Author's Note: Thank you for all the lovely reviews. I wanted to add this chapter yesterday, but I didn't have time. I'm on a mondo crazy schedule right now with school and moving to a new house. Sorry if I seem slow to update at times. Anyway, thanks for reading.
LOST
Despite the frigid temperature outside her bedroom window, sweat trickled from Helen's brow onto her pillow and she kicked the covers off. She was dreaming.
She was in a dark room that she didn't recognize. Faint light glowed in the four corners, no source providing it, though it guttered like the flame of a candle and cast frightening, elongated shadows on the walls. Shadows like winged giants who loomed, their features indistinct and smokelike, fading from view and reappearing in other forms, serpentine, demonic. Closer inspection revealed they had faces that twisted and glowered. Each new creature reached and climbed, scaling the walls and hovering overhead. They whispered, a low, ceaseless noise that became a dull hiss.
Ruthie Snow sat in the middle of the room, looking up, observing the action above. Her hands were bound behind her. The strip of tape across her mouth stretched from ear to ear, a black dash against her pale white skin. The chair beneath her was flimsy and splintered, ready to give at any moment. She was humming a song, but the tune varied too much to identify, like a radio dial jumping from one station to the next.
When Helen neared her, Ruthie quieted. She tilted sideways until her hands were visible, giving Helen a glimpse of the cord that trussed them. It was biting into the flesh at Ruthie's wrists, chaffing and drawing blood. Helen moved to untie the bonds, but Ruthie squirmed away and motioned to the corner, index finger pointing frantically.
They hadn't been there before but when Helen followed Ruthie's aim she saw June and Charlie in the lighter section of the room, their backs to the wall. They were bound in the same fashion as Ruthie, with the exception of the blindfolds that covered their eyes. Helen went to them, working hastily to turn them loose. She removed the blindfolds last, her hands lingering on either side of the girl and boy's heads. The ghastly shadows were still hovering. "Don't look," she whispered, first to June and then to Charlie.
The children immediately gazed upwards, their mouths ajar, eyes wide. More awestruck than fearful. They held hands and continued to gape, tripping along as Helen ushered them towards their mother.
Ruthie wasn't so easy to free. The harder the taut, abrasive cord was struggled with, the faster it adhered to her wrists. Helen's cuticles were raw after finally prying the knot apart and unwinding what seemed miles of rope. She let it fall to the ground as she hurried to peel the tape from Ruthie's mouth. It came off stubbornly, with the soft sound of cloth being torn.
"Who did this?" Helen asked, helping Ruthie stand.
Ruthie didn't respond. She turned her eyes towards the ceiling again. The hiss of voices had stopped, but the shadowy figures were there, shifting and watching, their wings jagged outlines on an expanse of gray. Helen thrust her hand out to keep balanced when a distant rumble turned into a jarring boom that shook the floor beneath her.
"Daddy's home," Ruthie said.
"We need to get them out of this place," Helen said, glancing at the spot where June and Charlie had been. They were gone.
Helen took Ruthie by the arm but let go when a searing pain made them both cry out.
"It's too late," Ruthie said. "He's here."
"Who?"
When Ruthie spoke, it was with Joan's voice. "The devil."
Without warning, a pair of hands reached from the darkness and grabbed Ruthie from behind, dragging her away.
Gasping for breath, Helen sat bolt upright in bed, that final startling image so real, so alive in her mind's eye that she switched on the nightstand lamp and expected to see Ruthie being spirited off. By what, Helen had no idea.
"Mm s'matter?" Will mumbled, rolling over. He was asleep before she could answer.
Helen was midway through punching the Snows' number into the cordless phone when she caught sight of the clock by her bedside. 2:15 A.M., in bright, stoplight red. She hesitated on the last four digits, the 0724 that would probably rouse Ruthie from a peaceful night's rest. And there were the children and Donovan to think of. Thumb poised on zero, Helen waited too long. The call went dead and buzzed flatly until she placed the handset in its base.
For a moment she watched Will sleeping and thought about the dream, or more precisely, the nightmare, and what Ruthie had said. Something about the devil. But why had it been so odd? What made it keep echoing in Helen's ears like a vaguely familiar song she couldn't pin a title to?
"Joan," she said suddenly, grabbing her robe from the foot of the bed. She tucked it around her and crept to the door, padding through the darkened hall till she stood outside her daughter's bedroom. She raised her hand to knock, changed her mind, and let herself in.
