"Every long lost dream

Led me to where you are

Others who broke my heart

They were like northern stars

Pointing me on my way

Into your loving arms

This much I know is true

That God blessed the broken road

That led me straight to you"

-- Rascal Flatts, "Bless the Broken Road"

GOD BLESS THE BROKEN ROAD

The line at Krispy Kreme was long, but the line at Starbucks was twice as bad. Joan checked her watch for the umpteenth time, jiggled her leg impatiently, and wondered why so many people were buying coffee instead of doing their jobs. The fact that she herself had blown off school today was beside the point. "I'm on a mission from God, okay?" she said when the old man in front of her turned and made an accusatory comment about playing hooky.

Maybe God hadn't come right out and suggested truancy, but he had been keen on the topic of friendship. And what kind of friend would Joan be if she let Ruthie sit at home for the third day in a row, two sick children on her hands, no company to talk to? That would be indecent, Joan reasoned. The Krispy Kreme Doughnuts ad she had seen plastered to a telephone pole near Arcadia High was all the persuasion she needed.

After buying half a dozen field sticks so fresh that the top layer of chocolate didn't have a single crack, gooey crème filling dripping onto the wax paper inside the box, Joan noticed the Starbucks across the street. God hadn't ordained coffee like he had the doughnuts, but she knew Ruthie had a penchant for double lattes with extra foam, the Starbucks cup a fixture on her desk during almost every choir practice, and Joan wasn't opposed to them either. She was, however, very against waiting. Her daydream about flashing an FBI badge and cutting to the front of the line, à la Sandra Bullock in Miss Congeniality, had become so vivid that it took the employee behind the counter another "ahem" and finally an impatient "Miss?" to get her attention.

"Oh, sorry," Joan said, moving forward. She set the box of doughnuts on the counter, idly tapped the clear plastic shield on the lid, fiddled with her scarf. "I'll take two... double lattes," she said, surveying the menu out of habit, even though she knew what she wanted, "with extra fo-" Oh my. She stared at the guy she was talking to, getting her first good look at him. She wondered if it was possible to order him in a cup.

He flicked a lock of shaggy black-brown hair off his forehead, smiling. Welcome to Starbucks, I'm Taylor, his nametag read. If he used contacts to make his eyes that cornflower shade of blue, they weren't noticeable. "Foam?" he said, seemingly unaware of his hotness.

"Uh-huh." Joan cleared her throat and stood up straight. She tried to think of something casual to say as Taylor punched her order into the cash register, his slender fingers working with rapid expertise. "Nice wristband," she said, hating herself the minute she heard it out loud.

Taylor grinned with one side of his mouth. He made a fist, twisting it back and forth, the strappy leather wristband sliding to the thicker portion of his arm. "You like it, huh?" The latte machine hummed as he flipped the lever, talking over his shoulder at Joan. "Then I'll wear it tonight when I play."

"Play?"

"Guitar. With my band," he said, tossing his hair again. "The Dead Puppies."

Joan took it back. He totally knew he was hot. "Sounds awesome."

"You should come hear us sometime. We usually play every Tuesday night at O'Brien's down on Tenth Street."

Bummer. O'Brien's was a bar. But the fact that he assumed she was old enough to get in a place like that made Joan giddy. She rummaged in her pocket for the seven bucks, leftovers from the fifty dollar bill her grandparents sent in a card on her birthday, and said, "I might just do that."

"Sweet." Taylor pressed the caps into place on the latte tumblers and wedged the drinks into a sectioned cup tray. When Joan held out the money in exchange for her order, he waved his hand dismissively, his voice discreet. "Keep it. Someone pretty as you shouldn't have to pay."

Joan left Starbucks with an armload of calories and a great big smile.

When the front door to the Snows' house opened, Joan got a glimpse of what Ruthie must look like after a full night in bed. Her blond hair, normally sleek and perfect, the stuff Herbal Essence commercials were made of, was lank, mussed; her eyes, dim with sleep, somehow were larger without the makeup. She wore sporty black pants that pooled on the floor around her ankles, white stripes running parallel on either leg. Her small bare toes were unpolished. Save the pink T-shirt with New York City spelled in bold letters, it was the least colorful Joan had ever seen her. And the most rumpled. But it had an endearing effect, this present look of Ruthie's, like she was an orphan in need of a good home and a healthy meal. Replace the word "healthy" with "fattening," and Joan had the latter part taken care of.

"I'm sorry. Did I wake you?"

