The Woman. Part 12

His father's dipped the rag again and gone on to her neck, front and back, scrubbing hard. The woman's glaring at him now. He doesn't seem to notice.

"Come on, Belle, give me a hand here."

His mother dips her rag in the water but that's all she does. It's as though she's afraid to move. But it's not that. He sees something in her posture that he's seen before - it's very familiar. Something his father also doesn't notice. His mother's angry. It's all bottled up inside her there but she's angry all right.

Dad's done with her neck. He's working on her shoulders. Getting closer and closer to...

...those amazing t.i.ts...

She has known for some time now. She has sensed it and there is no need to put it to the test. In the slightest movement of her hand inside the bolt she senses it.

"Don't you go getting all foolish on me, Belle," his father says. "It's just something's gotta be done."

Her shoulders are clean. He dips the rag into the water again.

He tries to hide it from his woman and perhaps he can but he cannot hide it from her. His heart is racing. His pulse pounding. He is focused on her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. He reaches out for them with the dripping cloth.

And the second he touches her, the second she feels the heat, she tears the bolt free of the wall and her hand darts to his neck like a striking snake and she is soaring, roaring with elation. Her fingers dig deep into the muscles of his neck and the man struggles, tries to pry her hand free but his two hands are not nearly a match for her single hand and the long-bred strength which resides there and she is grinning directly into his horror-struck face as he writhes and chokes and sees his death hovering in her eyes.

This is the pleasure of the hunt.

This is the will and the power and the freedom.

This is the joy of her creation.

He is going down beneath her grip.

Then the door is flung open and thunder booms.

He has raced back to the house for the gun and it's all a blur, one huge red blur - it seems only an instant later he's run past Peg and Darlin' standing in the hall with Peg saying what?? what?? and down the stairs and then he's there inside the cellar, first dimly aware of his father on his knees in front of her by now, his arms limp at his sides, the woman's hand clutching his neck and his mother simply standing there with her hands over her mouth and then the next thing he knows the .45 leaps in his own hands and a bullet ricochets off the back wall and the side wall and the stairway directly behind him. and down the stairs and then he's there inside the cellar, first dimly aware of his father on his knees in front of her by now, his arms limp at his sides, the woman's hand clutching his neck and his mother simply standing there with her hands over her mouth and then the next thing he knows the .45 leaps in his own hands and a bullet ricochets off the back wall and the side wall and the stairway directly behind him.

And then he's in front of her pointing the gun right in her face and he hears himself say back off! back off!

The woman hesitates, looks him in the eyes as though to verify his intent. And then drops his father gasping for breath to the cellar floor. His father is coughing violently. He can hear it over the gunshot ringing in his ears. He's aware of movement behind him and then a firm hand pushes him roughly aside.

He corrects his balance just in time to see his mother, lips pressed tight together, tears pooling in her eyes, whack the woman in the side of the head with a length of two-by-four. The woman goes slack.

The woman is out.

He realizes he's barely breathing. He hauls in a deep one.

His mother. Who'd have thought it?

It's ridiculous and yet not so ridiculous given the occasion but an old song lyric pops into his mind that his dad likes.

Stand by your man.

His mom tosses away the two-by-four clattering to the floor and goes to him. Helps him up.

"Thanks," he says. His voice is weak. His eyes all skittery. His hand is at his neck. He turns to Brian.

"Go get me a hammer and the drill, son," he says. "Need to drive a new one. Deeper. A lot deeper."

He reaches for the gun and Brian hands it over.

"Dad. I'm sorry. I know I'm not supposed to...but..."

"It's okay, boy. You did good. Real good. Now get me those tools, okay?"

And it stays with him, what his dad said, as he hits the stairs. You did good. Real good. You did good. Real good.

He has never quite gotten those words out of his father before.

Not once. Never.

SIXTEEN.

He can do this practically with his eyes closed as he can do most other things which require physical skill and dexterity but he's having trouble concentrating and he thinks that even Belle can see that, Belle standing to one side with the .45 to the woman's head by way of discouragement while he drives the eye bolt into new hole which he means to get all the way down to the loop but he's missed the d.a.m.n thing twice which is not like him at all.

His trouble is that he isn't quite sure why he's doing this. Why he doesn't just let her go to live out her miserable savage life however she sees fit. And this is not like him either, to be unsure. He's sure in his business and he's sure with his family and friends and acquaintances which is a better word actually because he has no close friends really, has never wanted them, has never trusted them. He trusts Belle and his kids and that's it. That's all he needs.

He's looked over the subject of why he's doing this and around and through the subject and he doesn't have an answer except that he wants to. He knows it's probably dangerous, forget the fact that physically she's one f.u.c.king dangerous beast, but if he wanted to count them he knows he's probably breaking a dozen laws or more, he's putting them all in a kind of jeopardy here but all he can come up with in terms of a why why is that he wants to see this little experiment of his through to its fruition. Just as his cheerful sweet drunk of a mother used to call Chris her own little experiment meaning that she'd have one kid, sure, but no more, she'd never willingly birth another. is that he wants to see this little experiment of his through to its fruition. Just as his cheerful sweet drunk of a mother used to call Chris her own little experiment meaning that she'd have one kid, sure, but no more, she'd never willingly birth another.

But he sees this wildness in her and it attracts him powerfully in both his d.i.c.k and his brain, he knows that much and he does want to tame her, he does want to know if it's possible. He's tamed himself G.o.d knows. And if he could do that with the kid he was why not her? If he had the will and the strength to break himself like you'd break a crazy wild horse he ought to be able to do the same with her.

Maybe he has some kind of sister-in-spirit here, maybe that's it.

Maybe he sees something in her that he also sees in himself - only purer of purpose, sleeker in its aggressive design. He loves his own aggression. It's made him what he is today.

