Kiss of the Wolf (23 page)

“He was killed,” Bruno said. “In a calamity.”

“A calamity?” Joanie whispered. “What kind of calamity?”

“Heart,” Bruno said. “Though I think a big pipe before that. Big steel pipe.” He left. She heard him going downstairs. She heard Audrey pad into the den in anticipation, getting out of his way.

The back door opened and shut, but she still didn't hear his car. She listened a minute longer and then went to the top of the stairs. It was quiet. She tiptoed down and peered into the kitchen, tipping her body to see down the hall better. Everything was quiet. She crossed to the kitchen window and looked out through the curtains, but she couldn't see anything. His bottle of champagne was on the table, where he'd left it.

She walked to the back door, thinking a horrible joke was about to be played on her. She found it locked. She tested it anyway, and looked out again, both hands on the knob.

Bruno swung into view from the side of the window, and she shrieked and fell back into the coats.

He looked in on her, then held up his hand in a wave and headed off down the driveway.

She slumped to the floor, kicking the shoes and sandals they'd piled there in various directions.

Todd was peeking into the kitchen.

“You all right?” he asked.

She closed her eyes and nodded. She swallowed, as if finally she could. “He scared me,” she said.

“Is the door locked?” Todd asked.

She nodded again. She opened her eyes.

“You okay?”

She stood up. She swiped at her rear and thighs, as if she'd been sitting in dirt.

“May be we should call somebody,” he said in a frightened voice.

She went to the phone and started dialing. When she finished, she looked at the clock. It was twelve-thirty.

Her father answered.

“Dad,” she said. She didn't know what to say next.

“You all right?” he asked. She could hear him trying to get his voice back.

“I wake you up?” she said. She suddenly felt stupid.

“'S all right,” he said. “What's up?”

“Mom there?” she asked.

“Hold on,” her father said.

They seemed to be fighting over the phone. Joanie couldn't make out what they were saying. She heard a little of her mother's voice.

“Your mother doesn't want to talk to you,” her father said.

“Oh—We had a fight,” she said, trying to explain. She made a disappointed noise with her tongue.

“Call her back tomorrow. She'll be all right,” he said.

She held the receiver near her chin. Her heel was bobbing and she was looking at Todd.

“You sure you're all right?” her father said.

“Yeah. Go back to sleep,” she said. “Dad?” she said.

“Yeah?”

“Thanks,” she said. She hung up.

She stood looking at Todd in the light from the hallway.

“I'm scared,” Todd said.

“We'll be all right,” she said. “What's he gonna do?”

“I'm scared,” he said. “Let's go over their house. Let's go over there.”

She was going to tell him she'd have to call her father back again, but she saw his face, and her heart went out to him. “You wanna go over?” she said.

“Just for tonight,” he said.

“Okay,” she said. “Brush your teeth and grab a shirt for tomorrow.”

He stood staring at her. He was starting to cry again.

“I'm sorry,” he said. “I'm sorry I told.”

Before she could hug him, he turned and ran from the room.

They'd be all right, she thought. Years from now, she meant. They loved each other too much to not be all right.

She got her toothbrush from the bathroom downstairs and underwear and a T-shirt from her bedroom dresser. She decided against hunting up a little bag, figuring it wasn't that much to carry loose.

“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.

“C'mon,” she whispered. She turned off the light. She had no plan. She thought she'd take him downstairs, try to locate what was going on, and push him out another window or door and run.

She led him down the stairs. She could hear her hand, sweaty, squeaking and skidding on the banister. Audrey stayed in the bedroom, watching them go.

“Audrey, who's down here?” she whispered. The dog kept her chin on the rug.

They waited in the dark at the bottom of the stairs. Most of the blinds were closed, but she went cautiously around the living room, leading Todd, peeking out where she could see.

“My hammer's around here,” Todd whispered. “I can't find it.”

There was a sliding sound and a small clank from the kitchen. She felt a breeze at the back of her head and a familiar congested feeling of helplessness. “Stay here,” she said. She edged down the hall.

They'd left on the small light over the sink. She crept onto the linoleum. Everything was quiet. She headed for the back door. When she passed the spice cabinet, she sniffed vanilla extract. It always smelled to her like heart, like her love for Todd.

From where she was, it looked like the door was still locked. She slid along the cellar door, trying to get brave enough to get close enough to make sure.

She looked back at Todd. He'd gotten as far as the edge of the kitchen and was squatting all the way down to the floor, the way when he was sick he'd fold himself over on the toilet.

She looked into the sink. Drops of water were falling softly into the brimming bowl.

The cellar door crashed open, knocking her across the room and into the kitchen table. The table went over. She fell on her front on the linoleum. The champagne bottle bounced and rolled into the living room. Todd screamed.

Bruno was standing in the cellarway, holding up her underwear from the car.

“You forgot your things,” he said.

She turned on the floor and tried to tell Todd to run, but he was already running down the hallway. Bruno was over her in one long stride and after him. She got up and chased them. Bruno caught him on the stairs and dragged him down by the legs, Todd's torso and head bouncing as he came down each riser. Audrey was up and barking in an uproar. Joanie punched and tried to kick, and Bruno let go of one leg and forearmed her across the head so that she pinwheeled over a low chair in the living room and landed on the rug. Something shot through her back.