Ruthie covered her mouth and yawned, nodding. "I guess. I didn't mean to fall back to sleep though." She froze in mid-stretch, shoulder blades pushed back, elbows bent, and appeared panic-stricken. "What time is it?" she said, gripping the doorknob tightly.

"Uh, quarter after nine," Joan said.

"Oh." Ruthie's muscles relaxed, her posture wilting like a plucked flower. "Pfft. I thought maybe I slept the day away." She put her hand in her hair self-consciously and didn't seem able to decide what should come next, the invite or the question, so she gave them simultaneously. "Why aren't you in school?" she said, moving aside for Joan to enter the house.

"I dropped out."

Ruthie shut the door too hard. "What?"

"Yeah, you've inspired me to quit school and pursue a singing career." Joan kept a steady tone and pace, heading directly for the bright, airy kitchen as if she didn't notice Ruthie scurrying along beside her. She set the doughnuts and lattes on the counter and turned to Ruthie, who had gone a touch more peaked.

"Joan."

"Psych. I took the day off," Joan said, sweet as could be.

"Girl," Ruthie said, hand over chest, "Like to give me a heart attack."

The expression was so very country and Ruthie's accent thickened accordingly, as if the particular brand of fear Joan had instilled ruffled the feathers of Ruthie's inner Southern belle. Joan loved that, the way certain emotions and words in Ruthie's vocabulary twanged more than others. Helen would have argued that she was no different. But when it was your own mother, it just wasn't as cool.

"Sorry," Joan laughed, removing the lattes from their carrier. She presented one to Ruthie, jiggling it a teensy bit. "But I figured if I told you that first, you couldn't get mad at me for the truth."

"Which is?"

"I skipped school to spend the day with you. You gotta be bored cooped up in this house." Joan tilted her head, brown hair falling prettily, and tried to look innocent and childlike. It was hard to pull off, since she had to gaze down at Ruthie. "And I brought you breakfast. Wasn't that thoughtful?"

Ruthie hadn't taken the latte yet. She put her hands on her hips. "Joan Girardi, your mother is going to have my hide if she finds out about this."

"Well, see, that's why we don't tell her," Joan said, and traded the lattes for the Krispy Kreme box. She held it below her nose and inhaled deeply. "Mmm. Doughnut?"

"Really, honey, you shouldn't have come."

Joan's enthusiasm sagged along with her shoulders. She lowered the box and spoke seriously this time. "Don't be mad. I wanted to see you, is all. Make sure you're okay, and the kids. My dad said Don told him they had strep throat or something. And besides, my record is spotless this year and I can get today's notes from my friends, so it's not like I'm gonna get expelled." I hope, she added, but only to herself. "And school is boring without you there. I have nothing to look forward to all day."

It might have sounded like a load of hooey to anyone else, but Joan really meant it. Ruthie must have known because her eyes glistened as she studied Joan for a moment, showing signs of defeat, then dropped her gaze to the floor, blinking. "I'm not mad," she said, and true to her word, there was a pleasant look on her face when she raised it. "I knew there was a reason you were my favorite student." She sniffled and leaned in for a better view of the doughnuts. "But don't tell Friedman I said so. And are those the kind with the crème center?"

"Yes," Joan said, her light-hearted mood returning. "But please, let us not speak of Friedman around the pastries."

When they were settled in at the table, Joan with half a doughnut already consumed, Ruthie with both hands wrapped around her latte, each sip a slow, luxurious process, they fell into quiet, relaxing conversation. Charlie and June were napping, the previous night's fitful slumber taking its toll, so laughter was kept at minimal volume. It took Ruthie nearly ten minutes of fiddling with the edge of the Krispy Kreme box, peeling back the thin cardboard until the corner was practically in shreds, before she gave in, swooping in like a hawk on its prey, taking that first sumptuous bite of doughnut and rolling her eyes.

"Oh, my Lord," she said, mouth full.

"I know," Joan agreed. "I know."

There was an interval of silence as they polished off their first pastries then groaned about being stuffed until they each took seconds. By the time they finished those, Ruthie looked like she wanted to heave, which was to a tee what Joan felt. They sunk into their chairs, Joan with a hand draped across her belly.

"That," Ruthie said, barely lifting her Starbucks cup from the table, only to set it down as though it were too heavy, "was not a good idea." She put the back of her hand to her mouth and belched. Quite a sound for someone her size, though it didn't faze her a bit, what with being on the verge of a junk food induced coma. "'Scuse me," she said, letting her head loll against the carved backing of the wooden antique chair.

