled.
"Yes, I have," he insisted, "you were talking about the Center."
"Good guess. I just told you that I went down on our new director."
"You did what!" Jack jumped forward in his seat.
"No, of course not. I just wanted to see if you were listening."
He sat back, clearly relieved. "I'm sorry, Cel, I've been a little preoccupied

with work lately."
"I guess."
"And now"— he spoke with visible disgust—"I've got to go up to Trout River next

weekend and look over a front loader that George Reeples is buying. He wants me

to ballpark liability, loss, the whole shebang."
"That's going to take all weekend? Why don't you do it during the week? Ruth and

that new girl, what's her name, can take—"
"Helen." He raised his beer to take a drink.
"Right, Helen, they can take care of things for a couple of days, can't they?"
He started shaking his head even as he pulled the bottle away from his lips.

"That's what you think," he sputtered, "but that's because you don't have to

work with them all day. I have to check everything they do to make sure it's

done right." He wiped his mouth with the back of his wrist. "Come on, why don't

you go with me? I think it would be good for us to get away for a couple of

days. It's beautiful up there this time of year."
"I can't go, Jack, you know that. It's marked on the calendar. That's my weekend

to be on call."
"Oh, that's right," he said, his voice heavy with regret. "Sorry. Forgot all

about that. Well, it'll only be one night, and then I'll be back on Sunday."
The news didn't please Celia at all, but she knew he had to cover a fairly wide

territory if the agency was to remain profitable. Not all the business walked in

the door.
So instead of complaining she took a deep breath and smelled the pine once

again. Then she remembered the huge whirling saws at the mill, and tried to

forget that it was the odor of death that delighted her so.
11
Chet slammed the door shut and fumbled around with the keys hanging from the

ignition. He had to get his pickup all loaded with firewood and drive over to

that guy Marshall's place before the afternoon wasted away. He'd met him

downtown at Andy's Market. Chet had no sooner stuck the sign to the side of his

door when the old guy limped up on his cane and said he needed some. Cutting

scrap and poaching a pine here and there was no kind of living, but Chet would

get $110 for a cord of that crap; and if this old asshole was ready to pay that

kind of price, why, Chet felt duty-bound to find it for him. Hell, this was

Oregon. You could always find wood somewhere.
Just as he cranked the ignition he glanced in his rearview mirror and spotted

Davy dragging ass up the road. Sorriest-looking kid he'd seen in a long time.

But then he reminded himself that they were always like this right after their

mamas died, moping around. It's like they'd been born to a whole new world, and

they had blood all over them, just like the first time when they came crawling

out of those lower parts. Chet knew about boys, had made a real study of them,

and sometimes it took months for them to get used to the way things were meant

to be. No different with Davy.
The kid inched up to the truck like the goddamn thing might explode. He had his

knapsack over his shoulder and was holding a sheet of paper. Chet figured it

might be a class project of some kind. "Drew our hands today and colored them.

See, don't it look just like a turkey?" He remembered one of the boys saying

that. Couldn't remember which one, though. They were all gone, dead and buried

and mostly lost to him now, even their memory.
"What are you worried about? Think I'm going to bite you or something? Jesus!"
Be nice, he warned himself. You'll scare him worse than he's scared already.

Little dick doesn't even talk. Chet softened his tone.
"Okay, what's up, Davy boy? I got to get moving here. Got to put together a load

and take it to town."
Davy held out the paper and Chet saw that it was some kind of note. He eyed it

suspiciously. It looked official, and nothing official ever turned out good. A

fact of life. Never once.
"Report cards out already?"
The kid didn't so much as smile, and the only sound Chet heard was his own

forced laughter, strangled by the silence.
He sat in the cab and unfolded the note, saw the school letterhead. Damn right,

bad news Kid's been acting up. He glanced at Davy and opened the truck door.
"Says you're a very bad boy." He sat on the rusty running board so he could look

Davy in the eye, except the kid never looked back. Always had his head down,

like he'd rather be on the ground than be with you. He will be soon enough if he

keeps this up.
"It says you bit some kid, bit him pretty bad. Now why'd you want to go and do

something mean like that? That's a really mean thing to do, biting somebody."
Davy just kept looking down, and Chet had to tug his arm. Gently, though.

Gently.
"Big boys don't bite, Davy. Hey, that's what girls do. That's no way to fight."
He made a fist and tapped Davy on the chin. The boy's head snapped back as if

he'd been hit much harder.
"Someone gives you trouble— pow— you let them have it right on the old kisser."

