the dog issued another shrill warning that carried with piercing clarity around
the corner of the deck. Then she listened to the quick shuffling of Jack's
shoes. Celia figured he was jabbing at the dog with his foot again. She didn't
consider this the greatest training technique, but Jack had made it clear that
he didn't want any pointers on how to deal with the dog.
"Go away," he snapped.
The dog barked again, as if bearding Jack. It had been barking at her husband
all week. It was as if the critter were allergic to him. Perhaps it sensed
Jack's dislike. Whatever the reason, Celia could tell they weren't exactly
bonding.
Jack wheeled around the house, glancing back at the disgruntled cur.
"Christ, that thing's a pain in the ass."
He handed Celia her glass of zinfandel and sat down. She thanked him, and
watched the animal settle quietly on the far end of the deck. She decided not to
comment on the latest skirmish. They were both males. Maybe it was some kind of
turf thing.
When Jack opened his beer she continued telling him about Harold.
"He's really a great kid, very bright."
"What's that?"
She frowned at him. "Harold, the schizophrenic boy who's been drawing for me. I
was just telling you about—"
"That's right. Sorry. I got a little distracted with the hound from hell."
Celia waved away his forgetfulness. "That's okay. Like I said, he's a bright kid
but he comes from a really bad background. Both parents are substance abusers
and just don't give a damn about him. I'll tell you, we have to work so hard
just to build up trust with these kids. That's the biggest issue so far. Most of
them don't trust anyone anymore, and who can blame them?"
She tasted the wine, letting the liquid swirl over her tongue, as she watched
the dark outline of a hawk floating almost motionlessly on an updraft. She
studied the elegant hooked beak— the distinctive predator's profile— and made a
mental note to incorporate the lines in a future painting.
"Anyway," she added, "that's what it always seems to come down to— trust and
family. That's what's really important. At least I've got that with you."
Jack nodded slowly, and she reached over and tenderly touched his hand. It felt
cold and damp from the bottle and gave her a chill.
"The fact that Harold started letting me see into his world was a real
breakthrough, but then to see the horrors that poor kid sees every day. That was
kind of hard to take. Of course, Tony"— she shook her head—"still seems to think
that art therapy is some kind of voodoo."
She looked at Jack again, closely this time, and saw that his eyes were far
away. She resisted the urge to shout at him, and continued in the same casual
voice as before.
"So at lunch I pulled Tony into my office and went down on him, and now he
thinks art therapy is the greatest. He smiles every time I bring it up."
Jack continued to nod listlessly, and Celia rested her wineglass on the small
redwood table that separated them.
"Jack," she snapped, "you haven't heard a single word I've said."
He looked at her, clearly startled.
"Yes, I have," he insisted, "you were talking about the Center."
"Good guess. I just told you that I went down on our new director."
"You did what!" Jack jumped forward in his seat.
"No, of course not. I just wanted to see if you were listening."
He sat back, clearly relieved. "I'm sorry, Cel, I've been a little preoccupied
with work lately."
"I guess."
"And now"— he spoke with visible disgust—"I've got to go up to Trout River next
weekend and look over a front loader that George Reeples is buying. He wants me
to ballpark liability, loss, the whole shebang."
"That's going to take all weekend? Why don't you do it during the week? Ruth and
that new girl, what's her name, can take—"
"Helen." He raised his beer to take a drink.
"Right, Helen, they can take care of things for a couple of days, can't they?"
He started shaking his head even as he pulled the bottle away from his lips.
"That's what you think," he sputtered, "but that's because you don't have to
work with them all day. I have to check everything they do to make sure it's
done right." He wiped his mouth with the back of his wrist. "Come on, why don't
you go with me? I think it would be good for us to get away for a couple of
days. It's beautiful up there this time of year."
"I can't go, Jack, you know that. It's marked on the calendar. That's my weekend
to be on call."
"Oh, that's right," he said, his voice heavy with regret. "Sorry. Forgot all
about that. Well, it'll only be one night, and then I'll be back on Sunday."
The news didn't please Celia at all, but she knew he had to cover a fairly wide
territory if the agency was to remain profitable. Not all the business walked in
the door.
So instead of complaining she took a deep breath and smelled the pine once
again. Then she remembered the huge whirling saws at the mill, and tried to
forget that it was the odor of death that delighted her so.
11
Chet slammed the door shut and fumbled around with the keys hanging from the
ignition. He had to get his pickup all loaded with firewood and drive over to
that guy Marshall's place before the afternoon wasted away. He'd met him
downtown at Andy's Market. Chet had no sooner stuck the sign to the side of his
door when the old guy limped up on his cane and said he needed some. Cutting
scrap and poaching a pine here and there was no kind of living, but Chet would
get $110 for a cord of that crap; and if this old asshole was ready to pay that
kind of price, why, Chet felt duty-bound to find it for him. Hell, this was
Oregon. You could always find wood somewhere.
Just as he cranked the ignition he glanced in his rearview mirror and spotted
Davy dragging ass up the road. Sorriest-looking kid he'd seen in a long time.
But then he reminded himself that they were always like this right after their
mamas died, moping around. It's like they'd been born to a whole new world, and
they had blood all over them, just like the first time when they came crawling
out of those lower parts. Chet knew about boys, had made a real study of them,
and sometimes it took months for them to get used to the way things were meant
to be. No different with Davy.
The kid inched up to the truck like the goddamn thing might explode. He had his
knapsack over his shoulder and was holding a sheet of paper. Chet figured it
might be a class project of some kind. "Drew our hands today and colored them.
See, don't it look just like a turkey?" He remembered one of the boys saying
that. Couldn't remember which one, though. They were all gone, dead and buried
and mostly lost to him now, even their memory.