"Holy crap," Joan said, and tried to laugh but stopped because it shook her insides too much. She moaned instead.

Ruthie snickered, humor apparently making her random. "Was that hot guy working the counter when you were in Starbucks," she said. "Tyler or Taylor, or whatever?"

"Yes!" Joan sat up and planted her feet firmly on the slick linoleum floor, which was so shiny you could see your reflection in it. Ruthie kept a spotless and well-decorated house. "Taylor. He gave me the lattes for free because he thought 'someone so pretty shouldn't have to pay,'" Joan said, imitating Taylor's lackadaisical speech.

"Awww," Ruthie said. She sighed. "Taylor, the latte boy. I love him."

Their merriment over the name of Taylor's band The Dead Puppies, which Joan had to repeat three times before Ruthie would stop cackling and accept that it truly was the name he had given, woke June. Stumbling into the kitchen, the little girl cranked a fist in one eye and then the other and said in a gravelly voice, "Mama, could you use your indoor voice, please?"

"Oh, Junie Bear, I'm sorry." Ruthie hurried over to her daughter, sweeping the drowsy little girl into her arms, footie pajamas and all. She kissed June on the tip of the nose once, twice, as they plopped down into the chair together, a snug grip on each other. "How do you feel, baby?" Ruthie murmured, her cheek against June's forehead, testing for a fever.

"Better."

"That's good." Ruthie kissed June again.

"Hi." June waved at Joan.

That was a major improvement compared to the little girl's refusal to speak the first time they met. Joan waved back and gave something a try, saying, "Hi, June Bug."

June grinned around her pinky, which was tucked safely away inside her cheek. Ruthie, her arms encircling the girl's waist, gave June a light squeeze and whispered in that surprised tone adults use when acknowledging a special remark made to their child, "That's what Daddy calls you, idn't it?"

Yes, idn't it. Not isn't.

"I like the name June. Is it after the month?" Joan asked.

Ruthie shook her head. "Don's got an aunt named June. They're very close, so he wanted to name June after her. But..." She gazed down at the part in her daughter's hair, an alabaster line passing through dark, dark brown, then placed her hands over June's ears, mouthing, "I hate that woman." She kissed June quickly on the back of the head, as if for penance, and uncovered her ears. "But I'm a huge June Allyson fan, so I named my baby after her and let Don think whatever the hell he liked."

"Mama," June gasped, "you said a bad word."

Joan had been thinking very much along those same lines. The saltiest expression she had ever heard pass from Ruthie's lips was "Well, crap," and even that had been hushed.

"Sorry, sweetie," Ruthie said. She took one of the remaining doughnuts from the open box in front of her and put it on a plate for June.

"Milk?" June said.

"I'll get it," Joan offered, standing before Ruthie could disturb her cozy posture, June slumped heavily against her.

For a moment Ruthie looked truly stunned. "Wow," she said, "you should skip school and visit me more often."

"That's a strong possibility."

"I'm kidding."

Joan retrieved the gallon of skim milk from the shiny chrome fridge decorated with scribbled artwork and photographs of baby June and baby Charlie, Donovan holding the kids, the kids in their swimsuits, Charlie's little boxers soaked and hanging off his bottom, and another of Don pushing June on a swing. "Who's June Allyson?" she asked, waiting for Ruthie to point to the cupboard that stored drinking glasses.

"Get out of my house," Ruthie deadpanned, then smiled right away because Joan looked uncertain. "You're too easy. She's an actress. Popular in the '40s and '50s. Did a lot of musicals, a few movies with James Stewart and Van Johnson. She's so funny and cute. And little. I think she's something like five feet tall."

"So, she's basically you?"

Ruthie got a kick out of that. "Not exactly," she giggled. "She's good. You'd like her."

"I'll have to check her out," Joan said, putting the jug back and handing June her milk.

"Thank you," June said, her lips smudged with chocolate and crème .

"I have some of her movies. We could watch one," Ruthie said, sounding like she was asking rather than suggesting.

Instead of one they wound up watching two. Little Women came first; not the Winona Ryder and Kirsten Dunst version that Joan was familiar with, but one with a very young Elizabeth Taylor in it, and Joan was intrigued. June Allyson was indeed very cute and funny, as Ruthie had said. And though Joan normally didn't have the patience for black and white films, she was able to sit through something called Too Young to Kiss and find it highly watchable. She laughed out loud with Ruthie and her daughter and eventually Charlie, who wailed from his bed until Ruthie carted him to the living room, where he was surprisingly attentive and behaved for the duration of the movie. Ruthie attributed that small miracle to a wonderful little thing called antibiotics.

