Author's Note: Something I forgot to mention in the last chapter... it didn't occur to me when I wrote this that Thanksgiving is Joan's birthday (or at least sometime in there). And I didn't want to change it or add that it was her birthday (because how depressing would that be?), so I left it as is. I guess in my world Joan's birthday is a few days after Thanksgiving, lol. And TeeJay: thanks for posting those lyrics! I only know Alanis's really early stuff, so I wasn't aware of that song, but I like the lyrics. You're right, they do fit this story. Very cool. I love making connections between songs and stuff I'm reading/characters I like, so that kinda made my day for you to bring that up. Thanks again! And thanks to all you other reviewers too. :)

Part I: THE VOICE

Ruthie lingered in the doorway of Helen and Will's bedroom, watching her children sleep in the big, unfamiliar bed, their dark heads nestled onto clean pillowcases, their bodies snuggled under clean sheets that had been rummaged from the linen closet. Helen would not be talked out of giving up her room, insistent that she would never get to sleep with Will's side of the bed empty, anyway, and would be fine sharing with Joan. When Joan wanted to know what was wrong with Luke's vacant room and Helen had said that was for the children, Ruthie felt obliged to save the younger girl's privacy, assuring the Girardis she would be fine sleeping with June and Charlie. No, it wouldn't be too uncomfortable or crowded; yes, she was positive. When it came right down to it, Ruthie wanted the girl and boy close to her. She couldn't let them wake in the morning to strange surroundings, no Mama in sight. Not after the evening they had had.

She went back for another round of kisses, removing Charlie's fist from his eye, caressing the Looney Tunes Band-Aid on June's palm and shedding more than one tear. She was tempted to stir them, to jiggle them until their droopy eyes opened just long enough for her to apologize for the jeopardy they had been in while going to and from the hospital without car seats. Why hadn't she remembered to switch those damn things to her car? She usually did immediately after the kids were unbuckled, because it was so easy to forget once you went inside. And then she had gone and done exactly that, forgotten, tonight of all nights. Real smart, she told herself. It didn't matter that she had been rushed to the ER by neighbors who wouldn't have known to grab the car seats, anyway. She should have remembered.

"Mama's sorry," she breathed by one tiny ear and a second, tinier ear, two kisses on each.

This time she managed to snap off the light and step out, the door cracked to allow in a soft glow from the hallway bulb. Her aching muscles and stiff joints yearned for the respite of a mattress and warm blanket, but she wouldn't be able to sleep yet, even if they got it. Her mind was too full. Of memories, doubt, fear, anger. And so, so many questions that a brain dulled by whatever those pills were she had been given didn't seem capable of answering.

Helen and Joan were awake also. Ruthie heard them downstairs murmuring to each other, their voices hushed as if the regular inhabitants of the house, the men who rounded out the Girardi family, were tucked in on the second floor and needn't be disturbed. Helen had expressed some concern that Kevin was not home from his date and no messages were left on the machine, save a hang up around 1 A.M. As she passed by the boy's darkened bedroom, Ruthie couldn't help feeling relieved that he and Luke and Will were gone. The three of them were nice guys, friendly, their smiles and hellos done at a distance, as though they sensed not to come too close, not to loiter near someone else's territory. But her pride couldn't handle anymore pitying looks from people she didn't know that well. It was embarrassing enough having Helen and Joan see her like this.

Not that she had gotten the nerve up to see what "like this" was. She had avoided catching a glimpse of herself in Helen's rearview on the quiet ride to Euclid Avenue, and her earlier trip to the bathroom had been brief, more precaution, because of a queasy stomach, than anything. But sooner or later she would have to look.

She decided on later and went downstairs, where Joan and Helen, bless them, did not lapse into silence but turned to her as if it were perfectly normal to have her in their kitchen at going on two in the morning. At the same time, they both offered her the chair between them, Joan on the left, Helen on the right.

"Can I get you anything?" Helen asked, her voice overlapping Joan's, who wanted to know: "Are you hungry? I'm hungry."

Ruthie tried not to smile too wide because her puffy eye wouldn't stay open when she did. "No, thank you," she said. "I'm not that hungry."

"You sure?" Joan had moved to the refrigerator, snatched a bag of Doritos off the top, and pulled a 2 liter of Coca-Cola from the bottom rack inside.

