Hush (3 page)

Time to take a breather. He had to, his back was killing him.
He hauled himself out of the hole. He figured he'd better get started on little

Davy right now, bring him around, make him understand. You had to make them

believe in you. One way or another, you had to do that.
"Hey, move over."
The boy didn't budge, so he shoved him with his hip until he'd made a space for

both of them on the stump. Then he touched Davy's shoulder tenderly. The boy

drew back but Chet tried not to take these things personally.
"Come on, Davy, you can talk to me. Are you angry 'cause of your mom?" Chet

spoke softly and slowly. "You know I didn't want to have to do that but you made

me do it. Remember how I said that if you ever tell your mommy what we do she's

going to die, and then you went ahead and told her anyway and now she's dead."

Chet pointed to the body lying under a blue tarp a few feet from the hole. He

got up and walked over to it and drew back the cover. "Look at her, Davy. Come

on, take a good look. See, she's dead." He left her uncovered body baking in the

sun and returned to the boy's side. "I know it's sad but you killed your mom by

telling her those secrets. That's what happened, just as sure as you're sitting

here with me. You killed her, not me. Now, come on, shake it off. I could use

the help of a big strong boy like you."
But Davy wouldn't move. Chet knew it would be a struggle to make him work, and

he sure had his hands full at the moment. He stared at the unfinished hole and

felt sorry for himself. Then his eyes settled on her, and he clapped Davy on the

back because it occurred to him that every cloud really did have a silver

lining.
"Maybe it's just as well that you're not talking." He started back to the hole.

" 'Cause if you ever do talk about your mom, Davy, you'll end up dead too, and

that's a promise. And you know," he added cheerfully as he jumped into the hole,

"that I'm a man of my word."
The boy still wouldn't look at him, even after he'd given him five minutes of

his time, and that drained Chet's good humor in a matter of seconds and made him

want to smash that pickax right into her face, just like he'd been thinking

about doing before. Get even with the kid.
But he knew that restraint counted for something in this life so he didn't hit

her with the pickax. No, he didn't do that. Instead, he pitched a shovelful of

earth up into the air, high as he could. Then he watched those dirt clods rain

down and explode into little dust bombs all over her bloody face and chest.
Davy flinched. Chet smiled. He was feeling good all over again.
3
Celia and Jack stared at the black water in the tank. The level had risen but

still remained about three feet from the top.
"Good enough," he declared.
Celia shook her wet hair and held up her hand.
"Wait a second, Jack. Where are they?"
"What?"
"What do you mean, 'what?' The rats, the rats, what else?" She pointed to the

smooth surface. "They're gone. Did you get them out while I was showering?"
"No, you saw, I was inside reading the paper. Maybe they sank from the pressure

of all the water we put in."
But Celia didn't buy that. "I don't think so. We didn't even put that much in."
Jack wiped his brow. "It's going to be pretty tough to fish them out if we can't

even see them."
"Now I wish we really did have a crab net."
He shook his head. "It's pretty deep down there, Cel. You'd have to have a

really long handle."
"So what are we going to do, just leave them in there?"
Jack shrugged and pulled out the hose. "I don't know. We'll think of something.

Let's bag it for now, I've had enough."
*
Later that night, as Celia lay in bed, she thought of the rats and the fire

drill they never ran. But as soon as she brought it up Jack patted her on the

hip and spoke in a sleepy voice.
"Forget about it, hon. I promise you the house is not going to burn down."
"Wait a second. Lots of houses burn down. If they didn't burn down, you'd never

sell any fire insurance. This one could too, and you know it."
"The odds against it are tremendous, Cel, okay? So just relax."
Jack rolled over and bunched the pillow up under his head. Celia glanced at his

back, then stared at the window right above the bed. The night sky was coming to

life. She saw the sliver of moon, the stars too, and the vast empty spaces that

filled the world with darkness.
4
Davy woke to the static on the radio. His stepfather was playing with the silver