It was shortly after the second movie ended and everyone had migrated to the kitchen, Joan and Ruthie's doughnuts and lattes worn off, the kids hungry for lunch, that Donovan came home. His arrival was so unceremonious, so noiseless that no one noticed him standing in the high archway to the kitchen until Charlie banged his fist on the table and announced, "Daddy's home!"

"Daddy's at work, Boo," Ruthie said, licking a dab of mayonnaise off her thumb as she turned away from the counter to distribute the bologna sandwiches her children had requested. The sight of Donovan must have startled her; she gasped, a barely audible intake of breath that Joan only heard because they were near each other. So near that Ruthie bumped into Joan while shifting back a step to say, "Donnie. You scared me to death." Her gaze flickered to the digital clock on the stove, the almost empty Krispy Kreme box, the kids. "What are you doing home?"

Donovan ambled into the kitchen, loosening his tie, jacket draped over his shoulder. There was a definite swagger to his walk, Joan noticed, but it was nothing she hadn't seen before in plenty of her dad's cop friends. Cocky, yes, but reassuring in its confidence from someone whose duty it was to serve and protect others. And if anyone had the right look for a walk like that, it was Donovan.

"I live here, don't I?" he said dryly, but paused to make a silly, cross-eyed face at June and Charlie. He bent and kissed them on their tousled heads as Ruthie served the diagonally sliced, crustless sandwiches, handy individual containers of applesauce, mounds of Animal Crackers, lions and elephants piled one on top the other; all if it laid out on kid-sized divider plates with matching cups filled with red juice. He slung his arm around Ruthie's waist, pulling her close, the Krispy Kreme box she had cleared off the table in her hands, and said, "I think I'm coming down with what the kids've got. I've been feeling lousy all day." He reached for the last doughnut and took a bite from it. "Where'd this come from?"

Ruthie stood on tiptoe to peck Donovan on the chin, then disengaged herself from his touch, easing away to pitch the box in the trash.

"I brought them," Joan said to fill the silence as much as give him reason to acknowledge her presence. "Hi."

"Hello," he said, directing a nod her way. "Shouldn't you be in school?"

Joan hooked her thumbs through the belt loops of her jeans and tried to shake the awkward feeling that had set in. She wasn't used to Donovan, their dinner together and a brief run-in between the Girardis and the Snows at a restaurant weeks ago the only times she had been around him. She had liked him those times. His sense of humor was a bit off-color, but his obvious affection for his kids was sweet. Now, though, something felt askew, and Joan couldn't pinpoint what. She got the faint impression she wasn't wanted, and Ruthie's avoidance of her sidelong glance did nothing to disprove it.

"I, uh, took the day off," Joan said. She was relieved when the microwave beeped, signaling that the remainder of her latte had finished heating up. She always liked to drink half and reheat the rest later.

"Ah," Donovan said. "Must be nice."

Ruthie dropped a fork in the sink and it clattered loudly. "Did you want something to eat besides the doughnut?" she said, looking for all the world as if she was conversing with the garbage disposal hole.

"No." Donovan wiped his mouth with a napkin from the dispenser on the table, where he had seated himself between the kids.

"Are you sure?" Ruthie said. "There's some chicken salad left. I could-"

"Not hungry, Ruth Anne."

Ruthie didn't say a whole lot after that. Joan hovered nearby, her backside resting against one of the high oak drawers that lined the room. But only so much time could be spent ignoring the round brass knob digging into her spine while she pretended the lid to her Starbucks tumbler was utterly fascinating. "Maybe I should go," she whispered to Ruthie, eyebrows lifted in a questioning manner.

"What for?" Donovan said, playing with one of Charlie's Animal Crackers, dancing it across the messy highchair tray till the boy squealed and giggled. "Stick around. I'd like to hear what you girls were up to today."

"We just... hung out," Joan said, though it was fairly obvious, with Ruthie and the kids still in their pajamas. "Talked. Watched some movies."

"What movies?"

"Uh, Little Women. And, oh, what was the other?" Joan looked at Ruthie.

"Too Young to Kiss," Ruthie said, drowned out by the faucet, which she turned on to rinse her hands. Of what, Joan didn't know.

"How'd she talk you into watching that tired old junk?" Donovan said, his laugh abrupt, his question aimed at Joan.