Splayed on the mattress, pillows everywhere but under her head, Joan was oblivious to the world around her. A twitch in her eyelids journeyed to her foot, which jerked and flopped against the blanket like a fish out of water. She sighed but did not wake.
"Joan?"
Nothing.
Helen debated whether to try again. There was school in the morning, and Joan had been tired and cranky enough the past two days. Better to let her alone. If she had any insight into the dream at all, it would keep till sunrise. It bothered Helen, though, that Joan was even part of something that had felt so ominous, imaginary or not.
Arranging pillows and seating herself on the edge of the bed, Helen studied her daughter's face, its contours, good bone structure and strong, obstinate chin, the latter courtesy of Will, and she marveled at how sleep reversed time so that Joan looked but eight or ten. Or any age less than seventeen. It was the oldest of clichés, Helen knew, but she could see why people likened their sleeping children to angels. And in that instant, she felt such an overwhelming urge to protect Joan, to shield her from all the ills and heartache life could bring, that it didn't seem a bad idea to barricade the girl in her room and keep her safe forever. If only.
"God be with you, my darling," Helen murmured, placing a tender kiss on Joan's forehead. She let her fingers trail over the dark hair that cascaded against the flowered bed sheets, and added, "Always."
As Helen reluctantly prepared to leave, Joan made a breathy sound that was part agitated sigh, part whimper. She shifted, knocking against the headboard. "It was him," she said, words thick with the effort of escaping slumber.
Helen stopped in the doorway.
"She won't tell," Joan said. "He did it."
"Who?" And as she said it, Helen's déjà vu kicked in. She had had this conversation before, in some form or another, hadn't she?
"Don," Joan replied, as if she actually meant to answer the question, though she had slept right through the asking and the telling. More followed but it was unintelligible.
Helen returned to Joan's side and shook her gently. "Wake up, Joan. What did Don do? Joan."
Sleep had a firm grip on Joan, and she wouldn't respond. Helen sighed, delicate worry lines etched in the corners of her eyes and mouth. Her thoughts went places she did not want them to go. Dark places she had sectioned off in her mind, like the crime scenes her husband frequented, barrier tape around the perimeter. Places she did everything in her power to avoid. And forget. But as quickly as they materialized, Helen's intuition dismissed those fears. It was more than just a mother's hunch, what she felt. It was a certainty that, along with her dreams or visions or whatever they were, she was learning to trust. No, this wasn't about Joan. This was about Ruthie. And though Helen wasn't sure what "this" entailed, she knew it wouldn't be good.
Getting information out of Joan wasn't any easier in the morning light.
"You came into my room and watched me sleep? How Mommie Dearest of you," she had said when Helen brought up the subject during breakfast. The rest of the conversation had been a series of inquiries, followed by elusive "I don't knows," until Joan wandered away from the kitchen table to fix herself another Pop Tart, saying, "I was talking in my sleep, Mom. It didn't mean anything."
But she had blanched when Helen described her own dream. The scorched Pop Tart was left uneaten on a plate by the sink, while Joan, having snatched up her book bag, had headed to the door and said, "I think I'll walk today. See you later."
A different strategy would have to be used on Ruthie, Helen decided. Charism and the possibility of one's husband being evil were rather hefty topics for a half hour lunch break or a stroll between classes. If she was going to get Ruthie to confide in her, really confide, Helen knew it would have to be away from the distraction of school and their families, the latter of which seemed to require more and more of Ruthie's time lately.
Opportunity presented itself in the form of Christmas shopping. Will and the kids thought stocking up the month before any holiday was ridiculous, but they were the ones left buying gifts at the very last minute each year, whining about the stores being bare. Helen found a kindred spirit in Ruthie, who called herself an avid shopper and took quite a shine to the idea of a Saturday trip to the Arcadia mall, presents on the agenda. After the initial hemming and hawing, Ruthie finally gave in to the invite, saying yes, she would love to join Helen that weekend. Their plans were almost canceled when, on Friday, Ruthie had called to say no babysitter could be found for June and Charlie. But Joan had saved the day, offering to watch the kids if Ruthie wanted to bring them over the next afternoon.
"I believe you have my daughter wrapped around your little finger," Helen said to Ruthie, while browsing through Waldenbooks, the first place they both wanted to stop after passing a long strip of mall that blared music, every store teeming with adolescents. "She wouldn't give up a Saturday for just anyone. I wish I knew your secret."
