Chapter One

The school bus hitched and slowed as it approached the Faulkner and McGhee crossroads. Rust had gnawed a large hole in its right rear fender, and the front left headlight had a large crack in it. It rattled to a halt at the Route 7 stop sign, which had three bullet holes in it, clustered tightly together. The driver hit the lever, opening the door, and waited.

Owen woke from his half doze, then peeled his bare arms off the warm, sticky vinyl. Leaving an oval of perspiration on the back of his seat, he rose to his feet. The scent of hot metal and burning oil left a tang in the air.

"Have a nice summer," he told the driver. She nodded without looking at him, then shut the doors as soon as he reached the ground. Stepping back, Owen listened to the engine race as the ancient orange hulk shuddered and moved forward, taking his eighth year of school with it as it pulled away.

He smiled, a weary grin. Summer! Finally!

The lack of textbooks made his left arm feel light, as though at any moment it would rise into the air. He clutched his composition book in one damp hand, less than half its pages remained. The rest were long gone, used for homework, pop quizzes, and notes to Will, blood brother and best friend.

There had been times, though, when he had thought about using a page to write a note to one of the girls in class. Perhaps to Kimmy, who always wore short-shorts to school. Or maybe Jasmine, with her long dark hair confined in a red bandana, whose parents used to be hippies, Will had heard. Or maybe even . . .

Owen shook his head. As David had once told him, some girls were best admired from a distance. Might as well be lusting after Barb Evans, assuming anyone was crazy enough to risk pissing her brother Eugene off. Most everyone had heard the story of how Mr. West had made her stay after class, from which she had emerged red-faced and red-eyed. Two days later, Herbert West came out of his house to find all four tires of his '67 Mustang slashed. Of course, no one could prove Eugene had done it, but still . . .

Thinks she's too good for any of us, Jerry Wayne Faulkner had said one day at the bus stop as they had all watched Barb, skirt riding halfway up her thighs, slip into her brother's rattletrap Ford.

Then Will had snorted and said it didn't matter, since Jerry Wayne couldn't get laid at a whorehouse with a hundred dollar bill sticking out of his crotch. That exchange had led to a fight, with the both of them being suspended for three days.

Which made Owen wonder, where was Will? If he had skipped school on a Friday, Owen could have understood. But the last day? That made no sense. He should have been there, to gloat if nothing else.

Owen walked alongside the highway, balancing on the narrow shoulder to avoid the ditch with its thick carpet of sand spurs, broken beer bottles and other, less identifiable trash. Scraggly pines and cedars lined the highway, their shadowy under-spaces choked with wisteria and kudzu. Tent caterpillar webbing swathed large branches in thick white cocoons. Finally Owen reached his destination, marked by a faded sign: Gavotte's Trailer Park.

Owen kicked at loose stones as he turned right off the two-lane blacktop. The low-pitched roar of a motor caught his attention. He crossed the entranceway, though it was really more of a path, with a hump of grass weeds running along its length like a furry green spine. He leaned against the white wooden fence separating the trailer park from the Newcomb's Creek Church of the Redeemer and watched as an elderly black man in bib overalls and a straw hat pushed a lawn mower through the thick growth, above which Owen could just make out several small headstones. The man's upper back rolled like a hill beneath his red plaid shirt. He noticed Owen and waved. Owen waved back.

The caretaker swerved to miss a new grave. Young grass had sprung from the yellowish-brown clay. A handful of faded plastic flowers rested in a vase atop the small granite marker.

Owen rocked against the fence as he remembered the funeral. So many people; fifty, maybe sixty people in attendance, just about the entire congregation, dressed in their Sunday best, their dark faces shining with perspiration. So much sobbing. So many tears.

Later that night he had snuck out of bed, dressing quietly so as not to wake David, then crept out to the cemetery. The moon, three-quarters full, had shed just enough light to find the plot. He had stood there in his bare feet, staring at the disturbed earth. Then, without understanding why, he laid across the mound, face to the sky, arms wide, and shut his eyes, making his mind a blank, his breath so shallow his chest barely rose and fell.

He must have fallen asleep, because when he reopened his eyes the moon had crossed a good part of the sky. He'd tried to sneak back into the trailer, but Momma had caught him and whipped his legs with a narrow switch until the welts seeped blood.

Owen sighed, then pushed away from the fence and headed for home.

Narrow mobile homes bordered the road. The rusting carcass of a bronze Chevrolet Impala hunched in the weeds behind Bill Spain's doublewide. Mr. Spain's dog, an enormous husky called Satan, barked at Owen as it ran in circles, tightening its chain around a scabby birch tree. The links whipped a cloud of dust up from the bare ground into the hot, humid air.

Old Miss White, head cocked like a bird's, stared at him from behind her mailbox, her hands full of catalogues and brightly colored envelopes. Before he could get within speaking distance, she turned and hobbled away, frequently glancing back over her shoulder until she reached her door and disappeared inside.

When he reached home he noticed David's bike missing from its regular spot near the old tire swing his older brother had hung for Jesse and their younger siblings.

High school must have let out early, Owen thought. David had probably gone downtown to the library, or maybe over to Carter's Convenience Store for cigarettes. Or he might have gone over to Eugene Evan's place to help his friend work on his Ford Galaxy, or maybe to Clyde Waller's house to borrow another science fiction book.

Owen smiled. His brother had long been obsessed over anything to do with aliens and outer space. He had dragged Owen off the previous summer to see Star Wars at the Embassy Theater downtown, then again around Christmastime to watch Close Encounters of the Third Kind. The two of them still argued over which was the better film, with Owen standing firm for Star Wars, soon to be making an encore appearance. He looked forward to watching the Death Star get blown up again while the two of them watched from the balcony seats, the original purpose of which had been to provide black theatergoers with their own separate seating back in the early sixties, or so David claimed.

Which made no sense to Owen, although the black students at school—for the most part—did seem to prefer sitting with one another in the cafeteria during lunchtime. He had pointed this out to his brother, who had snarled and said it wasn't the same thing.

Owen climbed the shaky metal stairs of the single-wide and listened before going in. Cartoon music mixed with occasional bursts of static, no other noises. He stepped inside.

Toby twisted away from the TV as Owen walked in. "Where you been?" his brother asked from his regular spot two and a half feet from the screen (David had measured the distance once with a yardstick).

Owen flung his composition book down on the worn sofa. "School."

"Yeah?" Toby snorted. "We've been out since Wednesday."

"Snow days," Owen said and flopped down on the couch. "Have you seen David?" Toby shook his head. "Where's Momma?"

"In the kitchen. She just got up, said she worked a double shift last night."

Owen nodded. He'd seen her come in that morning from the Sneadsville Cotton Mill, her hair dusted with white strands as fine as cobwebs.

"Said she's supposed to go fishing over at Snead's Pond later tonight with Mr. Gavotte," Toby said. "Hey, can you get this picture to do right?"

Owen frowned. Their mother had a tendency to go 'fishing' with Mr. Gavotte—minus Mrs. Gavotte—whenever the rent was late. He rolled off the couch to fiddle with the rabbit ears. "Where's everybody else?"

"Jesse's asleep in back. I think Jonni's in her crib. Hey!" The picture disintegrated into a screen full of snow. "Now look what you did!"

"Calm down, the connection just came loose, that's all. See? It's okay now"

Toby leaned back. "Still ain't coming in worth a damn."

"Better not let David hear you swearing."

"He cusses too!"

"Not around you and the others. And eavesdropping doesn't count," Owen added, anticipating the objection. "Besides, are you going to tell him that?"

"No! You wouldn't, would you?"

"Not me. But if Jesse were to hear you, he might." Owen put the rabbit ears back down. "I need some aluminum foil, it'll work right then. Be back in a minute."