"What are you worried about? Think I'm going to bite you or something? Jesus!"
Be nice, he warned himself. You'll scare him worse than he's scared already.
Little dick doesn't even talk. Chet softened his tone.
"Okay, what's up, Davy boy? I got to get moving here. Got to put together a load
and take it to town."
Davy held out the paper and Chet saw that it was some kind of note. He eyed it
suspiciously. It looked official, and nothing official ever turned out good. A
fact of life. Never once.
"Report cards out already?"
The kid didn't so much as smile, and the only sound Chet heard was his own
forced laughter, strangled by the silence.
He sat in the cab and unfolded the note, saw the school letterhead. Damn right,
bad news Kid's been acting up. He glanced at Davy and opened the truck door.
"Says you're a very bad boy." He sat on the rusty running board so he could look
Davy in the eye, except the kid never looked back. Always had his head down,
like he'd rather be on the ground than be with you. He will be soon enough if he
keeps this up.
"It says you bit some kid, bit him pretty bad. Now why'd you want to go and do
something mean like that? That's a really mean thing to do, biting somebody."
Davy just kept looking down, and Chet had to tug his arm. Gently, though.
Gently.
"Big boys don't bite, Davy. Hey, that's what girls do. That's no way to fight."
He made a fist and tapped Davy on the chin. The boy's head snapped back as if
he'd been hit much harder.
"Someone gives you trouble— pow— you let them have it right on the old kisser."
He cocked his fist again, but this time spared the boy. He could see he was
scared. "Punch them, punch them hard as you can. Break their damn jaw, that's
what I do. But don't go around biting."
A boy needs this kind of advice, Chet thought. This is nothing a mother could
do. He turned back to the note. There was more. Oh Jesus!
"Your teacher too! Oh, no." He shook his head. This was different. "They're
throwing you out. They want to put you in a special school, 'cause you're biting
and not talking." Chet did not like this at all. 'I'm supposed to go in there
and meet a Mrs. Griswold." He looked back at the note. "But that's not till
Monday." His eyes rose from the paper. "Guess you got yourself a three-day
weekend. But you know what this means, don't you? It means I got to take time
off to take you there."
He grabbed Davy's shoulder and slowly began to squeeze harder and harder.
"I don't like to take time off, Davy. I don't like that one bit."
Davy dipped down to try to get away, but Chet held him tightly. He could see
pain in the kid's face. That's okay, do him some good.
"But I guess you're worth it."
Chet eased his grip as slowly as he'd applied it.
"Sure you are." He smiled at him. "Now go on in and wait for me. Watch that
video if you want, but don't go anywhere. I'll be home soon enough. Now go on."
As Davy turned to walk away, Chet gave him a pat on the butt. It felt so good,
he had a mind to follow him right on in.
12
Oh God, it is Monday.
Celia locked up her car but didn't bother pocketing her keys. When she pulled up
to the Center she realized she was the first one in and would have to open up
and make the morning coffee, duties she rarely had to perform since Tony came on
board. He usually arrived first and left last, and reminded the staff of this
whenever it proved convenient. But Celia had awakened early after a bad night's
sleep and decided to get a jump on the new workweek.
She'd gone hiking on Saturday afternoon. She would have enjoyed taking along the
Border collie for company but after she left for work on Friday Jack had lured
the dog into his pickup with some fresh meat, leashed it to the bed, and drove
it to the pound. No doubt to its imminent doom as well. Celia knew she could
have made a huge stink over it but Jack had been so determined to get rid of the
dog that keeping it would have become a constant struggle. So now that cute
little black-and-white dog would be killed. It saddened Celia when she recalled
how he'd warmed right up to her. It was Jack the creature couldn't stand. That
turned out to be a fatal mistake. And she couldn't help wondering about his
so-called allergies; exposure to the dog sure hadn't slowed him down any. He was
still working overtime at the office. A full day Saturday. With all the hours he
was putting in, you'd think that earthquakes and floods were pummeling the
region. When he got home around six she dragged him into bed and they made love
for the first time in a month, but their time apart had hardly increased his
ardor. In fact, he almost lost his erection twice, and she'd become quite sore
before he finally came. She'd heard this could happen with much older men, but
Jack was only forty-five.
Then on Sunday morning she spent a few frustrating hours working on the painting
of the poppy. The color had been the problem. She considered it closer to the
orange worn by hunters than anything else she could think of, but she just
hadn't been able to come up with the right hue. After her exacting eyes rejected
every one of her efforts she abandoned the project to brood about their
marriage, which she had been doing anyway and which probably explained the
pitiful state of the painting. She'd even begun to worry that she and Jack were
not going to make it, and she found this extremely disturbing.
She had almost ten years invested in Jack— she couldn't help thinking of it this
way, as an investment, the most important one of her life— and at thirty-eight
she desperately wanted children. She knew that under the best of circumstances
she had only a few dependable years left to get pregnant. If her marriage fell
apart she doubted that she'd ever have the time or the emotional resources to
pull herself back together, find a new partner, and have a family.
When they first met, their lives had been very different. Jack had been the
manager of a large insurance agency in the Chicago Loop, and Celia had been
completing her last semester of graduate school. A burglar had stolen everything
of value from her apartment and, like so many other victims, she had decided to
buy her first insurance policy "after the horse was out of the barn."
Those were among the first words Jack ever said to her. Their eyes had met
across the office, and he had hurried to help her. He was so obvious about his
intentions that they both laughed when he'd tripped over a chair en route.
Three months after they met he proposed, and a week later a Justice of the Peace
pronounced them man and wife. Great sex had prompted both his offer and Celia's
acceptance. Back then her whole body would shiver from the sheer excitement of