"Joan's such a sweetheart," Ruthie said, her smile warm as she flipped idly through the pages of a novel, the name Gregory Maguire on its spine. "But she might quit babysitting forever, after a couple hours with Charlie. He can be a handful." She slid the book back into the gap where it had been. "Then again, he loves his Joanie."
Helen could tell Ruthie wasn't used to leaving her children, at least not for anything other than necessity. Charlie hadn't even glanced up when his mother left; he was too busy following Kevin, aka Stinky, around the house. But June had looked slightly distressed as she waved to Ruthie, while Joan stooped to the girl's level and chatted about all the fun they would have together. And Ruthie had been quiet in the car ride. She was perkier now, though she commented about the children every few minutes, as if saying their names would keep them from forgetting her.
"They'll be fine," Helen said. She remembered Kevin and Joan being June and Charlie's ages once. What a time that had been. "They're adorable kids. Joan thinks so too."
Ruthie beamed. "Thank you."
With their noses turned up at the lurid artwork on either side of them, they kept their visit to the science fiction section, where Helen was looking for a role playing handbook that Luke claimed to be in dire need of, as brief as possible. She made a disgusted face when she found it and showed the gory cover graphics to Ruthie.
"Lovely," Ruthie said, head tilted at an angle, faking admiration. Then she put out her tongue.
"I shouldn't even buy him this," Helen said, but held onto the manual.
The children's books were far more appealing. Ruthie chose several Berenstain Bears, all for June, and kept them tucked in the crook of her arm, looking like a schoolgirl on her way to homeroom.
"She started reading at four?" Helen said. "That's impressive."
"I know. She's brilliant." And Ruthie stated it with such earnestness and admiration for her daughter that it was anything but boastful. "I didn't even work with her that much. She picked most of it up on her own. Donnie and I used to read her this series about Rapunzel and Little Red Ridinghood, things like that, and one night she just started reading along with us. We 'bout fell off the bed, we were so surprised."
Helen chuckled. She noted the mention of Donovan but didn't want to pounce on it yet. "Joan's favorite was Snow White. She loved the dwarfs, especially from the cartoon. She used to put on bright red lipstick and her frilly nightgown, then she'd make Luke dress up in a ratty old hat and floppy sweater, and she'd call him Dopey."
"Awww," Ruthie said, placing her hand on her chest. "How sweet."
"Luke didn't think so."
"Poor Luke," they said in tandem, and laughed.
Waldenbooks sacks dangling from their wrists, they moved back into the traffic at the heart of the mall, dropping in on Hallmark so Helen could buy a set of gingerbread scented candles for her mother, and the Disney store, where Ruthie pointed to the plush Dopey dolls that lined the wall, and grinned. They hit GapKids next, Ruthie raving about the outstanding styles there for little ones. "Don't tell anyone," she said, gazing around secretively and lowering her voice, "but I've bought things for myself in here, too."
"That is just wrong," Helen said, amused.
"What? This stuff is cute!" Ruthie grabbed a plum-colored skirt, a girls 12 -14, with intricate gold beading that encircled the hem, and held it in front of her like a shield. "It looks like it could be for a grown-up. And it's half the price."
"I mean it's just wrong that you can fit into it," Helen explained. She reached for the skirt, holding it by the waistband and sizing it to Ruthie. Perfect. "Good God, woman. What size do you normally wear?"
"Umm." Ruthie caught her bottom lip between her teeth and batted her eyelashes. The picture of innocence. "Zero."
Helen clucked her tongue and returned the skirt to its rack. "That's not even a real size."
"Oh, what have you got to complain about," Ruthie said, giving Helen a playful nudge with her hip. "You're tall and gorgeous. You can buy jeans that don't have to be tailored. Your shoes fit. And you've got the most amazing hair I've ever seen. Cry me a river."
Helen fussed with the corkscrew curls that surrounded her face. "You like my hair? You've got this," she said, batting lightly at the blond fluff on Ruthie's shoulder, "and you like mine?"
Ruthie picked up a long, flaxen strand and looked at it. "Eh. This isn't even its natural color. It used to be brown. But not the good brown. The boring kind." She busied herself, straightening a pile of shirts that had been rummaged through and left untidy. She glanced at Helen. "Now, you. You've got the reddish highlights happening, not to mention the fabulous curls. And I love it when you pull it up like that."