Owen walked into the narrow kitchen. "Momma, we got any Reynolds Wrap?"

Charlotte Collins looked up from her chair. Her lips, covered with a thick layer of red-orange lipstick, pursed into a frown. She looked exhausted still, hunched at the table over a cup of coffee and a cigarette "If we got any, it'll be underneath the sink," she said after taking a deep swallow from her mug, a Christmas gift from all of them (Owen had taken up a collection), "World's Greatest Mom". "Hey, figure you've got time in your busy schedule to come give your old momma a kiss?"

He leaned down and pecked her on the cheek. She tasted of coppery perfume and face powder. "Where's David?" he asked.

"How the hell should I know?" she said, her voice as tired as she looked. "That boy don't never tell me nothing anymore."

Owen tensed. Occasionally his mother would, for no reason he could understand, tear up, weeping in silence. He hated those times worse than her blowups. "It's not here," he said, hoping to distract her.

"Try over the stove."

There it was, behind a can of vegetable shortening. At least he thought it was shortening. The label was missing. "Found it."

"Well, sit down for a minute," she said. "You don't talk to hardly nobody anymore either, getting to be as bad as your brother. All you do is stay in your room and read when you're not watching tv. How's school?"

"It's over for the year." He watched her drink the last of her coffee. Then she went to the refrigerator and removed a beer from it's plastic ring. A thought occurred to him as she drank deep. "Has Will been by looking for me?"

"That worthless Lowery? No, I ain't seen him. What, is he skipping school again?"

"I don't think so. Might be sick, though."

"Well, don't you take after him. You're smart, just like your Daddy." She emptied her beer. "After all, he had the good sense to leave this town. Middle of the night, true, but still . . ."

Owen began working the last bit of aluminum foil off the cardboard tube, then jumped as the back door opened with a loud crash and David walked in.

"Sorry," his sixteen year old brother said with a grin. "Keeps sticking."

Owen's mother glanced at her eldest son, then turned away. "Where you been?"

"Trying to catch a peek up Miss White's dress," he said. "Think she's on to me though, she's started backing up her steps now." David winked at Owen, his dark hair falling over his face like a shadow, obscuring eyes the color of the sky just before dawn.

"Would be the first time anything got under that skirt," their mother said with a lopsided grin.

"Hey!" David reached for the Marlboros on the table. "Can I borrow one?" He shook out a cigarette. "I'll give it back when I'm finished, I promise. And where's your lighter? Left mine in my room."

"You want me to smoke it for you too? My Bic's on the counter, it's out of fluid though. I had some matches in my purse, but they've grown feet and walked. And that's my last pack, I'll have you know."

"I'm going down to the store later. I'll pick up a carton," David said as he turned the stove on.

"What are you going to pay for them with? Your good looks?"

David bent down, the cigarette centered in his lips, and touched the tip to the coil. A thin stream of smoke floated through his bangs. "I just want one pack, not the whole business," he said between puffs.

Their mother snorted. "Listen to him."

"Want to walk over with me?" David asked Owen as he straightened. His head did not miss the ceiling by much. "Carter asked me yesterday if I thought you might be interested in working a few hours on delivery day putting up stock, now that it's summer." David inhaled deeply, then puffed out a smoke ring that floated over Owen's head.

"A job?" Owen thought about the money he could make. Maybe enough to buy some clothes before school started again. New clothes no one else had ever worn. "How much is he paying?"

David leaned against the counter. It creaked under his weight. "Minimum wage. Free use of the company jet though."

"Har har."

Their mother shook her head. "I don't know if I like this."

"What's not to like?" David asked.

"There's too many winos hanging out down at Carter's store."

"Not like around here," David muttered.

"What did you say, boy?"

Oh God, Owen begged silently, please don't start.

David opened his mouth, then shut it. "Nothing."

"Anyway, I'm going to need Owen to help me out around the house watching the young'uns," she said to David defensively. "Not like I can depend on you to lift a finger around here to help, what with you running around from one side of the county to the other. At least it keeps you out of the refrigerator. Too damn many mouths around here to feed as it is."

"Then why don't you ask Gavotte for another driving lesson?" David said. "There's still five of us left. You might get lucky."

Owen watched his mother as she seemed to deflate. "That was an accident!" she said in a low voice, her shoulder's hunched defensively. "Roy was just pretending to let him drive, and when that car swerved into their lane Billy wouldn't let go of the wheel."

"Well, maybe Roy should have let go of that bottle of Ancient Age," David replied.

"At least he's helping me out with the bills, which is more than any of your fathers have ever done!"

Owen gritted his teeth as the argument escalated. The weight of their anger made his head ache.

He grabbed the box of Reynolds Wrap and fled to the hallway. Toby stared at him from the other end. "Where's the aluminum foil?"

Owen bit his lip, and tasted blood. Images flashed by like a slideshow; his brother pinned under his knees, Owen's clenched fist rising and falling while Toby cried, snot running over his mouth and chin as he begged Owen to stop . . .

It would feel so good. Just to let go, to lash out. With no regrets . . .

Then the guilt washed over him, and instead he flung the carton at his brother, who caught it, the ripped the remaining tinfoil from its cardboard tube and then he disappeared back into the living room.

Owen stalked into his bedroom and slammed the door, then flopped down on the narrow mattress. He could still hear his mother and brother fighting. He clenched his fists, eyes squeezed shut, nails biting deep into his palms.

I wish I didn't care about anything, he thought. Or anyone.

He considered going outside again, but the memory of the sticky heat kept him where he was.

Get your mind on something else, he told himself. A worn copy of John Carter, Warlord of Mars (a birthday present from David, the only one who had remembered) lay on the floor next to his bed. How many times had he read it? Four? Five?

Might as well make it six, he decided as he picked it up. Radiant heat from the thin walls raised beads of sweat on his skin. The argument grew louder.

“Hey!”

Owen turned. A face pressed against the window. The glass distorted its features as a tongue lolled out. Owen smiled and raised the sash.

“Where've you been, Will?” he asked as he pulled his friend inside. “And why didn’t you come in the front door?”

“I didn’t think anybody would hear me knocking over all that racket," his best friend said as he slid on his stomach from the window to the floor.

Owen frowned. “You can hear them from outside?”

“You shitting me? You can hear Davey from the highway. Who started it this time?”

“Does it make any difference?” Owen flopped back on his bed. “Where were you today?”

“That’s what I came to talk to you about.”

Will’s broad grin intrigued him. “Yeah? What’s going on?”

Before his friend could answer, the door crashed into the wall. David stalked in, face twisted into a snarl as he muttered, “I’ve had it, I’ve goddamned HAD it.” He dropped down hard next to the card table he used as a desk; it almost tipped over. Loose papers fluttered to the floor.

“Big Dave!” Will said nervously. “How’s it going?”

“Not worth a shit.” David pulled a crumpled pack of Marlboros from the mess, then searched until he found his lighter, a black and silver Zippo. He flicked it, drawing sparks, but no flame. Cursing quietly, he set it back down and sifted through the mess until he found a book of matches. Only one left. Owen watched as his brother carefully removed a bent cigarette, straightened it, tapped it to pack the tobacco, then lit it and sucked hard. He turned to look at Will, blue-grey smoke pouring from his mouth. “Where the hell did you come from?”

“My Dad keeps asking the same thing,” Will replied with a shaky grin.

“You should live in this house. Who’s Your Daddy is a fucking game show around here.” David picked an empty soda can out of the wastebasket to use as an ashtray.

“I just came by to see Owen,” Will said.

David grunted, then turned to his brother. “I’m going over to Clyde’s.” He grabbed a pair of sunglasses and what was left of the Marlboros, then headed for the door. “See you later. Maybe.”