"It was good," Joan said, shrugging. She didn't like the way he had phrased that comment, so deprecating, so condescending. Even Kevin didn't scoff at chick flicks with an attitude quite like that. "Hey, you know what? I need to use your restroom and then I think I'll head on home." It wasn't a subtle way to get out of talking to Donovan, but Joan wasn't picky. And she really did have to pee. The latte wasn't helping any.

Ruthie inclined her head towards the hallway and directed, "Last door on the right."

Why Joan didn't place her drink on the counter instead of carrying it over to the table, she wasn't sure, but it was a decision she regretted. As she maneuvered past Donovan's chair, Charlie deemed that moment the perfect one to reach out and grab her arm with his sticky, applesauce-coated fingers. Joan lost her grip on the latte. She gasped as it tipped, a steaming brown waterfall, and dampened the sleeve of Donovan's white shirt.

"Oh, my God! I'm sorry," Joan said as he reacted to the hot liquid, his body going rigid, the chair practically tipping over as he leapt up and shook is arm. "I'm so, so sorry. Are you okay, did I burn you?"

"I'm fine," Donovan said, his voice calm in the midst of the chaos of Joan apologizing, Ruthie scrambling for a dishtowel, and June and Charlie crying like they were the ones whom the latte had been dumped on. He held his arm at an angle, dripping, and peeled the wet shirt away from his skin. "I'm fine. Didn't burn much. But I gotta change out of this." He swung his hand, flicking droplets of moisture in all directions, then hurried from the room with the towel Ruthie had given him pressed over the dark stain.

"I'm sorry," Joan said again, this time to Ruthie, who was already moping latte off the floor with a wad of paper towels.

"It's okay, sweetheart," Ruthie said. "It was an accident." She stood and gave Joan a reassuring but distracted smile, a pat on the arm. "He's a tough guy, he'll live."

"I'm such an idiot," Joan said, helping to situate the chairs that had been knocked awry.

"Don't say that."

While they were still getting things back into order, the kids' sobs reduced to occasional whimpers, Donovan called from somewhere deep in the house, Joan not sure of where, though she guessed it was one of the rear bedrooms. "Ruth Anne, could you come here for a second?" he asked, the distance hollowing out his voice, muffling it.

Joan would have agreed to just about anything right then to make up for her clumsiness. She nodded willingly when Ruthie motioned at June and Charlie, asking, "Would you make sure they stay in here?"

"Mama," June said, but Ruthie was already gone.

A second turned into minutes and soon Joan was bouncing her knees rapidly under the table, desperate for any means of distraction from her screaming bladder. She looked back and forth between June and Charlie. They stared at her, uninterested in their half-eaten plates of food. She tried to dance an Animal Cracker across Charlie's tray, but he sighed and looked away.

"Can you guys do me a big favor and not go anywhere for a minute?" she finally said.

June nodded.

Last door on the right, last door on the right; Joan repeated the directions to herself as she wandered quietly down the hall, passing a closed door on the left. She wasn't in the mood to be observant, but she did notice that Ruthie's collection of angel figurines, which dominated much of the shelf space in the living room, also populated the hall, their delicate glass bodies meticulously placed on wooden stands high enough that Charlie couldn't reach. During her first visit to the Snows' house, that night when they went trick-or-treating, Joan had commented on the many figurines. After looking them over for a while, Ruthie had said, "They make me feel safe."

The last door on the right was coming up. Joan would have made it there if not for the sound of Donovan and Ruthie's voices filtering from the bedroom on the opposite side, last door on the left. Slightly open. She paused. From where she stood, she could see the king size bed against one wall, its fluffy white comforter and mountain of pillows giving it an inviting, cloudlike appearance. Ruthie was sitting on the edge of the bed, bare feet flat on the shaggy white carpet. She looked weary. Donovan had his shirt off and hadn't replaced it with another yet. Too busy pacing.

"You could have combed your hair or at least dressed yourself," he was saying. "Or my kids? You wanna look like shit, fine. But they don't need to. It's almost two in the afternoon, for Christ's sake."

"We didn't have anywhere to go," Ruthie said, looking at her hands that lay in her lap, palms open and motionless, as if she didn't recognize them. "They were up all night, so they slept late. I was tired, too, after sitting with them."

"Well, if you took care of them in the first place, they wouldn't be sick right now," Don said, pausing in front of Ruthie. He raked his fingers through his hair. Started pacing again. "And don't give me that whiny crap about me not helping you with them."

"I didn't say that."