"Umm..."

"I doubt very much Ruthie wants to eat junk and get a caffeine buzz at this hour, Joan," Helen admonished.

"Actually." Ruthie watched Joan fill a glass with the dark amber liquid. "I think I will have some Coke. Just a smidge."

"Ha!" Joan said triumphantly, taunting her mother. She walked the first glass to the table and placed it in front of Ruthie, then went back to pour another.

Within minutes, they each had their own stacks of Doritos situated on napkins from the basket on the table, and Helen was sipping Coke out of a mug with Joan, Kevin and Luke's picture on the front, which, when Ruthie made a comment, she said belonged to Will. Joan's attempts to be mortified didn't fool Ruthie. She knew a daddy's girl when she saw one. It was sweet, that father-daughter relationship -- something she had always wanted for her daughter. Not weekend/holiday visits and eventually no visits at all.

She crunched into her final tortilla chip, forcing away that train of thought. Discreetly, she licked the orangey powder off her fingertips.

"More?" Joan held the bag at the ready.

"Nah, better not. I don't have a toothbrush." That, and her jaw was beginning to feel sore. Ruthie reckoned that came from being gripped too hard. She would have to check for bruises on either side of her face, the kind that looked like dirty smudges, probably located a bit below the ears and right on the curve of jawbone, the latter of which must be enticing, must seem an easy target to latch onto during an argument, because she had found those bruises so many times before. "Y'all will have to steer clear of me in the morning, as it is."

"We've got extra toothbrushes. We're pretty sure Kevin stopped brushing altogether sometime in the late '90s. He and Luke never use the freebies from the dentist. There's, like, ten of them in the medicine cabinet, still in the package."

"It's true," Helen admitted, shaking her head. "And speaking of Kevin." She dusted off her fingers and reached for the cordless phone, which chirruped persistently from its station on the wall. Beep went the talk button when she pushed it. "Hello?"

"You want a toothbrush now, Ruthie? I'll get it." Joan was on her feet, no answer required. "You need pajamas too. Oh my God, nothing I own is going to fit you."

"Hello?" Helen repeated.

"That's okay," Ruthie said to Joan. She gestured to her sweater and jeans and, just then, realized there was dried blood on her left sleeve, near the ribbed cuff she had swiped under her nose, at some point, to stop the gushing. She lowered her arm quickly. "I'm fine in this."

"Nuh-uh. You can't sleep in jeans. Come on, we'll find a pair of drawstrings."

As they were headed for the stairs, Ruthie having been discouraged from neatening the table, Joan called over her shoulder, "We're going to my room, Mom. What'd Kevin say?"

"Wasn't him. Another hang up."

Alone in the kitchen, Helen went to the back door and made certain she had locked it, though she recalled doing so about half an hour earlier, right after securing every other possible entrance. "Kevin," she sighed, gazing at the patch of pavement that stretched from garage to house, lit like a runway, a row of miniature lanterns on both sides. She contemplated shutting them off, but Kevin would need the light should he ever decide to return home and be skinned alive for not checking in.

She lingered there a moment, then drew shut the tiny curtain that dangled from a rod above the window in the door.

It was difficult but Ruthie was able to unzip her jeans, shimmy out of them, step into the pajama bottoms Joan had resurrected from deep within a pile on her closet floor and claimed not to have worn since she was thirteen, and guide the waistband up around her hips. But no amount of one-handed skill made it possible to tie the drawstring so the loose, pink and lime striped material wouldn't drop back down to her ankles. Clutching the strings in her fist, stretching them taut, she said, "Joan."

At once, Joan's bedroom door opened and the girl peeked in. "Yeah?"

"I got them on, but..." Ruthie displayed the problem, waggling the knotted ends of the strings. How pathetic, she thought, to have to ask help for such a thing. How utterly pathetic. But Joan didn't need any further explanation, and her hands were swift yet careful as they formed a neat little bow against Ruthie's stomach.

"Is that too tight?"

"No."

"I can get you a T-shirt," Joan offered, for the third or fourth time.