“Man, is he pissed!” Will whistled. “Think he'll come back?”

“Of course he’s coming back!” Owen started to throw his book at Will, then changed his mind. Scotch tape barely held the spine together. A sudden jar would scatter the pages everywhere.

“Shit man, don’t get your panties in a knot! I didn’t mean he wasn’t ever coming back. I meant he might sleep over at Clyde’s.”

“Oh.”

“So what’s your problem?”

Owen slid across the mattress to the wall. “I don’t have a problem.”

Will frowned and said nothing. Then a smile surfaced. “Hey man, bet you can’t guess what I found.”

“Your Dad’s Hustler magazines?”

“No! Well, not yet anyway. Something else.”

“What?”

Will's grin broadened. “A cave!”

“Huh?” Owen rolled his eyes. “You’re crazy. There aren’t any caves around here. This whole county sits on a bedrock of granite covered with clay. The only holes around here are the ones in your head. What did you really find, Huck Finn? An old well?”

“It ain’t a well! I’m telling you, it’s a cave. A real one! Just north of Junius Beaumont’s farm, right on the border between it and Milly Faulkner’s place.”

“Are you nuts? Or just looking to catch some buckshot in the rear? Ms. Faulkner’s crazy, everybody knows that.”

“Hell, she don’t bother me, I run like a rabbit with a sand spur up its ass. What do you say? Want to come take a look? Or are you too scared?”

“Of course I’m scared, you idiot. David told me about how she shot at a lineman a couple of months ago, and all he wanted to do was repair a transformer.” Owen looked down at the cover of his book. John Carter held the almost nude body of his wife (the incomparable Dejah Thoris) with one brawny arm as he fired a radium pistol at a floating Martian ship, his face set with determination “You weren't afraid to out there by yourself?” Owen asked.

“Me? Hell no!" Will's voice grew suspicious. “Why?”

“You know. All those people who keep disappearing.”

Will snorted. “What people? Who?”

“Candy Able for one.”

“Teddy Smith told me her boyfriend killed her and dumped the body in Snead's Pond; they just can’t prove it yet. And he ought to know; his father’s a deputy sheriff. That Buddy Hedgepeth is one crazy son of a bitch.”

“What about the others?”

“What others?”

“Dennis Peterson’s girlfriend, uh”

“Karen Cox." Will grinned. "Sam Muskovy told me he got a look up her skirt once. Hairy as a gorilla, he said. I heard Mom tell Dad she thinks they’ve run off to get married. I heard they had to get married; you know what I mean?”

Owen shook his head. “You’re a moron. I’m telling you, there aren’t any caves around here.”

“Tell you what, come with me and take a look for yourself. And if it ain’t a cave, then you can tell me what it is. Okay?”

Owen hesitated. He had not said anything to David, or anyone else, but the previous night he had heard footsteps outside the trailer walls. Heavy footsteps. Might have been one of the many drunks living in the trailer park, looking for someplace to take a leak. But still . . . “I don’t know.”

“C’mon, man! I’ll be there the whole time!”

“Aren't you supposed to be encouraging me?” He looked at the novel’s cover once more.

“We’ve got to swing by my house first though. That cave’s pretty dark and we’re gonna need a flashlight.”

Owen stared at John Carter, poised for action, then nodded as he flung the book down. “Okay, you win. Let’s go.”

Chapter Two

Gravel spit out from beneath Will’s heels as he dashed, legs pumping, across the highway. He leaped the ditch, hurdled the rail fence, then ran over the open fields. The distant speck of a hawk (or maybe it was a vulture) circled overhead.

A flat slab of granite, half-buried and dotted with weeds, stood watch over the meadow. Will stopped and grabbed a chunk of rock, then flung it at the boulder’s face. The missile flew wide by several feet.

Will cursed and found another rock. He aimed carefully, arm cocked back, hand next to his ear like a baseball pitcher’s. He flung it with all his strength, missing again.

He searched, but couldn't find another decent-sized rock. So he settled for a huge dirt clod, spitting on it for luck. It sailed over the boulder, missing it by the widest margin yet.

“Maybe—you should—stick to—track,” Owen said, squeezing his words out between gasps for air. His face burned bright red.

“I hate track; it’s boring. Hey, you all right?”

Owen’s narrow chest heaved. “What—makes you think—there’s something—wrong?” the smaller boy said, spittle flying from his lips as he snatched deep gulps of air.

Will shrugged. Owen could be really sarcastic when he felt like it. Which was most of the time. “I’m pretty sure Dad’s got a flashlight in the shed. He won’t care if I borrow it; I use his tools all the time, I just have to put them back when I’m through. We work on stuff out there together all the time.”

Owen collapsed. “Must—be nice.”

“Yep, sure is. We’re going to go camping down at Catfish Lake this weekend, see if we can catch a few of those bigmouth bass. Um, I’d ask you to come, but he just wants it to be the two of us. You know?”

Owen nodded without looking up. “Sure.”

“Maybe next time, huh?” Will turned away. “Hey, what happened at school?”

“Nothing much.” Owen fell back into the grass. “Where were you?”

“Helping Dad fix the tractor. He wanted me to go, but I told him it was the last day and we wouldn’t be doing anything special. Did Miss Garner make it back?”

“She sure did,” Owen said and let loose a long whistle.

Owen and Will both agreed that Miss Garner could have been Miss America. Or Playmate of the Month. “Huh? What happened? What?”

His friend shook his head. “You should have been there.”

Will covered his eyes and howled. “I knew it, I knew it!” He paced back and forth. “What was she wearing?”

“A short black skirt, with a white top you could almost see through. And high heeled shoes.”

Will groaned. “I should have been there.”

“She kept sitting on top of her desk with her legs crossed. Even leaned over her desk a couple of times; heck, you could almost see right down the front of her blouse. Clay Maynard told everybody at lunch he caught a look once when she bent over to get a pen out of her purse and said she wasn't wearing a bra.”

“Oh God, oh GOD!” Will said as he dropped and rolled in the grass. “I’m dying, do you hear me? I’m dying!”

“She asked about you,” Owen said.

“Did she?” Will scrambled to his feet. “No shit? What’d she say?”

“Well, she asked me where you were at the start of class. I told her I didn’t know, that maybe you’d just be late.”

“Did she look disappointed? What else did she say?”

Owen scratched his head. “She didn’t look disappointed, but now that I think about it, she acted a little funny. Like she was trying to be cool, you know? Then, after last period, she said she wanted to talk to me. She waited till everybody left, then gave me an envelope and told me to give it to you. I got it right here.” He patted his pockets. “Uh oh.”

“Uh oh what?”

Owen gave Will a thin smile. “I think I lost it.”

“You lost it! Where!”

“In your dreams!” Owen crowed.

“You sonuvabitch!” Will yelled. He grabbed Owen, and the two wrestled in the grass. He got the best of his friend and began tickling him. “Uncle! Say it! Uncle!”

“Umckle!” Owen cried through his laughter.

Will released his friend and brushed himself off. “I’m never going to believe a word you say, ever again.”

Owen wiped at the grass stains on his jeans. “Sure you will.”

“Watch me. Hey c’mon, we’ve got to hurry.”

They walked quickly over the fields until Will could see his house past the trees. “Hey Owen, you mind waiting here?”

“Why?”

“Cause you run like a girl on her period,” Will said as he punched his friend in the arm. “It’s getting late, and we’ll have to go back the way we came to get to that cave. I can make it to the house and back quicker by myself.”

Owen shrugged. “Go ahead roadrunner. The coyote will be here waiting on you.”