Flattered, Helen tried to keep her delight at a modest level. "If you were one of my kids, I'd be asking what it is you wanted from me right about now."
"I'm serious," Ruthie giggled. "I'd give anything to have what you have."
The lighthearted mood evaporated then, replaced with an awkward silence that Ruthie filled by humming along to the bouncy music that played over invisible speakers further within the store. "Little bitty pretty one," she sang quietly, twirling a price tag that was attached to a pair of boys khakis. "Come on and talk to me. Lovely dovey dovey one..."
"Ruthie."
Helen had to say it again to get a response. Ruthie was crossing back to the girls department, her shopping technique taking her from left to right, frills and ribbons to denims and plaids, as if too much of either gender bored her. She stopped and faced Helen, with a tentative, "Yeah?"
"Is everything all right?"
"Mm-hmm."
"I don't mean now. I mean, are things all right with you? At home. Because if there's anything you need to talk about, you can tell me."
Helen had spoken similar words to one of her students from the previous year, a sensitive freshman girl whose artwork was prolific but deeply disturbed. As though she had been waiting for the moment when someone would finally notice her pain, the girl, Emily, had burst into tears, pouring out the story of her mother's death and father's alcoholism like her life depended on it. Helen watched Ruthie, expecting a reaction like Emily's. Or any reaction, period.
Ruthie smiled. "Thanks, but things are good," she said, then pointed at a collection of children's accessories that hung from metal hooks on a display in the aisle. She went to them, selecting a dainty chain belt with pink heart-shaped beads on each link and a butterfly charm attached to one end. She studied the butterfly, cupping it in her palm. "Why do you ask?"
"It's difficult to explain," Helen said, wishing Ruthie would make eye contact. If it had been Joan, Helen could have taken her by the shoulders and forced her to turn, to look, but Ruthie was neither Helen's daughter nor seventeen. "I sometimes have these dreams- visions, maybe. I don't know. I'm still figuring them out. But a couple of nights ago I dreamed about you. June and Charlie were there, and Joan, sort of, but I got the feeling it was you I was there for."
No laughter. Helen pressed on.
"I'm concerned because it seemed like you were in jeopardy. And later on when I tried to talk to Joan about it, she practically ran away from me. That's all she's done this past week, is run off or snap at people." Helen sighed and put her hand over Ruthie's, covering the charm. "I know it has to do with you. And possibly Don. Please be honest with me, Ruthie. I need to know that my daughter hasn't been harmed." She couldn't help it; she placed her finger under Ruthie's chin, gently tilting up. "And you too."
"Nobody hurt Joan," Ruthie said, barely above a whisper. She pressed her lips together when the bottom one quivered.
"But you?"
"I can't, Helen."
"Is it Don? Does he hurt you?" Helen hadn't let go yet. She felt the delicate bones tighten in the snub of a chin, the jaw, as Ruthie bit down hard, teeth clenched together. "That's what really happened to your eye."
"I told you how that happened." Ruthie ran a fingertip over her eyebrow, as if that might take it back, might wipe out what Helen had seen, though the bloodshot had already disappeared, the puffiness healed.
"And the other times?" As she said it, Helen was filled with guilt. She told herself it would have taken anyone a while to put two and two together, to connect every subtle hint, every odd moment when Ruthie had winced at nothing or laid her hand on a chair to ease onto the seat. But there were too many moments falling into place now. Too many for Helen to pretend she hadn't noticed. She thought of the day she had tried to slide a tangle of bracelets off her own wrist and onto Ruthie's, after Ruthie had admired them. Why had she overlooked the way Ruthie wriggled free, sleeve not budging?
"I'm clumsy."
It was such an absurd statement, it almost made Helen laugh. Ruthie's movements were graceful and measured, always, as if each step, turn of the head, or position of the arms had been choreographed in advance. "No, you are not."
"Look, we were having a good time. Let's not ruin it," Ruthie said. She looked relieved when a salesgirl approached, smiling. Before the intrusion came, she added softly, "I'm not a liar."
"Are you ladies finding everything okay?" said the salesgirl, whose nametag was decorated with sequins and shiny stars, Dawn printed in block letters at the center.
"Yes," Ruthie said, nodding amiably, her smile at its usual brilliance. "Thank you."
"No problem. Let me know if there's anything I can help you with."
As Dawn wandered over to a young couple who were oohing and aahing at toddler clothes, Ruthie turned to Helen and held up the pink belt, jiggling it so the beads tinkled. "How adorable is this? June will love it."