dial as he drove. The trailer also made a racket every time they bounced over

another tarry seam in the old cement.
"We're on the back roads, Davy boy." Chet had seen the kid grab the door handle

to steady himself. "Let me see if I can't find a station." His fingers worked

the dial until he pulled in a clear signal.
A man's deep voice boomed, "...to KLOG Country, Bentman, Oregon, where every day

is Earth Day. Timberrrrr."
Davy listened to a tree falling. It sounded so real he sat up and looked out the

window before realizing it was just the radio.
"Fooled you, didn't they?" Chet laughed.
They drove down into a wide valley. The boy could just make out houses scattered

here and there in the woods, old places that didn't look cared for. That's what

his real daddy used to say. "They don't care. If they did, they wouldn't live

like that."Davy wondered what he'd say about Chet's trailer.
He spotted the sign for Bentman on the shoulder of the road. Green with white

letters: "Pop 2,493 Founded 1896 Elevation 180 feet."
"Bentman, I like the sound of that." Chet's words competed with a tire

commercial. "And hey, it looks like they've got lots of trees around here." His

eyes roved over the walls of the Bentman River Valley, which resembled a

patchwork quilt of clear-cuts. "And it looks like they left some for me."
Davy tried not to listen. Chet made his head buzz with all kinds of noise, like

the static on the radio. Nothing made sense.
A pickup roared past them, and Davy glimpsed a bumper sticker. "I like Spotted

Owls...fried." He wondered what they tasted like. He'd never eaten owl. Maybe

like chicken. That's what people were always saying about weird kinds of food,

tastes...like...chicken. But everything couldn't taste like chicken. Except

maybe owls really did.
Chet slapped the steering wheel when he saw that bumper sticker. "Yeah, I think

I'm going to like it here. What do you say we find a place to set up the

trailer? Somewhere without a lot of people around?"
They drove through downtown Bentman, past a gas station, an insurance agency, a

bank, two clothing stores, a pharmacy, and a couple of gun shops. Davy knew Chet

would be stopping there sooner or later. And a True Value Hardware with chain

saws in the window. There too.
But Chet didn't do any shopping in Bentman today. He stayed on the road as it

curved south of town along a narrow rock-lined river. Davy hoped they'd never

find a campsite. He just wanted to ride on and on until he was home again.
He saw himself holding his mother's and father's hands and heard them singing,

"One-two-three!" as they swung him into the air. He could feel his legs pumping

as he flew higher and higher. But then his daddy died, and now his mom was gone

too. He'd already forgotten how that happened. Just that she was gone. His

memory was a like a blotter that could soak up all the blood and make it go

away.
But not the hunger for home. No, never that.
5
Celia was shuffling over to the automatic coffeemaker when something alive and

furry brushed against her bare leg. She gasped and jumped away so quickly that

her hip hit the kitchen counter and her heart thumped madly. But it was just

Pluto, her ancient one-eyed cat.
"Jesus, you scared me!" She put her hand on her chest to calm herself.
But she knew it wasn't Pluto that had scared her so, it was the rat dreams she'd

had all night long— rats in the tank, rats in the house, rats all over her bed,

rats all over her. What a night.
She picked up her cat and nuzzled his neck as she murmured to him. "You'll keep

those rats away, won't you?" She felt his motor start right up. "Who said black

cats are bad luck? We've been plenty lucky since you showed up."
"I'd say he's the lucky one, finding you." Jack trudged into the kitchen in his

bathrobe and made his way over to the coffeepot. "You want some?" He held up a

cup.
"Sure, thanks."
Pluto purred some more as Celia stroked the back of his head and let him out the

door. They'd found him the day they moved into their new home on the ridge. What

a sight he'd been: ears scarred and crusted with blood from fighting, a patch of

fur missing from one of his flanks, and an infected right eye that was sealed

shut and oozed pus.
"Christ, what is it?" Jack had sputtered when the black cat tottered toward

them. "I hope to God it's not some kind of omen."
Pluto heard Jack's voice and moved in his direction.
"Holy shit, get that thing away from me." Jack jumped up onto the newly stained