Will turned and ran. His oversized shirt whipped like a flag about his chest. After crossing the dirt driveway he slowed and walked the remaining distance to the tool shed.

He looked inside before going in, his face pressed close to the window. Dust motes floated in thin beams of sunlight. No one there.

The door resisted at first, but gave way after several butts with his shoulder. He crossed to the water-stained pegboard hanging over the tool bench and searched. Dusty jars of loose screws and numerous odds and ends cluttered the workspace. Finally he discovered a small plastic flashlight in a cardboard box. He thumbed the button and was rewarded with a pale smear of light.

“Hey boy!”

Will spun, banging his arm on the table as he shoved the flashlight into his pocket. Tools rattled against each other. He gritted his teeth at the bump he'd taken to his funny bone. His father stood in the doorway, staring at him.

“What you up to?” Benjamin Franklin Lowery said as he crossed the packed dirt floor.

“Uh, I was looking for my pocket knife,” Will said as he moved quickly away from the bench.

His father looked down at him. “Uh huh. You’d better not have lost it. Goddamned thing cost me two dollars, and if you lose it you ain’t getting another one,” he said as he grabbed a hammer and a jar of nails.

“No, I found it,” Will said, pulling the knife from his pocket. He shuffled his feet. “Owen told me the teacher was asking about me today.”

“Yeah, well, I needed you here,” his father said. “Besides, one day ain’t gonna hurt nothing.”

“Three. This month,” Will said. He stepped back as his father turned.

“Let me ask you something, college boy, is that teacher of yours going to pay the mortgage when it comes due the first of the month? Huh? I’ve got over twenty acres of tobacco out there that needs to be taken care of. If the folks at that school are so worried about your education, they can march their asses over here and do an honest day's work for once in their goddamned lives. Otherwise, I don’t want to hear another word about it. That clear?” He stared hard at Will.

Will stared at his father’s hand, at the broad fingers clenched around the hammer. “Yes sir.”

The man grunted. “Damn right.” He shoved the tool into his back pocket and left.

Will stood in the doorway and watched him go back into the house. Then he started running and did not stop. Owen ran to catch up after Will had passed him by.

“Hey, slow down huh?” his friend wheezed. Will paused and looked ahead.

“You okay?” Owen asked.

“Yeah, sure! I was just talking to my dad, told him we were going over to Carter’s store and get a soda. He said fine, just be back before dinnertime. You ready?”

“Yes.”

“All right then man, let’s go!”

The heat of the sun burned the back of Will's neck as the two of them walked along, Will going slow so Owen wouldn't have any trouble keeping up. Finally they reached the tree line. The cool of the shade and golden yellow scent of honeysuckle lightened Will's spirits. He began to whistle.

“How’d you find this so-called cave?” Owen muttered.

“I went over to Newcomb’s Creek last week, to look for some tadpoles for our biology project?" He said nothing about Owen finishing the project by himself and splitting the A with him. "That’s when I found it.”

They continued in silence until Will spotted the familiar oak tree, leaning halfway out of the ground. “There it is,” he whispered.

A wall of earth bordered a wide depression filled with vegetation and small scrubby trees. A large hole, the size of a giant's fist, gaped in the embankment.

“Now do you believe me?” Will said, still whispering.

Owen looked around, his body tense. “This is no cave. Somebody dug this out. Look down the slope, see all that dirt?”

Will glanced at the enormous mound of rust red earth. “Yeah, I see it. I saw it the first time too, numbnuts. That didn’t come from the cave. Why the hell would anyone dig a hole this size and carry the dirt all that way, instead of making a pile right here?”

Owen shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“You want to go inside?”

“I'm thinking about it.”

“C’mon chicken shit, I’ll go first. Okay?”

Owen shrugged and said nothing, but he stayed with Will as they made their way down the slope. Both used nearby bushes and tall stalks of weeds to maintain their balance. The opening yawned like the mouth of some fairytale giant. Exposed roots hung from the top of its arch.

Will stepped in. The ceiling stretched over his head, just out of reach. Sand gritted beneath his feet. He pulled the flashlight out of his pocket and switched it on.

The opening ran straight, forming a round tunnel that stretched and curved into the distance. He reached out and touched the side. The wall had the look of the red clay found everywhere in their part of the county, but felt as smooth and hard as thick glass. He turned and looked back. Owen stood just inside, his eyes scanning in every direction.

“C’mon,” Will said. “Let’s see what’s ahead.”

“What’s ahead? I thought you’d already been in here!”

“Nah, I waited till you could come with me.”

“Thanks a lot.”

“You’re welcome.” Will grinned. “Stick close.”

“Count on it.”

They followed the cave’s twists and turns. The light from outside dimmed as they continued. Eventually it vanished, leaving them with only the flashlight to see by.

“Wait!”

Will stopped. “What is it?”

“You hear something?”

He listened. “No.”

“Stop breathing so loud, idiot!”

Will breathed through his nose and strained his ears. “I—”

Owen grabbed his shoulder. “Look, there!” he whispered, his hand on the back of Will’s neck to adjust his line of sight.

The weight of the darkness pressed down on Will. He remembered the not-infrequent times when he would talk Owen into doing something exciting, and how sometimes it would go wrong. To his credit, his friend never blamed him, no matter how bad things went. He hoped this would not be one of those times.

 As he strained to see, he spotted two spots of light, glowing red in the distance.

Then they blinked.

He yelled. Owen howled. Something unseen screeched.

Will turned and pushed his friend, who staggered and almost fell. Behind them something screeched again.

“QUIT PUSHING ME!”

“THEN HURRY YOUR ASS UP, GODDAMMIT!”

After an eternity, the two burst out and back into the sunlight. They continued to run until they were almost out of sight of the cave, then Will stopped and turned around.

“What the heck was that?” Owen yelled.

Will looked back. “I don’t know.” He took several deep breaths. “I think it was a possum.”

“A possum?” Owen shivered. “You sure?”

“Or a rabbit. Dad told me that they sound just like people when they’re scared.” Will nodded with growing excitement. “See, I was right after all! It is a cave!”

“I don’t know what it is,” Owen said. He sounded curious, though still hesitant.

“Then let’s go back inside.”

“Now?”

Will looked at the flashlight’s weak beam. “Yeah, you’re probably right. This thing’s almost dead.” He thumped it against his palm. “We can get some stuff, new batteries, maybe even some food. Then we’ll come back tomorrow, maybe even spend the day. How’s that sound?”

Owen continued to stare at the entrance. “Are you sure that was a possum?”

“Might have been a raccoon. Didn’t you see how small the eyes were? Might’ve been a cat, though.”

Owen’s breathing slowed. “We could come back, I guess.”

“All right! I’ll bring some stuff from home, and meet you at your house tomorrow. Okay?”

Owen nodded. “Sure.”

“WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU BOYS DOING UP THERE?”

Will spun. Across the way stood a huge woman in coveralls and a bill cap. She gestured at them, her face red with anger.

“Christ, it’s old lady Faulkner!” Will yelled. “Run for it!”

He grabbed Owen by the arm and took off along the tree line. Soon his friend began wheezing. “Stay with me man!” Will sputtered between gasps. They broke through the trees and fled past the meadow. Neither stopped until they reached the highway.

Owen stumbled and fell. Will squatted beside him while searching for any signs of the angry old farmer. She was nowhere in sight.

“Don't worry," he told Owen. "Bet she thinks she scared us off, she won't be expecting us to come back. We'll sneak in here tomorrow, keep an eye out for her. Okay?"

Owen could not speak, but he nodded his head as he fought to regain his breath.

Will grinned. “This is going to be so cool."

Chapter Three

Milly Faulkner glared at the two boys as they hightailed it off her property. She hrumphed once, then turned and crossed the bare fields back to her truck.