The casual mood never did quite return, though Ruthie did a nice job of keeping up conversation. Whenever Helen became serious, steering towards any topic other than their children or Christmas or gifts, Ruthie would guide them in a new direction. It was amazing what she could find to talk about. Her chatter halted only long enough for Helen's replies, then barreled ahead at full speed. Heaven help the poor soul who stepped in front of that train.
"Oh, looky there," Ruthie said, indicating a metal placard announcing the dates to visit Santa at his mall habitat, near the water fountain outside of Macy's. "'Santa Claus is comin' to town November 20th.' I'll have to remember to bring June and Charlie. Not that I would get June anywhere near him. We waited half an hour to see him last year, but she would not sit on his lap. I don't blame her. Who wants to sit on a stranger's lap, right?
"But Charlie. He loved every minute of it. I don't think the same could be said for Santa, though. Don— I had to pry Charlie off the guy's lap, his little fists pulling out clumps of white beard." She demonstrated with her hands, a cute pantomime of Charlie's attack. "He was literally eating the Santa beard. The guy was like, 'Get him off, get him off!' It was so funny. But I was finding stray hairs in Charlie's mouth for hours afterwards. We called him Kitty for a while after that. 'Cause he had hair balls."
Helen shook her head and allowed herself to laugh. She was uncomfortable with this game of oblivion, but Ruthie's ability to spin a yarn was entertaining. And contagious. "That sounds like something Kevin would have done. He kicked Santa one time. And when I asked him why, he said it was payback for making the elves do all the work."
Ruthie giggled into her hand, eyes dancing.
"Now Luke, he never believed in any of it. When I tried to convince him Santa was real, he just looked at me and said, 'Mommy, you silly.'"
"Nuh-uh."
"Yes," Helen said. "But Joan. She was the worst."
"That sweet thing?"
"Ha! She had me fooled too." Helen paused to sip at the soft drink she had ordered when Ruthie complained of being parched as they happened by an Auntie Anne's pretzel stand. "She was three, and it was going to be her first time meeting Santa. She'd been sick the two Christmases before, always right around the time I'd planned to take her to see him. So we were both excited for this one. I got her all dolled up in the red velvet dress my mother gave her. Handmade. It had a lacy little pinafore with Joan's name embroidered on the front. Red bows in her hair, patent leather shoes, the whole deal. She was supposed to get her picture taken so we could use it for the Christmas cards.
"Never happened. She was fine at first. I sat her on his lap and she bounced those pudgy legs, showed off the crotch of her white tights to about... oh, hundred and fifty people. Then she turned around and got a look at what she was sitting on and freaked out."
"Oh, no," Ruthie said, completely absorbed in the story. Like she had been there.
"Yes. Total conniption. I was embarrassed to death. They actually asked me to take her away because she was frightening the other kids." Helen shook her cup, separating the ice. "She didn't stop screaming till I got her to the bathroom. By then, her shoe was off and wouldn't go back on. Her hair was a mess. I think we lost the bows. She was pitiful."
Ruthie jutted her lip out, in a sympathetic pout.
"So, I figured I'd make it up to her by getting her an ice cream cone. That rainbow bubble gum flavored stuff she loved. Guess what happened?"
"What?" Ruthie said, but gasped and answered herself. "The dress."
"Right down the front," Helen said, nodding and sweeping a hand down her torso, shopping bags rustling. "I never did get the pinafore clean." She shrugged her shoulders. "That was the end of mall Santas for me. And nobody argued."
"Well, shoot," Ruthie said, sounding vexed. "I was going to ask if you wanted to take June and Charlie to meet him. While I got my hair done."
"Keep dreamin', honey bun."
Ruthie swung her Suncoast bag, the plastic DVD cases inside, which housed movies for Donovan and an Elmo's World for Charlie, clattering against the back of Helen's leg.
They kept the banter going as they exited the mall and stowed their purchases in the trunk of Helen's car. With the added distraction of the radio, Ruthie had exactly what she needed to keep unwanted subjects at bay the whole drive home. If the conversation lulled, she sang. And there wasn't a song the deejays could play that she did not have in her repertoire.
The station was set to country music, Ruthie's favorite after show tunes, and a genre Helen only listened to if her family was absent, when Helen said, "You're really amazing, you know that? I'm surprised you're not on the radio. You've got more talent than all these people." She gestured to the audio system in the dashboard.