Maybe he's doing this because he loves himself. His pure self. The self without the makeover.

It's possible.

He hammers the bolt home.

SEVENTEEN.

And there they were again today like any other day, all those dopey sweet hormone-driven bubblegum-popping teenage girls with their tight jeans and tight bottoms filing out of her cla.s.sroom with sidelong glances at the boys - and she wished she'd looked like some of them at that age truth be told, it had taken her four years of aerobics and yoga and fat-burning and nickel-and-diming on her diet to get to where she was today. Which admittedly was pretty good. But still...

There they were, all those girls. And there was Peggy Cleek. Faded hoodie and sweatpants again. Posture all gone to h.e.l.l just like some of the freshman girls who were trying to hide their new-blooming b.r.e.a.s.t.s, who didn't yet get what their a.s.sets were going to be.

Hiding.

It came to her all at once like some kind of Zen slap. She knew enough about how her particular brain worked to suspect that it had been forming for quite a while, an uneasy intuition. But now there it was.

"Can I talk to you for a minute, Peg?"

"I don't want to be late for next period, Miss Raton."

"I'll write you a note. Sit down for a sec, would you?"

She sighed and sat, slumped forward. Like she's trying to crawl into herself, Like she's trying to crawl into herself, she thought. Genevieve sat at the desk in front of her, straddling the chair to face her. She studied the girl's face a moment and realized something. she thought. Genevieve sat at the desk in front of her, straddling the chair to face her. She studied the girl's face a moment and realized something.

She reminds me a little of Dorothy Burgess. My first.

It was sad how that had ended.

"You alright?" she said.

"I'm fine. Why?"

She smiled, trying to relax her. The girl was tight as a guitar string.

"How come you're dressing like this lately?"

She shrugged.

"I'm sorry, Peggy. But the only reason a girl your age would cover up this much is if she had something to cover up. You didn't until just recently."

"I don't get what you mean, Miss Raton."

"Nausea. Baggy clothes. Mrs. Jennings tells me you've been sitting out gym for weeks now. Peg, I'm not stupid."

Though I have been, for not getting this sooner. That, and for not antic.i.p.ating her reaction.

Defensive is what she'd expected. What she got was hostility.

"Why don't you mind your own business, Miss Raton!"

Okay. She rolled with that one.

"You are my business," she said. "You're my student. You used to be one of my very best students. Who's the father?"

"Father? You're crazy!"

"I'd like to speak with your parents, Peg."

It was as though she'd smacked her across the face. She stood suddenly rigid at her desk and then took one step backward.

"No. Don't do that," she said. "Listen, I've got to get to cla.s.s..."

She picked up her backpack and turned to go.

"Wait. Hold on. Let me write you that note."

She's trembling , she thought. Her whole body's trembling. , she thought. Her whole body's trembling. She's scared. She's scared.

Very scared.

Leave it go, Genevieve. Don't push her. At least not for now.

Still, she took her time walking back to her desk and even more time scribbling out the note to her teacher. She wanted to let the girl think about it for a moment or two. To let her calm down a bit. She shouldn't have to go to another cla.s.s this way. It was possible she shouldn't have to go to another cla.s.s at all.

"I'd like you to consider confiding in me, Peggy," she said. "It helps to have someone to talk to sometimes, you know?"

She didn't answer. Genevieve hadn't expected her to. She handed her the note. The girl practically ran for the door.

She said, "Any time you want."

Belle sat in the late afternoon suns.h.i.+ne streaming through her living room window, feeding blue cotton fabric through her mother's old Singer, keeping a practiced even pressure on the pedal. Chris had wanted to buy her a Brother computerized-type model last Christmas but she'd said no, her mother's machine still worked just fine thank you very much. Bad enough there were already three computers in the house - one in Peg's room, one in Brian's room and one in Chris' study - and bad enough they each had cell phones too and a flat-screen Blu-ray TV that looked like something out of Star Trek and an answering machine with caller ID and call waiting. The modern age could stop at sewing.

Normally it was something she enjoyed. The last time she'd done any sewing was for Darleen's Halloween costume. Darleen wanted to be Peter Pan. They reminded her that Peter Pan was actually a little boy but she was adamant. So Peter Pan it was. And the first first time she'd used her mother's machine was on the pattern for a wrap skirt for her sister Suzie when they were both just teenagers, Belle the elder by three years. Suzie had loved it. But her sister had moved to Dead River, Maine and wasn't speaking to her anymore. Not for several months now. Not since Thanksgiving dinner down there when Chris, slightly in his cups, had insinuated that her husband Willie, a garage mechanic or time she'd used her mother's machine was on the pattern for a wrap skirt for her sister Suzie when they were both just teenagers, Belle the elder by three years. Suzie had loved it. But her sister had moved to Dead River, Maine and wasn't speaking to her anymore. Not for several months now. Not since Thanksgiving dinner down there when Chris, slightly in his cups, had insinuated that her husband Willie, a garage mechanic or grease monkey grease monkey as he tended to put it, was a loser. He and Willie had almost come to blows. Well, Willie as he tended to put it, was a loser. He and Willie had almost come to blows. Well, Willie was was a loser. But Chris didn't have to announce it over Thanksgiving dinner. a loser. But Chris didn't have to announce it over Thanksgiving dinner.

But today she wasn't enjoying sewing at all. It was the why why of it. of it.

The dress was simple, easy to make.

But the dress was for that woman.

Brian loved the power-sound of it. The hiss of water and the growl of the generator and now too the pounding against the plywood that reduced the dogs' frenzied barking to mere background noise. Paint-chips flew off the old weathered board.

"Dial it down," his father said. "But not too much."