“Doggoned trespassers,” she muttered. Her boots raised small dust clouds as she walked through the dirt to her pick-up. “I’m going to have to have a few words with Lucius, I can see. Shoulda grabbed the twelve-gauge before I got out of the cab.”

The Ford’s engine coughed several times, then finally started. Tires spit gravel as she headed for home.

Home. Where someone special waited for her to return.

She smiled at the sight of her house, nestled in amongst the pines. A silvery birch tree stood sentinel in the front yard. The two-story wood frame rested in its patch of earth like an old dog. It had been her father’s, and his father’s before him. Paint peeled from the outer walls, and the roof could some new shingles though.

“Yep, going to have to have a long talk with him,” she said with a frown. “That boy’s as useless as tits on a bull!”

She looked for her nephew, but he was nowhere in sight. “Just like him to be off somewhere when there’s a need for him.”

She wondered where Lucius might be. Carter had bent her ear for almost fifteen minutes, going on about some kind of attempted robbery or some such over at the Beaumont place. The old man was in the hospital ("Messed up his leg bad, but he’ll recover.") Three local ruffians dead, the old gimp had said with a cluck of his tongue; one’s head had nearly been wrung off his shoulders.

And where had Lucius been last night? She reminded herself to ask him when she took down his supper.

Milly avoided the deeps ruts in her dirt driveway and parked next to the front porch. Balancing the groceries in one arm, she dug out her house keys. The sight of the windows, barred with decorative iron, comforted her. Wasn’t no one going to get in this house without her permission.

“Hello!” she called out as she stepped inside.

No one answered. She turned back to the door and began the tedious process of locking it again.

“Hello?” she called out again when, once the house was secure.

Silence.

“Drat that girl. Where is she?”

She listened carefully. Music wafted from down the hallway. Milly strode in its direction.

She found the young woman in the sitting room, sprawled on the couch as she stared with wide eyes at the television. One of Milly’s old housecoats swathed the girl’s slender frame, the now damp cloth clinging to her body. Her long auburn hair lay plastered against her neck and shoulders, running down the length of her back. Water dripped from the tips of the reddish strands down onto the floor.

Milly shook her head. “Child, you’re going to catch your death of cold sitting there all soaking wet!” She took the groceries into the kitchen and brought back a clean towel. The girl looked up at her and smiled.

Milly tsked as she rubbed briskly at the child's wet mane. Well, child might be stretching it a bit. “I see you remembered how to use the shower.” She sniffed the girl’s scalp. “Maybe next time I can convince you to use some shampoo too.”

The young woman looked up at Milly and began rattling off in that nonsense tongue of hers.

“Girl,” Milly said firmly. “I done told you that I can’t understand word one of that foreign talk of yours. Can’t you speak any English?”

The girl reached out and took one of Milly’s large red hands into both of her own. Milly resisted the urge to pull away.

“Yasir jo vendal fi camina?”

“Child, I done told you I can’t understand a thing you say.” She firmly removed her hand from the girl’s delicate clasp. “And if you’ll pardon me for saying so, you’re still a bit too handsy for my tastes.”

The girl stared back, her head cocked like a bird’s.

Milly took the dripping towel and set off down the hallway towards the laundry room. Halfway there she noticed that the basement door hung open a crack.

“Young lady!” Milly called out. “Get yourself in here!”

Milly stood, fists on her hips, as the girl appeared. “Have you been foolin’ around down there?” she asked with a frown.

The girl looked puzzled.

“Now don’t pretend you can’t understand me! All of you foreigners are the same way, pretend you can’t Speaka the English while laughing behind our backs. So you listen to me. That there is Lucius’s room. He ain’t got no business up here, and you ain’t got none down there!” She pointed at the gray door. “Understand?”

The young woman shrugged. Her borrowed robe fell open, baring one small breast.

Milly turned her face. “For goodness’ sake child, cover yourself up! You got no more sense of decency than a two year old.”

The girl didn’t move.

“Didn’t you hear me? I said COVER YOURSELF!” Milly shouted. She marched to the young woman and closed the robe, then took the girl by the shoulders. “Folks might walk around on them European beaches with all their parts hanging out, but we do things proper in this country. You hear?”

The girl lifted her hands, speaking in that liquid voice that sounded like birdsong.

“That’s better,” Milly said sweetly. “You go back in there and watch the TV. I’ll have dinner ready soon.” She pushed the girl towards the sitting room, then shut the gray door and locked it with the large iron key she kept by the sill. She found an apron in the kitchen, put it on, then began unloading the groceries.

“Poor lost lamb. Separated from your family and all, must be scared half to death. Well, you ain’t got to worry none, child. I’m going to take real good care of you.” Milly removed a large frying pan from the cabinet beneath the stove. “I swear it on my sister’s grave.”

Chapter Four

Michelle leaned against the back porch railing, a smoldering Marlboro between the middle and index fingers of her right hand. The dark pink of her lipstick stained the butt. She watched the curl of blue smoke as it twisted in the air.

A thin sheen of perspiration shone like oil on her face and bare arms. She hated the sticky heat of the afternoon, but Robert refused to allow her to smoke in the house. Odd for a man whose family’s wealth had come from tobacco farming.

She checked her watch, 5:30pm. Another fifteen minutes and he would be home, asking what had she made for supper? Well, tonight it was going to be pizza from Pizza Hut. If he thought she was going to cook in this heat, he was as crazy as that wild-haired secretary of his. She shook her head. That was one homely bitch.

He needs to call Bass Air Conditioning, she thought. Must be something wrong with the main unit. Or else all that fucking glass in the floor to ceiling windows.

He would complain about the expense of going out to eat, of course. But it was never about the money, not really. He just hated to go out after getting home from his car dealership. He preferred to strip down to his t-shirt and boxer shorts, then flop into his recliner and watch television all night. She used to be happy just sitting with him, but that had gotten old over the past year. Now she spent more and more of her free time with her friends, giving Robert something else to whine about.

He did a lot of that nowadays. It bothered her to think of it that way, but there truly was no other word for it. Part of her had once hoped he would stand up to her, the way he once had, play his part in their relationship. Nowadays such efforts were rare and faint and simply annoyed her, which fed a guilt monster that never remained completely silent. Yet she could not stop pushing, though she knew she shouldn’t. It was like scratching an itch. It hurt and felt good at the same time.

Which reminded her, she needed to rinse the scent of Ancient Age out of the jelly glass in the sink before he got home, then change out of her wife-beater and denim cut-offs. Christ, you'd think men didn't know what a girl’s legs looked like, to hear him go on sometimes.

Then she heard the crunching sound of tires on gravel. He’s early today, she thought.

The 1975 Monte Carlo, painted Carolina Blue (God’s favorite color, he always said), pulled in behind the house. The car’s white vinyl top gleamed. Just like his bald spot, she thought with a sour grin.

She remembered the smoldering butt in her fingers just as the car door opened and sent it into the neighbor’s backyard with a practiced flick. He fumbled his way out, worn cordovan briefcase in hand and paisley tie askew as he waved at her. “Hello, babygirl,” he said.

She wiggled her fingers back at him in reply. “Hello, Robert.”

He stopped and looked at her with a droopy frown. “How many times have I told you not to call me that?”

“Sorry,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Hi, Daddy.”

“That’s better. A daughter should always show respect for her father, Michelle.” He trudged up the brick steps. “Ready to be a high school freshman next year?”

No comment about how she was dressed? “I was ready last year,” she said as she followed him inside, shaking her head. The sudden change in temperature chilled the sweat on her skin. Robert spent much of his time with his head up his butt, she thought. Probably had forgotten that the school year had ended yesterday, not today.