Astonished, Ruthie let her mouth fall open. She turned the volume knob up a notch. "Are you kidding me? Do you know who this is? This is Reba McEntire." She pointed twice as she said it, emphasizing the first and last name with the tip of her finger. "They don't come more talented than her. But thank you."
"You're welcome," Helen chuckled.
"I thought about being a singer," Ruthie said, after a pensive silence. She gazed at something, or maybe nothing, outside her window, while Reba McEntire's voice sassed and growled through the tale of a girl called Fancy. "But you know how life goes."
Merging with the end of the previous tune, another song began, the male vocalist crooning with a mellow twang, an almost feminine sound. Ruthie joined him, quietly tapping her long fingernails against the door panel her arm rested on, and singing, "If you lose your one and only, there's always room here for the lonely, to watch your broken dreams dance in and out of the beams of a neon moon."
Before the key left the lock on the front door of the Girardi house, Helen and Ruthie were greeted by June, who glanced up from the living room floor where she sat blowing bubbles, coloring books and crayons littered about her, and announced "Mama, we lost Charlie."
Right on cue, Joan came thundering down the stairway, her hair wild and clothing disheveled, as if she had been subject to a windstorm. "Charlie! Come out, come out, wherever you are," she hollered, bounding off the final step. Her body froze in a track-and-field stance when she saw her mother and Ruthie standing in the doorway. "Char-"
Ruthie's expression wavered between amusement and mild concern. "You lost my son?" she asked, eyebrows arched bemusedly, head cocked to the side.
Helen put her hands on her hips. "We left you alone for three hours."
"He's not lost!" Joan rose to her full height, defensive. She tugged at the bottom of her shirt and brushed a hand through her hair. "We were playing hide and seek. And he's just a very, very good hider."
"Nope." Tiny plastic wand poised near her lips, June puckered and blew a stream of shiny bubbles into the air. She returned the dripping wand to its bottle and added, "She lost him."
"Snitch," Joan muttered, but kindly. "It was your job to watch him and tell me where he went."
"I'm not the baby-sitter," June said. More bubbles. "And that's cheating."
"Oh, if you don't cheat, how come you found me every single time, Miss Smarty Pants?"
"You don't play very good."
"Joan!" Helen said.
"June?" Ruthie said.
"What?" "Yes, Mama?" Joan and June gazed at their mothers, innocence personified. It struck Helen that the girls resembled sisters, brown-eyed and dark-haired, lively color in their cheeks, fractious glints in their eyes, as if they had already been quarreling for a while. And enjoying it immensely.
"Focus," Helen said. "The boy. Ruthie arrived with two children, I'm sure she'd appreciate leaving that way too."
"I'm just trying to decide what happened to this one is." Ruthie motioned at June. Any trace of timidity gone, the little girl had sauntered over, a trail of bubbles floating behind her, and was busy making faces at Joan, who had started the competition by sticking out her tongue. Both girls' mouths were bright red, a telltale sign that they had raided the freezer and found Luke's stash of popsicles hidden behind the ice cube trays and bags of mixed vegetables. "You broke her," Ruthie said to Joan.
"See, this is why I don't baby-sit," Joan said, scooping June into her arms. They were comfortable with each other, June's thin legs trapping Joan around the waist, her head resting against Joan's shoulder. "That is, unless the kids are extremely special."
"Like me?" June said.
"Yeah." Joan patted the little girl's bottom. "Just like you, Junie Bear."
"Sorry to interrupt the Lifetime moment, ladies, but I thought you might be looking for this guy," Kevin said from the dining room entrance. He gave his wheelchair an abrupt spin, much to Charlie's delight, the toddler screeching and clapping as they whirled. When the revolution was complete, Charlie made a daredevil leap off of Kevin's lap, surprising only Helen, who gasped, and fell to his hands and knees, dizzy. He was back on his feet before anyone moved. He ran to Ruthie, shinnying up her body in a monkeylike fashion.
"I hided wif Stinky, Mama," he cried proudly.
"You did?" Ruthie said, her voice matching the enthusiasm of her son's. "What a smart boy!"
"He was with you the whole time?" Joan demanded, turning on Kevin.
Kevin shrugged and lifted his hands, palms up, blameless. "We were in the den. He was keeping me company. I figured you'd find him after a while." He drummed the armrests of his chair, somehow creating a mocking beat. "Guess not."
"Dork," Joan said.
"Dork," June repeated.