deck, visibly disturbed by the disfigured cat; but Celia's heart had gone out to

Pluto, and she'd taken him to a vet. The eyeball had to be removed— it was wormy

and smelled— but vitamins had taken care of his bald spot and castrating him had

turned Pluto into a peaceful, and at times even playful, cat. If the spirit

moved him he would chase a string or bat a ball around, and his hunting

instincts had kept the house mostly free of pests, an achievement Celia hadn't

fully appreciated until she'd seen all those rats.
She poured herself a bowl of cereal as Jack headed back to the bathroom, but

just as she opened the utensil drawer she heard Pluto hissing loudly and a dog

barking. A dog?
She hurried back to the door and spotted a Border collie looking up at her cat,

whose back was arched and whose tail had turned into a Christmas tree, as he

stood on the woodpile.
But Celia didn't think the black-and-white dog appeared very threatening. If he

really wanted to give chase he could have climbed up after Pluto, but instead

contented himself with an occasional bark accompanied by a wagging tail, as if

he hadn't the heart really to hassle a cat.
She opened the door and called him over to her. She also alerted her husband.
"Jack, take a look at this; we've got another visitor."
She crouched down and turned her attention back to the dog, patting her thigh

and urging the funny-looking animal to come to her. He did have a most peculiar

face. It was split right down the middle by his two-tone coloring, and he had a

noticeable overbite, as if he'd been inbred. But he looked so sweet. Surely he

wouldn't bite. Celia talked softly to him and patted her thigh. "Come on, come

on. What are you doing out here all by yourself?"
Jack walked back in the kitchen. "Begging for a bone, a home, and the easy life.

Christ, sometimes I wish I was a pet."
Celia ignored him because the dog was now approaching her slowly, perhaps a

little wary but with its tail still wagging.
"That's it, come on." When he stood inches away she commanded him to sit, and he

did. His tail continued to swish back and forth, dusting the deck.
"Good boy!" As she said this the animal reached up with his paw, and she

delighted in slapping it with her palm. "High five, okay!"
She looked over her shoulder at Jack. "What should we name him?"
He bent over and made a show of studying the dog's unusual face. "How

about...Bucky, in honor of those handsome choppers?"
Before she could respond, Jack shook his head, as if waking up. "What am I

saying? Forget it. No way. I'm dropping him off at the pound on my way to work,

which is just what the jerk who dropped him off up here should've done in the

first place."
Celia's hand froze on the dog's head, and she looked at her husband with alarm.
"No, you can't do that. They kill them. And besides, look how friendly he is."
Indeed, the dog was now cuddling right up to Celia and resting his chin on her

thigh.
"Come on, Cel, you've got to train them."
"Don't be silly, he's already trained."
"And clean up their shit—"
"We've got lots of space."
"And I'll bet he comes loaded with lots of land mines."
"I'll bet he has great personal habits."
"Listen to me, Cel, I don't want a dog. You've got a cat, and besides, I'm

allergic to them. Their fur makes me itchy as hell."
"Wait a second." Celia looked at him closely. "Since when are you allergic to

dogs? I've known you for almost ten years and I've never heard you say that."
"Trust me, dogs make me itchy. Hell, they make themselves itchy. Haven't you

ever noticed how most of the time they're either licking their balls or

scratching themselves?"
Jack panted and scratched himself like a dog, and Celia couldn't help but laugh.
"Come on, you're being silly again."
"All right, but now I'm being serious. I don't want a dog, really."
"We could use one, living alone up here, especially with you starting to travel

so much."
Jack sighed, which Celia took as a possible sign of surrender, and turned to

leave.
"Let's give it a try," she said in a raised voice as he exited the kitchen, but

Jack gave no indication that he'd heard her.
She glanced over at Pluto, still standing rigidly on top of the woodpile, and

realized that a dog could be tough on him. But maybe they'll learn to get along.
Pluto might have had his doubts. He appeared haunted, as if the intruder was

nothing but bad news. He never took his eye off the strange-looking canine, and