Donovan went on as if he hadn't heard. "I actually have a job and responsibilities. Do you get that? My ass is constantly on the line. I don't get to play around all day with a bunch of stupid kids and bring them home with me when I'm feeling sorry for myself. Christ, Ruth Anne, do you even know how pathetic that is?"

"She came over on her own," Ruthie said, and it sounded indignant but barely. "I didn't know she was planning it, or I would have asked her not to."

"Didn't, didn't, didn't," Donovan mocked in an ugly, humorless way. "Yeah, I bet you didn't. You were probably hoping she'd bring over more than doughnuts, weren't you? Bet you wanted her to bring over that cripple brother of hers. Don't look at me like that. I saw the two of you at that dinner—it was humiliating. Next day Girardi told me he couldn't believe what a slut wife I had."

"Donnie, stop," Ruthie said, faltering as she struggled to hold back tears. They glistened brightly in her eyes as she watched him go back and forth, back and forth. Her hands had balled into tight fists against her thighs, knuckles as white as the bedspread. "Just stop, okay?"

"Oh, you're gonna cry now. Poor thing." Donovan sneered, pausing to stand over her again with the disgusted expression of someone who had just happened on a mangled cat in the road, its guts exposed to the harsh, baking sun. His eyes gleamed but not with sadness. "How many'd you eat?" he said.

"What?" Ruthie wiped at her cheeks and under her nose, gazing up at him. And up, and up. Tear-stained and puzzled, she was frighteningly vulnerable right then, like she might be as breakable as one of the angels she collected. Handle her too roughly and she would shatter.

"Doughnuts. How many did you eat?"

When he didn't get a response Donovan clamped hold of Ruthie's upper arm, his fingers able to wrap completely around it with room to spare, the hollow of his thumb joint going thwack against flesh and bone. She shrank from him, but there was no safety behind her, only empty air and an expanse of bed she would have had to crawl across to get away. It took one sharp tug to get her on her feet, the pillows near the headboard scattering to the floor like they wanted to hide too. Donovan dragged her to the full length mirror beside the dresser, forcing her too close, like he meant to shove her through the glass, then yanking her back from it.

"Donnie!"

"Look at yourself," he said. Loud. Nasty.

Ruthie looked, but she might as well have been staring at a blank wall instead of her own defeated reflection because there was nothing in her eyes to indicate that she saw herself. The woman in the mirror cringed when Donovan brought his knee up, prodding her on the buttocks.

"Your ass doesn't need to get any bigger than it already is. You get fat, I'll divorce you." He pointed at her, matter-of-fact, end of discussion. "But don't get your hopes up. You'd never get the kids."

And just like that, it appeared to be over. The storm clouds passed, the thunder and lightning ceased. Donovan lost interest in his wife and turned to the dresser, rummaging for a shirt in one of many drawers. Ruthie stared through her reflection a little longer, her mistreated arm cradled at her side. She took a shaky breath. "Get, get, get," she muttered, using his previous gibe against him.

Here came the tornado.

As if he had been anticipating that moment, the rest of his insults and manhandling simply foreplay, Donovan pivoted and flung a vicious backhand across Ruthie's face when she made to leave the room. Ruthie hadn't seen it coming - at least not in the visual sense - but Joan had, and the sound of it, the startling crack and the thump of Ruthie's body colliding with the wall, was what brought her back to reality. It had all been like watching some mad disturbing movie up until then. Until she heard what a real slap, not one manufactured by Hollywood, could sound like. Cold and sadistic. And very dead.

Every one of Joan's muscles was taut, urging her to go. Go. Burst into the room. Yell at Donovan; yell at him for Kevin, Dad, yourself, Ruthie. Find something to throw. Get Ruthie and the kids out of the house. Do anything but stand and watch. But her legs wouldn't cooperate and her feet felt welded in place. The only noises coming from her mouth were rapid, shallow gasps for air. She watched.

Ruthie had sunk to the floor and pressed her trembling hands to one eye. Her shoulders quaked as she hunched over, long blond hair mixing with the white carpet. But she was quiet. No uncontrollable, gut-wrenching sobs. That frightened Joan.

Donovan was back to picking out a shirt. "Drama queen," he said after he tossed a blue sweater onto the bed and saw that Ruthie hadn't gotten up yet. He went to her, hoisting her up by the arm he seemed to favor. She looked impossibly small when they were standing together, and it made Joan's stomach turn to see Ruthie flinch and dodge his touch when he tried to examine her injury. Donovan just looked annoyed. He took her wrists and forced her hands down, pinned them there.