The girls shared a high-five while their mothers exchanged scandalized then apologetic looks.
"Great, now there's two of them," Kevin said, retreating. He waved good-bye to Ruthie and Charlie. "Sorry, little man," he told the boy, "too much estrogen in here for me."
"Seriously." Ruthie came closer to her daughter and Joan, peering at June like five years worth of memories had just been erased. She gave June a light poke to the ribs. "Where did my sweet bashful angel girl go to? I don't think I've ever seen this child before." She hefted Charlie further up her hip, adding, "Have you, Boo?"
Charlie tossed his head, exaggerating a nod. "Dat's Junie."
"Now really, Mama," June said dryly, taking Ruthie by the shoulder to deliver the grave news, "you know it's me. You're not tricking anybody."
For twenty minutes Helen apologized for the ruination of Ruthie's children, especially that of June, who spent the entire time back-talking with Joan, the two of them giggling at their own naughty behavior. There was no need to be sorry, Ruthie said. And when she had concealed the presents in the trunk, gathered June and Charlie into the car, along with their toys, the pictures they had colored for her, a jumbo jug of bubble solution Joan had scrounged under the kitchen sink for - "We've had it since I was twelve," she said - and the rest of the goodies they had collected, Ruthie thanked Helen and Joan profusely. Then she hugged them and thanked them some more.
"Y'all take care," she called, half in the car, half out. "See you Monday."
Joan and Helen stood on the front stoop and waved as Ruthie pulled away, she and June returning the gesture, Charlie craning to see out the back window, only his shock of dark hair visible.
"She's so sweet," Joan said, snaking an arm around Helen's back and leaning into her.
"Yeah," Helen agreed, taking advantage of the moment, squeezing Joan tight. "She sure is."
Will propped himself up on his elbows and watched his wife slip into her camisole and pajama bottoms. She let the elastic waistband snap against her abdomen, then retrieved the bottle of moisturizer from atop their bureau and sat down next to him on the bed.
"She actually told you he abuses her?"
Helen rubbed a dry spot near her elbow, working the lotion in. "Not in so many words," she said slowly, her gaze elsewhere, someplace far away. "But you weren't there, Will. You didn't see her face. She was terrified. I said his name and she tensed up like I was about to hit her. I've never seen her look like that."
Will scratched his chin thoughtfully. He sighed and mussed his hair. "I dunno, Helen. Don doesn't seem like the kind of guy who'd beat his wife. He's a good cop."
"Doesn't make him a good husband. And how well do you really know him?"
"How well do you know Ruthie?"
Clearly not the best choice of words, Will realized when Helen fixed him with a fierce glare and pumped an excessive amount of lotion onto her palm. "I'm just saying, it's possible you're wrong," he added quickly. But that was a mistake too. Why had he not fallen asleep the minute his head hit the pillow?
"I'm not wrong."
"Happens once in a blue moon, I know," he said, reaching for her, stroking her slick skin and getting his fingers slapped for it. He wiped them on the bedspread. "But honey, I can't just accuse a man of beating his wife and have him arrested. Even if your Spidey senses are tingling. If Ruthie's not willing to cooperate-"
"Don't blame it on her."
Will groaned and flumped against his pillow, staring at the ceiling. He made a gesture of surrender, his hands raised above his shoulders and pressed flat, knuckles to mattress. "Okay, I'll try talking to him Monday. See what I come up with."
Helen set the lotion bottle on her nightstand and settled in beside her husband, his outstretched arm fitting perfectly into the niche of her neck and shoulder. "Good," she said, "'Cause if you don't, I will." She kissed him lightly, murmuring, "Will."
"Don would rue that day."
"You bet he would."
He held her close that night, and he thought of Donovan and Ruthie. It didn't matter how long he had been on the Force, how many domestic violence calls he answered; he would never understand how a man could deliberately hurt his own wife. And though such cases were always uncalled-for, whether or not the victim was large or small, it disturbed him to think of a strapping guy like Donovan Snow taking his frustrations out on Ruthie, who, if Will remembered correctly, was no bigger than a minute. He had witnessed Donovan subduing a perp or two. Wouldn't wanna be on the receiving end of that, one of the fellows on the squad had commented. And Will had agreed, chuckling. Mean cuss, ain't he?, they had said.
Will listened to the sweet sound of Helen's breath as it made the transition to sleep, thinning out and barely tickling his cheek. He hoped she was wrong.