He cocked his fist again, but this time spared the boy. He could see he was

scared. "Punch them, punch them hard as you can. Break their damn jaw, that's

what I do. But don't go around biting."
A boy needs this kind of advice, Chet thought. This is nothing a mother could

do. He turned back to the note. There was more. Oh Jesus!
"Your teacher too! Oh, no." He shook his head. This was different. "They're

throwing you out. They want to put you in a special school, 'cause you're biting

and not talking." Chet did not like this at all. 'I'm supposed to go in there

and meet a Mrs. Griswold." He looked back at the note. "But that's not till

Monday." His eyes rose from the paper. "Guess you got yourself a three-day

weekend. But you know what this means, don't you? It means I got to take time

off to take you there."
He grabbed Davy's shoulder and slowly began to squeeze harder and harder.
"I don't like to take time off, Davy. I don't like that one bit."
Davy dipped down to try to get away, but Chet held him tightly. He could see

pain in the kid's face. That's okay, do him some good.
"But I guess you're worth it."
Chet eased his grip as slowly as he'd applied it.
"Sure you are." He smiled at him. "Now go on in and wait for me. Watch that

video if you want, but don't go anywhere. I'll be home soon enough. Now go on."
As Davy turned to walk away, Chet gave him a pat on the butt. It felt so good,

he had a mind to follow him right on in.
12
Oh God, it is Monday.
Celia locked up her car but didn't bother pocketing her keys. When she pulled up

to the Center she realized she was the first one in and would have to open up

and make the morning coffee, duties she rarely had to perform since Tony came on

board. He usually arrived first and left last, and reminded the staff of this

whenever it proved convenient. But Celia had awakened early after a bad night's

sleep and decided to get a jump on the new workweek.
She'd gone hiking on Saturday afternoon. She would have enjoyed taking along the

Border collie for company but after she left for work on Friday Jack had lured

the dog into his pickup with some fresh meat, leashed it to the bed, and drove

it to the pound. No doubt to its imminent doom as well. Celia knew she could

have made a huge stink over it but Jack had been so determined to get rid of the

dog that keeping it would have become a constant struggle. So now that cute

little black-and-white dog would be killed. It saddened Celia when she recalled

how he'd warmed right up to her. It was Jack the creature couldn't stand. That

turned out to be a fatal mistake. And she couldn't help wondering about his

so-called allergies; exposure to the dog sure hadn't slowed him down any. He was

still working overtime at the office. A full day Saturday. With all the hours he

was putting in, you'd think that earthquakes and floods were pummeling the

region. When he got home around six she dragged him into bed and they made love

for the first time in a month, but their time apart had hardly increased his

ardor. In fact, he almost lost his erection twice, and she'd become quite sore

before he finally came. She'd heard this could happen with much older men, but

Jack was only forty-five.
Then on Sunday morning she spent a few frustrating hours working on the painting

of the poppy. The color had been the problem. She considered it closer to the

orange worn by hunters than anything else she could think of, but she just

hadn't been able to come up with the right hue. After her exacting eyes rejected

every one of her efforts she abandoned the project to brood about their

marriage, which she had been doing anyway and which probably explained the

pitiful state of the painting. She'd even begun to worry that she and Jack were

not going to make it, and she found this extremely disturbing.
She had almost ten years invested in Jack— she couldn't help thinking of it this

way, as an investment, the most important one of her life— and at thirty-eight

she desperately wanted children. She knew that under the best of circumstances

she had only a few dependable years left to get pregnant. If her marriage fell

apart she doubted that she'd ever have the time or the emotional resources to

pull herself back together, find a new partner, and have a family.
When they first met, their lives had been very different. Jack had been the

manager of a large insurance agency in the Chicago Loop, and Celia had been

completing her last semester of graduate school. A burglar had stolen everything

of value from her apartment and, like so many other victims, she had decided to

buy her first insurance policy "after the horse was out of the barn."
Those were among the first words Jack ever said to her. Their eyes had met

across the office, and he had hurried to help her. He was so obvious about his

intentions that they both laughed when he'd tripped over a chair en route.
Three months after they met he proposed, and a week later a Justice of the Peace

pronounced them man and wife. Great sex had prompted both his offer and Celia's

acceptance. Back then her whole body would shiver from the sheer excitement of