Moisture fell in long, continuous rivulets from the corner of Ruthie's eye, which she kept tightly shut, the skin around it irritated and puffy. Donovan's fingertip had caused the damage. Or maybe his knuckle or his ring. It was hard to tell which. He made up for it now by being gentle, tilting her head back, carefully separating her eyelids, the lashes blinking rapidly in defense, to have a look at what he had done. Even from her vantage point, Joan could see the red that had replaced the white in Ruthie's eye.

"You better put something on that," Donovan said. He held her face in his large, powerful hands for a moment so she had no choice but to meet his gaze. "I'm gonna take a shower. Tell Joan to go home."

Icy hot terror flooded Joan's chest, her heart giving a frantic kick. But instead of moving towards the hall, Donovan disappeared into the half bath that adjoined the far side of his and Ruthie's bedroom. He shut the door and the room was still. Ruthie hadn't lowered her head from the position he had left it in, chin aimed at ceiling. She closed her eyes, water pouring from the right, tears from the left, and whispered something Joan had to strain to hear.

Ruthie repeated it. "Jesus."

Whether it was meant as a prayer or a petition or if it was the name and nothing more, Joan couldn't tell. But she hoped God had listened.

It was June who broke the silence. She had crept to the entryway of the hall, peeking around the corner, and called feebly, "Mama?"

Joan stiffened, knowing she would be caught. With the little girl on the one end and Ruthie on the other, there weren't many opportunities to hide. She could have made a dash for the bathroom, but the cowardliness of that option kept her in place. She had already failed Ruthie by standing there like the dimwitted observers you read about in the newspapers, too shocked to move, too out of their element to help someone in need. And she would be damned if she would let Ruthie down like that anymore.

"Mama will be right there, June," Ruthie called back, any trace of hurt absent from her tone though her damp cheeks told a different story. "You stay in the kitchen, okay?"

"Okay." June kept her vigilant eyes trained on Joan briefly, then slipped from view.

When Ruthie emerged from the bedroom, tears gone, nose and eyes and the right side of her face inflamed and swollen, Joan steeled herself for whatever might come. And what did come, after the fear and the surprise wore off, was a lengthy, horribly betrayed look that shamed her to the point of tearfulness. In the month that had passed between them, Ruthie had never shown anything less than approval and love and joy at the sight of Joan. It made Joan ache, this look. "Ruthie," she said but choked on the rest.

"I asked you to stay in the kitchen."

"I... I had to pee." Propriety was the last thing on Joan's mind. "Ruthie," she said again. "My God." She reached out cautiously, acting on the need to touch, to caress, like maybe a gentle hand could undo what Donovan's violent ones had done. Ruthie was still trembling.

"How much did you see?"

"All of it," Joan said. Not entirely true but close enough. What had transpired before she arrived outside the door couldn't have been any worse than what she had witnessed. She hoped. "I heard— he said such awful things. My dad would never call you that, I swear. And your eye." She was crying freely now, and not in the hushed way Ruthie had.

Ruthie peered fretfully down the hall toward the kitchen where her children waited. She took Joan by the hand, guiding her into the dark bathroom and shutting the door. When the light came on, Ruthie blinked several times as if it pained her. She sat Joan on the wooden clothes hamper and plucked one, two, three tissues from the Kleenex box on the back of the toilet. Joan balled them in her hand and watched as Ruthie retrieved a washcloth from the cabinet beneath the sink, wetted the rag under the tap, and pressed it to her own eye. They were speechless for a while, just looking at each other.

"He beats you," Joan finally said. It was stating the obvious, but she needed to hear it. To make sure it was real and hadn't been imagined. Her dad was a cop and she knew the horror stories, had even seen a few crime scene photos of what an angry, abusive husband was capable of. And she knew a handful of people whose lives had been affected by violence, including her mother's. But that had all been an once upon a time and long ago type of violence. Ruthie and Donovan were the here and now.

Ruthie's forehead puckered and she lowered her good eye, the bluntness of that phrase making her grimace. "Yeah," she said. "He does."

Joan's features crumpled in on themselves and she felt a fresh wave of sadness. Leave it to Ruthie to be honest, even about this. "Do you need to go to the hospital? He hit you so hard. I've never-" She was about to say that she had never seen anyone take a slap like that before, but she stopped when she realized Ruthie had probably seen it countless times. And not just seen it. Lived it. Felt it. Joan sobbed.

"I'm all right. I can see. It's just— it's sore, is all."

"Your arm."