“I thought we’d drive down to the river,” her father said after setting his briefcase down on the kitchen table with a loud thump. “We could get some dinner at Cap’n Jack’s. Too hot for you to be cooking anyway, wouldn’t you say?”

She recognized the tone in his voice. The last time she had heard it, he had offered the same thing, to take her to dinner at the town’s most popular seafood restaurant. The day her mother had left. No message, no note, just an empty closet and an empty house the day Michelle had walked home from school after waiting for half an hour to be picked up. She had known something was up when she saw the empty driveway; her mom had loved that Cadillac. She remembered searching the house, then searching it again with her father after he came home. All of her mother’s clothes had vanished, along with all of her jewelry, including the pearl ring that had belonged to Michelle’s paternal grandmother, which had been promised to her once she turned sixteen. But not the photo albums or pictures, though. Those had been left behind.

“So what do you say?” her father asked, breaking her revelry. “Oyster stew sound good? Your favorite, right?”

She nodded. At least she didn't have to worry about making supper, and it would make her dad feel as though he'd done something useful.

“Wonderful! You go get changed, and we’ll leave as soon as you’re ready.”

Michelle kicked her bedroom door shut, flung her top and shorts into the nearest corner, then pulled out a t-shirt to go with her favorite pair of jeans. She smiled as she stretched out on the bed to wriggle into the worn Levi's. Despite the fact she was outgrowing them, they had their advantages. For the past year, while wearing them, she couldn't bend over without every male head in sight swiveling in her direction.

Just a man thing, Ginny had once told her with the worldly air of a girl who'd just earned her driver’s license. They’re all like that. Instead of getting all embarrassed over it, use it to your advantage, her cousin would say with a saucy wink.

The hot vinyl of the Monte Carlo’s seat burned through the denim, making her glad she'd changed out of the cut-offs. Her father had started leaving the Caddy at work, the blue counterpart to her mother’s pink one, now driving the Monte Carlo all the time. She leaned forward, redirected the vents and slid her hands between the backs of her thighs and the seat.

The two story brick houses of her neighborhood gave way after a while to undeveloped land thick with trees and the occasional trailer park. Five Points. As they passed a small wooden store, its Coca Cola and Gulf gasoline signs spotted with rusty blisters, she noticed a dark haired boy cupping his hands around a cigarette. His eyes met hers for a moment before lowering back to the flame dancing between his palms.

David Collins. She turned away, but not before he had done so first. Dammit. He wore practically the same outfit she did, a white tee-shirt and jeans, paired with black Chuck Taylor's. Same outfit as half the kids in this part of town.

So why did they look so good on him? And why did the sight of those dark eyes beneath his bangs shoot through her the way they did?

Maybe if her mother had been around, they could have talked about it; Michelle lying in bed late at night, her mom sitting on the edge of the mattress, their voices low and conspiratorial so ‘he’ would not hear.

But tell Dad she . . . What, loved? No, not love. Had a crush on . . . ? Christ, that sounded so juvenile. Had an itch for? Oh yeah, that would go over real well. Liked, then. Tell Dad she liked the oldest son of a woman with one of the worst reputations in town? She could hear his voice now, getting higher the longer he spoke, the comparisons he would try to avoid making with her mother, but just falling short. How the apple never falls far from the tree, on and on and on . . .

A knot formed in her gut and she clenched her fist tight. The knot swelled, as did the increasing pressure, deep in the pit of her belly, the gnawing need for release.

Finally she could not stand it any more and sucked her lower lip between her teeth. She bit down, increasing the pressure gradually. Finally a salty metallic taste burst on the tip of her tongue, and the unbearable pressure faded. She drew a deep, shuddering breath and released the last of the tension with it as she exhaled.

She had to be careful nowadays. Dad had seen a thin red line on the inside of her upper thigh a month earlier and had asked about it. The interrogation had come as a surprise, she had just finished taking a bath and her father always did everything he could to avoid seeing her in any state other than fully clothed. But that day there had been so much pressure, a shitty day at school and . . . other stuff.

So she had taken a wire coat hanger, used her Bic lighter to heat the straightened end, then pressed the hot metal against the top of her leg where it could not easily be seen.

Or so she had thought. The next day her father had walked in on her in the downstairs bathroom as she got out of the shower. He had stuttered and stammered what sounded like an apology before quickly turning away and slamming the door shut. It had even been funny, in a sick way. Until he had asked about the red mark he had seen, which worried him. She made up a story about a stray cat scratching her, and yes, she had put some hydrogen peroxide on it in case of infection. There had been a brief moment of concern when he'd said, half to himself, that it might need to be checked, just in case. She had then offered to let him take a look, her hand on the hem of her skirt, whereupon he blushed a fiery red and waved her away, saying instead that he trusted her to keep an eye on it herself.

The parking lot at Cap’n Jack’s was nearly full. Too hot for a lot of other women to cook either, it seemed.

The AC hit her like ice water, chilling the sweat on her skin. She shuddered. The ‘Cap’n’ was nowhere in sight. It was not the interest the old man now showed in her developing body that bothered her so much as the fact that the attention required so little effort on her part. She could have been anyone, she knew, and it would not have mattered.

Her father pulled out her chair, and she sat.

“What’ll you folks have to drink?” the waitress asked, pad in hand, obviously new. Probably a college student, by the length of her hemline.

“Two Cokes,” her dad said. “You still like Coke, right?”

She considered saying Pepsi, just to fuck with him, but simply nodded.

“You all ready to order?”

“Uh, we haven’t seen the menu yet?” Michelle said.

“Oh, right, right! Sorry,” she giggled. “I just started here today. Hold on, I’ll get you a couple in just one second.”

Michelle slid lower into her seat as the waitress walked away.

“You shouldn’t slouch like that,” her father said. “It’s not good for you. Pearl said the same thing the last time you came over to the dealership.”

Pearl? The secretary? Why would she give a damn how Michelle sat? Or stood. Or walked, for that matter?

Her dad nodded. “Pearl has raised three daughters of her own, you know. She . . . I mean, I . . . we . . . That is, both of us, have been very concerned about you. All these years without a mother. You’ve had to grow up so fast. Hasn’t been fair to you. Not fair at all.”

The waitress returned with two glasses beaded with water from the humidity, then set then on the table. “Here are your menus. I’ll give you a couple of minutes, then come back for your orders.”

Not fair? What the hell was Robert talking about now?

“It’s been hard,” he continued. “I mean, girls are so much more difficult to raise than boys. You have to be so careful about . . . well, everything.”

Michelle suddenly felt light-headed, as though her head was a balloon filled with helium.

“And it looks, well, unprofessional. People say evil things behind closed doors, you know.”

“Dad . . . ?”

“And so, uh, we've decided that the best thing to do is to get married. Solves a lot of problems, you know? House needs a woman’s touch. Oh, not that you don’t do a good job taking care of the place. I thank God every day that I didn’t come home to find you both gone. You know?”

Michelle, dazed, nodded. “Uh huh.”

“It’s just . . .” Her father paused, his brow furrowed in thought, eyes just a bit wild, reminding her of a mouse trapped in a corner with no way out. “It’s created problems for me at work too, you see,” he continued. “I have to be home at an early hour, and that leaves Pearl at the office to do so much of the paperwork by herself. Not fair to her; she has three girls of her own, like I said. Of course we’ll have to move . . .”

Michelle felt the pressure return, a tsunami compared with the earlier wave. “Move?”

“Well, you can’t expect her girls to, what, sleep on the couch? All three of them? It’s not proper, and not fair to them either when you have that big room of yours. I’ve been looking at that two-story over on Chestnut Street. Three bedrooms. Now, I know that will mean you and Rebecca splitting a room, but it’ll be fun. Like summer camp, you know?”

