She wonders if this boy was one of those little ones, then admonishes herself. Of course he was. He wouldn’t be here right now if he wasn’t. He looks familiar. He looks a little like those boys she grew up with. No, that’s not it. She is certain she has seen him, but she can’t remember where.
She doesn’t understand why he’s still here. Oh, that’s right. She reaches for the phone, then remembers that she’s already called, that they are waiting. She opens the Frigidaire and looks for milk, but the carton isn’t there. Where did it go? she wonders, then spots the empty glass next to the boy on the table. He drank all of it, didn’t he?
She takes the bottle of sherry out of the cupboard and pours herself a small glass. The boy’s eyebrows rise, and she makes a face at him. It’s like with her son, always nagging her about things. Doesn’t he know she can take care of herself? She’s been here a long time. She’s survived it all. Survived all of them. No one is left. They’re not even in prison anymore. They’re dead. Midge disappeared to who knows where back in the seventies. They say he’s at the bottom of Bridgeport Harbor. She’s always thought he might be in someone’s backyard, here in town, right under their noses. Serves him right. He should have known better from the get-go. He was no stranger to the life. Holding up that card game was a mistake. It was the first time they sent him away. He might not have been a dashing fellow, that Midge, but he was always charming.
Billy was a different story. He scared her. Scared her father and Frank too. Scared everyone. Like Whitey. The two of them were the same. Cold-blooded. It was no surprise they ended up the way they did. They deserved it.
She wonders about the boy: does he deserve it?
He’s looking at the door again. She reaches over and puts her hand on his forearm. He stiffens; she can feel the tension. He doesn’t know what’s going to happen now. He’s not as tough as he thinks he is; he’s not like Midge or Billy. She can see the softness in his eyes, behind the fear. Maybe this is his first time. Maybe it’s like the bomb. The one that killed that child.
She pulls her hand away and sits back farther in her chair, farther away from him. She doesn’t see him anymore as she pictures the shattered windows, the blood splatter on the sidewalk. Why is it that she has such trouble remembering what she needs at the grocery store, but the bus stop is as if it happened only moments ago? Every detail is etched in her memory and won’t let go: Frank in the basement, heading out through the cellar door; two hours later, they were having dinner and the sound of the blast echoed through the house, making it shake like an earthquake. She rushed down the few blocks, along with everyone else, to see the charred remains of the car, the mother kneeling on the pavement next to the child with a piece of the car’s fender sticking out of his chest, her screams almost inhuman, Frank whispering over and over to himself that it wasn’t supposed to happen that way.
She touches the short gray curls near her ears, patting them down, pretending that she doesn’t hear the low roar. She knows it’s not real, that it’s all in her head, but she can’t make it go away, no matter what she does. Her son keeps taking her to the doctor to adjust her hearing aids, but she can’t tell him that’s not the problem. She can’t tell him about that day. About what his father did for a living because he was a part of something that always ended in a violent death.
The equipment and tools are still in the basement. They’re in a locked trunk. Her son asks what’s in it, and she tells him she doesn’t know, that the key is long gone. He has not pushed it, but she’s often wondered if he really does know what his father used to do down there. If that’s not the real reason why he wants her out of here, so he can get rid of the evidence. As long as she’s living here, she won’t let him get rid of anything.
What’s not locked is the cabinet in the den. She reaches into her apron pocket and fingers the iron key. The boy sees her movement and flinches. She frowns at him. Doesn’t he know that he’s safe now? That the danger is gone? She opens her mouth to say so, but the words don’t come. The ringing in her ears is worse; she wouldn’t be able to hear herself anyway. So she merely shakes her head, as befits the situation.
He doesn’t belong here, but he is here. How did he get here anyway? She hates it that her memory does this. Moments are lost, some forever, some come back. She has no control over which. And then as quickly as she forgets, she remembers. She was watching the news, like she does every night after supper, when the doorbell rang. Her plate with the chicken bone and potato skin is still on the counter. She usually washes up after the news.
She wasn’t going to open the door tonight. She never opened the door after dinner or when it got dark — she knew better than that — but the banging started and wouldn’t stop. Rage filled her — how could they interrupt her evening like this? — and she turned the knob and yanked it open, ready to give them a piece of her mind.
The boys charged into the house, shouting about something.
All she could see was the gun.
The one with the gun raised his hand, and she felt the blow against the side of her head. She spun around and watched her hearing aid skitter across the floor. She was so busy focusing on it that she didn’t see him come at her from the other side. He grabbed her arm, pulling her off balance, and she stumbled, her ankle bending unnaturally. She had the crazy thought that she couldn’t fall on her hip, that would be the death of her, and then the hand tightened around her wrist and yanked it. She did fall, but on her knees, which had been filled with pain for years and now it was excruciating. He dragged her across the floor and into the den. Her glasses were half off her face; everything was blurry and her ears weren’t working right, sounds were muffled.
Where was the other one? She frowned. He was saying something; his lips were moving, but she couldn’t make it out. He was shouting now, looking up toward the stairs, shouting more, finally dropping her arm, and she pulled it underneath her like a bird with a broken wing. The wood floor was cool against her cheek.
For a moment, he peered down at her, his lips opening, baring his teeth, and she was reminded of a pit bull she’d encountered a few months ago, but it was on the other side of a fence and this boy was leaning closer and closer until—
He was gone.
She lay on the floor, feeling the vibrations. He was heading upstairs. That’s where the other one had gone. What would they find there? Her jewelry, her mother’s pearls, her father’s watch, Frank’s cuff links. None of it is worth a thing; she’d sold the good stuff years ago to pay for Frank’s care. She doesn’t have any money up there; it’s in the freezer, in the coffee can, an old trick that these kids probably wouldn’t think of. There are some drugs, her aspirin, her blood pressure medication, the Valium — but that’s so old it probably wouldn’t work anymore.
It was only a matter of time before they found out she had nothing worth taking.
Frank was in her head then, telling her to get up. She couldn’t die like this; she’d rather go to the Mary Wade Home and continue to lose her mind. It wasn’t gone yet, though, and she knew what she had to do.
She ignored the pain in her knees and crawled across the floor. The cabinet loomed overhead, and she pulled herself up by grabbing onto the arm of the chair next to the desk. She glanced back for a second, saw nothing, fished the key out of the desk drawer, and unlocked the cabinet.