I take his hand and kiss his burnt palm, try to hold it together.
“There,” I say as I would to Finn. “All better now.”
I move to leave, but he pins my hand hard to the counter, staring at me like a drowning man.
“Let me go,” I say, my voice no more than a whisper. “Please.”
Behind us I hear a creak. Peter is standing in the doorway on the far side of the room.
“Oh, hey,” I say. “Jonas burned his hand.”
33
9:30 P.M.
When we leave Dixon’s, I don’t look back. My chest is full of a hollow pressure, a balloon blown up to bursting with the empty weight of dead air. The nothingness. Darkness stretches ahead. All around me, the high-pitched trill of cicadas blends into the night air. Peter walks in front, his flashlight illuminating a narrow patch of road, the center strip of tall grasses, pale sandy tracks on either side. His light casts a halo into the trees. Moths fly out of the forest, drawn by the light—dust-brown flickers, desperate for wattage. I’ve never understood that suicidal draw. The kids trail behind Peter, complaining that their legs hurt; tired, spooked, staying close to the light. Maybe moths are terrified of the dark. Maybe it’s as simple as that.
“There’s no such thing as werewolves,” Peter is telling Finn, reassuring him.
“But what about vampires?” Finn asks.
“No vampires, bunny,” I say.
“But wouldn’t it be great if there were such a thing as monsters,” Peter says. “Think about it: if werewolves and vampires exist, then magic exists. Life after death exists. That’s a good thing, right?”
“I guess,” Finn says. “And ghosts?”
“Exactly,” Peter says.
“What about serial killers?” Maddy says. “What if someone is hiding in the woods? What if he wants to hurt us? What if he has an axe?”
“Or she,” Peter says.
“Did you guys have fun?” I say, mentally kicking Peter in the shins. Now Maddy will be awake all night, worrying. “I thought it was a nice gathering.”
“We played freeze tag,” Finn says. “Can we have ice cream when we get home?”
Jack walks beside me, carrying my straw bag. At some point, he slips his arm through mine and we walk like that, linked together, along the dark, sandy road, each thinking our own thoughts. Off on a high ridge a coyote barks, nips at the night. Far away, the pack howls back. I listen to their call-and-response, the empty hunger of it. They are coming in for the kill, their dinner of field mice and small dogs.
One of our garbage cans is lying on its side at the bottom of the driveway, two raccoons astride it. They freeze in place when the beam of Peter’s flashlight hits them, little fur statues, bobsledders, eyes lit red in the glare. Corncobs and lettuce leaves and coffee grains and bits of shredded paper towel are strewn around in the dirt.
My mother shouts in annoyance, runs at them waving a stick. “Get out of here! Out! Out!”
We watch them slink-run into the tree line.
“Vermin,” she says, giving the garbage can a sharp kick. “Which of you morons forgot to put the bungee cord back on?” She storms down the path to the house without waiting for a response.
“Imagine if she’d just discovered the Wreck of the Rhone,” Peter says.
“You guys go inside,” I say. “I’ll deal with this mess. Don’t eat all the pistachio. Save some for me. Jack, turn on the outside light, would you?”
I wait until I’m alone. Up above me in the trees I hear the whisper of guarded movements, feel pairs of watchful eyes. What if someone is hiding in the dark? What if he wants to hurt us? For so many years I have put that terrible night away. But now, in this flash flood of love and panic and sorrow, I let my skin go cold. I wonder how long raccoons live. Could these same raccoons have witnessed Conrad raping me? Were they those babies, peering in through the skylight at my moonlit bed? Did my tears scare them? My muffled screams? Or were they bored, waiting for a safe moment to go back to the pond for a few more minnows? Did Conrad’s mother hear Rosemary’s pounding heart in her dreams? What if he has an axe? I imagine Maddy alone, terrified, begging for mercy, Peter and I asleep in our cabin, unaware. I want to promise her that nothing bad will ever happen, that no one will hurt her. But I can’t.
I sit down on the ground, amid the old salad and damp cigarette butts and tea bags. An empty box of Bisquick ripped to shreds by sharp little claws. Last night Jonas came at me in the dark, shoving himself into me, my head pressed hard against cold cinder block, unearthly, gasping, a beautiful pain, dress pushed up around my waist, and I felt my entire life coming together inside of me.