"Oh, that I'm used to," Ruthie said, chuckling. It sounded strange and bitter and she stopped. She pinched the bridge of her nose and frowned like she had a migraine.

"That day we went trick-or-treating and your neck was red," Joan said, replaying every single solitary visit, conversation, class, glance they had ever shared, searching for the clues she had overlooked.

"Yeah."

"I didn't know."

"I didn't want you to," Ruthie said. She smiled faintly and removed the washcloth, passing it back and forth in her hands. "I wish you hadn't seen or heard any of this. It's not something you need to be worrying about. This is between me and Donovan."

"Ruthie. He looked like he could've killed you."

Ruthie opened her mouth to object. When no words came she reached for the medicine cabinet above the sink and jimmied it open, not turning till the mirrored door was facing out, away from her. She took a bottle of Ibuprofen from the top shelf and jumped when three other plastic bottles plummeted into the sink, rattling like crazed maracas. She tidied up, then grappled with the childproof cap on the Ibuprofen until Joan offered assistance.

"Does he hit June and Charlie?"

Clasping two rust-colored pills in her palm, Ruthie shook her head adamantly. "No," she said with a firmness that was seldom used. "Never." She popped the tablets onto her tongue with a swift move, a practiced move, and flushed them down with a gulp of water from the faucet. Brushing her fingers lightly across the droplets on her chin, she added, "He loves them."

Love and Donovan didn't belong in the same sentence together, as far as Joan was concerned. She scoffed, blowing air out through her nose. She regretted it when she saw the anguish it caused Ruthie, who was back to using the washcloth as a compress.

"You have to leave him. He can't treat you this way," Joan said. "I won't let him."

Fondly, Ruthie cupped a hand to Joan's chin, gazing down, the low seat of the hamper reversing who had the height advantage for once. Joan snuffled, swabbing her cheeks with the tissues. She thought Ruthie was going to agree.

"I can't leave him, Joan. It's not that easy."

Sure it is. You pack your bags and walk out. Or you get a gun and shoot the bastard before I do. Joan managed not to say it, instead going with, "Why? Is it because you're afraid of him? Because I can talk to my dad. He'll help you."

"No." There was that firmness again. "I don't want you talking to anybody. Especially not your dad. Promise me you won't, Joan." Ruthie looked desperate and the last word was strained, like it had been entangled in her vocal chords: "Promise?"

"But my dad's a cop, he-"

"So is Don."

The knock on the bathroom door scared them both. But as Joan searched for anything that could be thrown at Donovan should he come charging in, a tiny, uncertain voice outside the door said, "Mama?" It was June. "Mama, I tried to stay in the kitchen, but I feel yucky."

Joan blew her nose hastily and dried her eyes, taking her cue from Ruthie, who had checked her reflection in the mirror and really seen it this time. "Oh, God," Ruthie said, but fluffed at her hair and somehow positioned it over most of the red on her face. Nothing could be done about the bloodshot eye, which must have seemed the lesser of two evils, the compress drawing too much attention and suggestive of pain. She left the washcloth on the sink when she let June in.

"What's wrong, baby?" Ruthie said.

"My tummy hurts," June said. She stood at the threshold of the bathroom, studying her mother's face, then bent over and emptied the contents of her stomach onto the floor. "I'm sorry," she cried as Ruthie sidestepped the vomit, plucked her up, and repositioned her in front of the toilet.

Ruthie swept her fingers through June's hair, guiding it to safety as the girl retched into the bowl and wailed apologies. "It's okay, shhh. You don't need to be sorry," Ruthie said, stroking the girl's back. To Joan, who was at a loss for what to do, she said, "You should go on home. Thank you for keeping me company today. That was very sweet."

Joan hadn't expected a dismissal. "You can't stay here," she said, incredulous. "Not with him."

A quick shake of the head was all the warning Ruthie need give. Stop, it meant. Not in front of my daughter. "Go, Joan. Please."

The creak of a door in the bedroom across the hall kept Joan from refusing. She looked helplessly at Ruthie, at June, at the mess seeping into the floorboards. Her body was working against her once more, this time pushing her to move rather than stay still.

"Go!" Ruthie whispered.

Joan went. She hopped the puddle on the floor and breezed past Ruthie's angels in the hall, not stopping. The last thing she heard when she clambered out the front door was Charlie calling from his highchair in the kitchen, "Bye bye, Joanie."

She cried as she sprinted down the road, passing Grace's house and forgetting to stop and bug Rabbi Polanski for his bathroom. She didn't slow down till she reached the bus stop.