Michelle remembered the stocky girl with her small piggy eyes, who used to bully the boys as well as the girls back in elementary school. “Summer camp. Right.”

Her father’s entire body shuddered in one huge sigh. “Well, that's settled then!” he said as he picked up his menu. “I’m starving. What are you going to have?”

She pushed her seat back. “I have to go to the bathroom.”

“Are you okay, honey?”

If she waited any longer, the pressure would force its way out of her mouth with a scream. “I’m fine.”

“You want me to order for you?”

“I’ll be right back,” she said as she walked away. He said something to her she could not understand. She walked to the ladies room, stepped past it to the exit, outside to the parking lot, then the street, and kept going.

Chapter Five

Yellow Dog rubbed against her as he nosed the Maxwell House can beside her leg. The frog inside jumped, tilting the can and almost forcing the white plastic lid loose.

“No! Bad dog!” she said, pushing the hound back. He forced his large head between her elbow and her side, straining to reach the can. She tightened her arm around the dog’s neck.

“You can’t have him!” She grabbed the container with her free hand and put it between her legs. “I’m making him a home!”

Yellow Dog twisted, trying to get free. She took hold of his collar and led him to the front porch steps, then tied him up. “This’ll teach you to mind!”

The hound tried to follow her as she walked away, but the rope was too short. He pulled and whined.

“Serves you right!” she said, mimicking Father.

The hound scrabbled at the hard ground and barked loudly.

“Hush your fuss!” she hissed. “You're going to wake up Momma!”

“Rachael Miriam Washington!”

Now look what you’ve done, she thought at Yellow Dog. The dog ignored her glare and continued to bark.

“RACHAEL!”

“Yes ma’am?” she called back.

“Come in here.”

“I’m coming, Momma.”

She took the steps one at a time. The weathered boards creaked under her weight. The screen door clacked shut behind her as she walked into the sitting room. “Yes, Momma?”

The older woman, her dark skin moist with sweat, looked up from her seat on the sofa, a frown on her face. White lace curtains rolled in the hot breeze from the open window. Water beads left glittering trails on a glass of iced tea. Between her legs rested a tin tub, half full of snaps. Her right leg, immobilized by a cast, rested on a chair. “What’s going on out there?” she asked Rachael.

“Nothing, Momma.”

“Then why on Earth is that dog carrying on so?"

"I was making a frog house and he was trying to get at Jebadiah."

Her mother's brow knitted. "Who?"

"My frog."

"Goodness," her Momma said as she shook her head. "You're a bit old to be playing with frogs, don't you think?"

Rachael shrugged. "Nothing else to do."

Her mother stared hard at her. Rachael could not help but squirm. "Your Father says that dog can smell the Devil on the wind," she said. " Is that true? Has the Devil been whispering in your ear? You been thinking wicked thoughts?"

Rachael's brow knitted. How did one recognize an wicked thought? Oh, some clearly had a Satanic origin, especially the ones that made her face hot and kept her awake at night. It was the ones she could not be sure of that disturbed her, thoughts never addressed in any chapter of the Bible that she could find. Or maybe she just wasn't smart enough yet to figure it all out, like Father had once told her when she started asking questions.

“You have, haven’t you?" Her mother sighed the sigh of the long suffering. “You need some time for reflection. Go over there to the altar. Kneel yourself down and pray for the good Lord to lead you not into temptation. It always does me a world of good. It’ll do you the same.”

Rachael walked across the room and kneeled. The altar, covered by a rough green cloth with a candle at either end, was just tall enough to lean on. Father’s podium, holding the huge family Bible, stood behind it. A large nail held the robe he wore during worship services in the evenings.

The linoleum under her knees had cracked in several places. The sharp edges dug into her skin; she moved to avoid them. The back of her neck tingled. She could feel Momma watching, so she tried to keep still.

“Now, you put your hands together and ask Jesus to keep Satan out of your head and for the strength to sin no more, in heart if not in deed.”

Rachael nodded. She lowered her head, closed her eyes and tried to pray.

It didn’t work. Her attention drifted. She remembered her last day of school before Father had pulled her out. The classroom with its white concrete walls and desks the color of honey. The long bulletin board surrounded by pink lace and full of hearts, with the words “Happy Valentine’s Day!” in the center. The brown paper bag with her name on it, a small handful of envelopes inside. The rage on Father’s face when he found it on the kitchen table.

“Those godless whoresons and their daughters!” he had yelled before crumpling up the little sack and shoving it into the wood stove. “Always seeking to corrupt the innocent and the pure of heart.”

That night his sermon had lasted almost two hours. Rachael had not understood much of it, though she’d joined Momma in crying out “Amen!” when Father paused for breath after preaching himself hoarse about stuff like “sins of the flesh” and “the great whore of Babylon”.

Rachael, head still down, peeked up through her lashes out the window. A finger of wind stirred dust motes in the sunlight. The air tasted like rain. A flash of red disappeared into the trees; a cardinal perhaps. In a hidden place, maybe under the porch, flies droned. Rachael focused on a bit of blue sky just visible through the canopy of hickory leaves that shaded all sides of the house. Her heart ached for winter, when the bare limbs could not hide the sky, and the world felt so much larger.

How many years had it been since she had set foot out of the yard, other than to go to school, in the days when she went to school? Two years? Three?

Rachael’s feet had fallen asleep by the time her mother spoke again. “Get yourself up, girl. It’s time to start supper. Hand me my walking stick.”

She gave Momma her crutch and followed her into the kitchen. “I told your father we would bake him a cake tonight after he got home from work. Get the sugar down from the cabinet.”

Rachael did as her mother said. “We’re almost out.”

“Out? How can we be out?”

“Here.” She handed the old Crisco can to her mother, who removed the lid and peered inside.

“That ain’t enough.” She put the can down on the table. “I told your father we would have chocolate cake for dessert tonight.” Rachael watched her chew her fingernails. “He’ll be expecting it. And I can’t walk to the store; not with this leg”

“Isn’t there some ice cream left, Momma?”

“NO!” She slapped the tabletop with her open hand. “I done told you, he’s expecting cake!” She touched her leg and winced. “It’s disrespectful to make promises and not keep them. But what am I going to do? I can’t walk to the store.” She stared at Rachael, then motioned her over. “Come here child.”

“What is it, Momma?”

She put her hands on Rachael’s shoulders. “Honey, I got to ask something of you. It won’t be easy, and you mustn’t say anything to your Daddy.”

“Even if he asks me?” Rachael said in wonder.

“He won’t ask, not if you don’t say nothing! I need for you to go down to the store.”

“By myself?”

“Yes, by yourself! You think if I could go that I’d send you? Now you listen to me. Go put on your good clothes and don’t dawdle! And bring me my purse from out of the kitchen.”

Rachael ran into her bedroom and found her church clothes, the ones she wore during Father’s evening services. She pulled her dress over her head and threw the garment into the corner. Spray starch had made the white blouse and long skirt rough and stiff. She pulled on a pair of white socks and her black, patent-leather shoes, then brushed her hair.

“You bring yourself on here, girl!”

“Coming, Momma!” She dashed into the kitchen for her mother’s handbag, then ran back into the sitting room and gave it to her.

“How much, how much?” Momma murmured. “Here you are child, a dollar. No, no, better make it two, just to be sure. That ought to be more than enough. Now, listen to me! You leave this house and follow the driveway to the paved road.”

“I know.” Rachael’s stomach trembled uncontrollably.

“At the paved road, turn right and walk. You'll come to a crossways, make a left there. After a while you’ll see the store, it’ll be on the right. And if a man other than the one behind the counter at Carter's tries to speak to you, avert your face and say nothing, just keep on walking. Go straight there and come straight back. Is that understood?”

