“Hurry up,” she called, and then regretted it: it probably scared him more.
He came thumping down the stairs two at a time. He had his little green knapsack over his shoulder. “Audrey’s comin’, right?” he said.
“Sure,” she said.
At the back door, she hesitated. Todd’s stomach made a noise. Audrey jumped up once, in impatience.
The garage light on the trees over the driveway reminded her of sitting in the car under the streetlight the night before. She peered close to the window on the side he’d surprised her from earlier.
“Ma,” Todd said. She looked at him. He had a claw hammer stuck in his Levi’s.
She unlocked the door. She opened it. Audrey bodied her way out past their calves and trotted around, making sweeps with her nose.
Joanie led Todd out and down the driveway. The garage was pretty well lighted. There was an intermittent wind.
She heard the jingle of Audrey’s collar stop, and when she looked over her shoulder, the dog had raised her head and was looking off down the street. Joanie pulled Todd into the garage, directing him with her hand around the passenger side. As she moved down the car she checked the backseat. She called once for Audrey, got in, checked the backseat again, and then, once Todd was in, locked all the doors and rolled up the windows. Her stomach unknotted a little.
Audrey trotted up and stood her front paws on the driver’s-side door. She unlocked it and opened it again, and the dog scrambled in over her and turned awkwardly around between them on the bench seat before settling down.
She turned the key in the ignition. It was like there was no front end to the car.
She sat there turning it.
“What’s wrong?” Todd finally said. The amount of fear in his voice was paralyzing.
She checked to see if it was in park. It was.
“He did something to it,” Todd said.
She opened the door. “I’m not gonna check it now,” she said. “Let’s go.”
At the front of the garage, Audrey gave a growl and took off around the house. Joanie grabbed Todd’s hand and ran for the back door. On the step she fumbled with the key. Todd called to Audrey. Joanie finally maneuvered it into the lock and got them inside and slammed the door and locked it. A second later, Audrey came trotting down the driveway and up to the door. Joanie looked around as much as she could and let the dog in.
“He did something to the car,” Todd said. He had his fist over the hammer in his pants, like someone with severe stomach pain. “He did something to the car to keep us here.”
“We don’t know that,” Joanie said.
“Call Grandpa,” Todd said. “Call Grandpa.”
“Hold it hold it hold it,” Joanie said. She was trying to get hold of herself. She turned on the overhead light in the kitchen and sat at the table. She pushed the bottle of champagne farther away from her. “What’re we gonna say?” she asked. “The car’s not working; we think Bruno’s coming to get us?”
She realized she was sweating and felt the dampness along her hairline and in front of her ear. “Anyway, Bruno was just here. And he left. Right?”
That seemed to calm Todd a little.
“And we got Audrey to protect us,” she said. “C’mon. We’ll check all the doors and windows.”
They checked them together, Todd holding his hammer out in front of them like the Olympic torch. He helped her with a sash that was jammed.
They left some lights on downstairs. She led him up to his room and helped him clear the clothes off his bed.
“I’m gonna sleep in my underwear,” he said.
He hung his Levi’s over the headboard.
“Where’s your hammer?” she asked.
“I musta left it downstairs,” he said with alarm.
“Don’t worry about it now.” She didn’t want to go downstairs for it alone.
He didn’t look much reassured.
“You know what?” she said. “I think I’ll snuggle here with you for a while. Is that okay?”
“That’s okay,” he said. He scooted over.
She hit the light and pulled off her own jeans and climbed under the covers in her T-shirt and underwear. She turned on her side to face him and folded her hands under her cheek. He was looking up at the ceiling.
“See? This isn’t bad. This is pretty good,” she said, but her voice had every quality of the end of the line.
Her thoughts rose in the dark like faint balloons.
She could hear water dripping into the big bowl she’d mixed tuna in, in the kitchen sink.
She lay there charged up and exhausted. She felt unexceptional and solitary, as tired as a mother who’d played all day with her kid and hadn’t tired the kid out yet.
Tommy Monteleone’s name stayed with her, like something she could experiment with to hurt herself.
She saw herself before she got married — sitting in the Milford library, with her shoes off and her legs folded under her — and her heart went out to herself in tenderness.
This whole life, she thought. All this pain: didn’t she make it herself?
She tried to calm down. She composed a letter to Todd. She composed a letter to Gary. She asked their forgiveness.
She thought of kissing Bruno. She thought of bats rushing out of their caves, sweeping past her and kissing the air over her skin.
She felt her soul opening up in the dark, unfolding sin after sin. In the gloom, she made out the Blessed Virgin statue on the dresser. Mary’s eyes regarded her with mild pity. Her own eyes were brimming with tears. A catechism line swam up from somewhere: God tries over and over again but the sinner will not hear.
She sang the lyrics to “Downtown.” Todd didn’t respond. She looked closer to see if he was asleep.
“Mom?” he said. “I still have to leave, I think. I don’t think I can stay here anymore.”
She closed her eyes and the tears broke down her cheeks. This, she thought. This was the worst moment.
It didn’t have to be so irreconcilable, she thought. Remember what we have.
There was a far-off whistling.
She controlled her breathing and focused on her hearing.
The whistling died off.
Audrey raised her head from the rug. Her license jingled: she was moving to hear better.
Something cracked outside, like someone snapping a good-sized stick. Joanie’s heart started going.
She heard a sound very near the window. It sounded like someone pouring liquid slowly out of a jar. It sounded like someone urinating against the side of the house.
“Ma,” Todd said.
“I hear it,” she said. “Shhh.”
There was a quick, faint popping sound, like someone had snapped a bicycle spoke.
They waited. Audrey woofed. She lowered her head to the rug again.
Joanie heard the whistling again. It was in the yard. She recognized it: “O Sordato Innamorato.”
She sat up in bed. “Call the police,” she said. “I’m going downstairs.” She got to her feet and turned on the little lamp on his bedside table. She climbed back into her jeans.
Todd was moving for the phone. He had a sober and alert expression, like a frightened general.
“I think he’s back,” she said. She felt as if she could throw up.
He nodded. Nothing seemed surprising now.
He picked up the phone and started dialing. She opened his door wider and hit the light in the hallway.
“Ma,” he said, and when she turned he was holding the phone out to her, his eyes large.
“Oh, God,” she said.
He let it drop. He scrambled into his Levi’s. At the base of the house there was a slow, metallic sound like the soft scrape of a snow shovel on ice.