“Yes ma'am."

“All right then. Here's the key to the gate, mind you don't lose it! Now go! And don’t waste time!”

Rachael turned and walked down the hall to the front door. “The sooner you get there, the sooner you get back,” she whispered, then stepped outside.

The hot, moist air weighed heavily on her shoulders as she walked across the porch and down the steps. She looked up at the sky. It looked bigger than it had an hour ago. She felt both thrilled and sick at the same time.

Rachael slowed her pace as she reached the gate with its heavy chain. How often had she stood in this same spot, imagining what it would be like to stand on the other side just one more time? She had even begun to see the gate in her dreams.

You see that road? Father had asked her one day as the two of them stood there, his wide hand, thick with calluses, on her shoulder. It looks innocent, but that is the road to Hell. One day you must walk it. Will walk it, he had said with a sigh. But not just yet.

She opened the enormous Masterlock with Momma's key, carefully relocking it after passing through. Best to go quick, she thought, and walked fast.

Finally she reached the road. She turned right and kept as far to the left as she could without stepping into the ditch. Cars sped by, raising a wind that spit dust into the air.

Sunlight, unfiltered by hickory leaves, pushed hot fingers through her hair to the skin underneath. Her blouse stuck to her skin. Sweat rolled down her forehead into her eyes, stinging them. She mopped her brow with a damp sleeve.

Rachael found the crossroads and turned left, as instructed. She walked around a sharp curve and spotted her first building, on the same side of the road as herself. She slowed, wanting to cross the street to avoid it but afraid of the fast-moving traffic.

The building in front of her was large and squat, its concrete walls painted a dull black. Cars, rusting and half-stripped, sat on gray cinder blocks. Scraps of metal lay everywhere. A sign, bright with new paint, hung on a pole near the road. Gavotte’s Garage.

As she walked past, two men stepped outside. One passed a brown paper bag to the other, who held it to his mouth as he lifted his chin. Both wore dingy coveralls and filthy bill caps. They stared at her as she walked by.

Rachael’s heart raced. What will I do if they talk to me? she thought. The idea made her dizzy and nauseous.

The one with the paper bag leaned against the other and spoke into his ear. That one tilted his head back and laughed. Rachael noticed his upper front teeth were missing.

As she left the men behind, she felt their stares burning into the back of her neck. The sensation made her stomach flip-flop.

She sighed with relief after she passed the garage and saw the store on the other side.

Rachael looked at her watch. The trip had taken longer than she had thought it would. She rushed inside. The cool air in the store chilled the sweat on her skin. She found the sugar and gave the man at the counter Momma’s money. He made change and bagged her purchase. She took it without speaking, as she had been told, then left.

She stepped around the front of the store and halted.

There, on the other side. The two men stood beside the street, facing in her direction, as though waiting for her.

Oh God, she prayed. She felt as though she were about to faint. What am I going to do? She stepped back and stumbled.

“Hey! Watch where the Hell you’re going!”

Rachael flailed out with her free hand and checked her fall. Then she stared in astonishment.

Another girl sat against the wall on a red wooden crate with the words “Coca-Cola” in white on the side. A white girl. Long hair, yellow as a lemon, poured like rainwater over her shoulders. A cigarette hung from the corner of her mouth, and she held a small pocketknife in her right hand. Rachael saw thin cuts, fresh and red, on the inside of the girl’s wrist. They looked like letters, a “D” and a “C”.

A thin red trail led to a drop of blood caught in the fine pale hairs of the girl’s arm. She blew a cloud of blue smoke in Rachael’s direction. “Who are you, the village idiot?” she asked.

“I, ah, I--”

She snorted. “Jesus Christ, you must be crazy. Dressed like that in this heat.” She squinted as she focused on Rachael. “You look familiar.”

“My name is Rachael,” she replied, then remembered she was not supposed to talk to anyone.

The girl blew a cloud of smoke out of her nose. “Yeah? Rachael what?”

“Uh, um, Washington.”

The blonde’s eyes narrowed in concentration. She gestured at Rachael with the knife. “Don’t I know you?”

“I don’t think so,” Rachael said. She stepped backwards, away from the girl. And the knife.

“Oh yeah, I remember you now! Third grade, Mrs. Rooker’s class. You used to sit behind me.”

Rachael shuffled in place, not certain what to say. “My father took me out of school.”

The white girl licked the blood from her arm. “I'm Michelle Davies.”

“I—I'm not sure remember you.” That was a lie, but she couldn’t help herself. She clearly recalled Michelle now. The blonde white girl had made fun of her, then encouraged the other girls in class to do the same. “You got lots of valentines, didn’t you?”

“Valentines? I guess. So what? Jealous?”

“Me? Oh no!” Rachael backed up.

“Well, now that you remember me, and I remember you, do me a favor and get lost.”

“What?”

“I’m having a private moment. And it can't be private if you're here. Get it?”

Rachael swallowed the lump of fear that had risen in her throat. “I can’t," she whispered..

“Can't what? Leave? What’s wrong with you?”

Rachael felt sick. “Those men—”

“What men?” Michelle looked down the street. “You mean those guys?”

“Yes,” Rachael whispered.

Michelle laughed. “What about them? Just walk past and if they give you a hard time, tell them to kiss your ass.”

She stared at Michelle in amazement. “No! I couldn’t! I—”

Michelle lost her smile. “You know, I think you’re right. I wouldn’t trust those two either, come to think of it. They’d probably wait till you walked past the garage, then sneak after you. Then, when nobody could see, they’d probably grab you, drag you into the bushes and rape you.”

“Wha-at?” Rachael did not know what 'rape' meant, but it sounded horrible.

“Of course they couldn’t leave you as a witness after that. More than likely they’d slit your throat, then bury you in the woods where nobody’d ever find you.” Michelle took another puff from her cigarette. “Yeah, you got a problem all right.”

Rachael started trembling, and could not stop. “What am I going to do?”

“You could try running. Course, they’re bigger than you are, so it probably won’t do much good. If you’re lucky, they’ll be too tired to do much after they catch you.” Michelle flicked her cigarette butt away. “Well, I got places to go. See you around. Maybe.” She walked away.

“Wait!” Rachael followed and grabbed her by the arm. “Help me! Please!!”

Michelle pulled her arm away. "You deaf? I said I have places to be."

Rachael knew she was going to throw up at any moment. "Please!"

Michelle sighed. “It’ll cost you.”

“Cost . . . ?”

“How much money you got?”

Rachael felt inside the brown paper bag that held momma’s sugar. “I’ve got this,” she said. “But it’s not my money! It’s Momma’s!”

“That so? Oh well, don’t worry about it then.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Those guys’ll take it, and the sugar too, after they're finished with you.”

Rachael felt herself beginning to sway. “I—I don’t fell good.”

The blonde looked at her with disgust. “Shit, you’re serious, aren’t you?” She looked down the street. “Oh hell, I’m just too goddamned nice for my own good. Come on, I’ll walk you home. Where do you live?”

“Thank you, thank you!” Rachael said. “My house is down the road that way. There’s an old gray barn on the other side of the road from the turnoff.”

“Yeah, I know where it is,” Michelle said and walked away.

“Wait!”

Michelle looked over her shoulder. “What now?”

“You’re going the wrong way!”

“I have a stop to make first, over at Gavotte's Trailer Park. Then I'll walk you home.”

Rachael shook her head. “I don’t know . . .”

Michelle shrugged. “Fine. Stay here then.” She crossed the road and stepped into the wall of trees.

Rachael watched, tears in her eyes. She looked back at the two men, then ran fast to catch up with Michelle. “Wait!”