Ruthie still declined. Even with assistance, getting her ill-treated top off and another on was a challenge she did not feel like confronting. And it raised too many questions. What would she wear tomorrow and the day after? And what about the end of Thanksgiving break when school would resume? What then? She couldn't hide out with the Girardis forever, dressed in baggy pajama bottoms and a bloody sweater. Her possessions, her life and the children's too, all of that was in a house across town.

She stifled a sigh and finally looked at Joan, whose eyes were big and full of concern, as if she had just read every thought in Ruthie's head. Besides June, no one else had ever looked at Ruthie quite that way. She wondered how it came to be. How, of all the random places, she had been plunked into Arcadia and met a seventeen-year-old girl who knew her better in less than two months than anyone had for the past eleven years.

"I, uh, put some stuff out for you in the bathroom," Joan said, her voice soft. "But you can use what you want. And if there's something you need, holler."

"Thank you, sweetheart." Ruthie caught Joan by the hand and placed a kiss there, on the back, ever so lightly. "I don't know what I did to deserve you."

The spacious upstairs bathroom with its moderate lighting and warm, autumn color scheme would have been a perfect haven if not for the mirror above the sink. Ruthie's first instincts were to lock the door and run the tap, a trick that, when she was lucky, bought her a little extra time alone. But she didn't have to do that here, she reminded herself. She only had to build up the courage to examine her reflection.

It wasn't as bad as she feared it might be, judging by everyone else's reaction. The left half of her face was a different shade than the right, the raccoon-ish black eye the worst of it, with pinpricks of red mixed in like mock freckles, strange and bright. Her nose didn't have a bump, didn't even seem swollen. She had been worried about that. It was her ratty hair that disturbed her most.

She cleaned her teeth first, doing a poor job of it, the stiff bristles on the new toothbrush Joan had opened for her, and the soreness in her gums and teeth (amazing how pain in a certain area of the body could spread to others), making her effort a short one. Then she set to work detangling her hair with the paddle brush that probably belonged to Joan, if the tumbleweed of dark brown in the wastebasket was any indication. Her arm tired within seconds, and each snare she came upon frustrated her until she would have loved nothing more than to hurl the brush at the mirror and rid it of that image, that wincing, pitiful woman she loathed.

If that's how you look to Donovan, she thought, it's no wonder he hits you.

She yanked at another stubborn knot once, twice, and gave up on the third try, sinking onto the closed lid of the toilet seat and lowering the brush to her lap, defeated. She lost track of how long she sat with her palm flat against her belly, fingers splayed, glazed eyes pointed at the mosaic floor tiles, but it must have been a while. A tentative knock on the door was followed by Joan's voice inquiring, "Ruthie? Are you okay?"

Ruthie shook her head.

"Ruthie." Pause. Joan rapped harder, faster. "I- I'm coming in." The knob turned hesitantly and the hinges creaked as the girl entered, an uncertain expression on her face. Her brow furrowed at the sight of Ruthie's slouched posture, dispirited frown, and the troublesome brush now interwoven with blonde, like cobwebs amongst the bristles.

"I can't-" Ruthie's words broke off, but she left it at that. I can't summed up nicely what she was feeling.

Like she had before, Joan took charge without making a fuss. She let the brush be passed to her and waited as Ruthie rotated her knees and then the rest of her body to the side, her back to Joan instead of the porcelain tank. Standing between tub and toilet, Joan sifted her fingers through Ruthie's hair, drawing it behind her shoulders, and began with the ends. "I should have given you a comb," she said apologetically, when she reached the strands that had plagued Ruthie, the ones fused together with blood.

"You should have given me scissors."

"Hey." Joan sounded alarmed. "We'll fix it." She hurried to retrieve a comb from the drawer beneath the sink, wetted it with a stream of faucet water, then resumed her task.

Ruthie shut her eyes and concentrated on the tingling in her scalp and the occasional prickle when a rough spot interrupted the rhythm of Joan's hands. The last person to do this for her, to labor so cautiously, as if her hair required the finest of care and gentlest touch, was her mother. It was a pleasurable sensation Ruthie had long forgotten. She parted her lips and exhaled, soft and slow. Though she hadn't meant it to, her story tumbled out, along with that wispy breath.

"We went up to Baltimore, Don and the kids and I. His parents live there, and his mom's been pestering him to visit since we moved to Maryland. She and I don't get along, I don't know why." Ruthie gave a quick, mirthless laugh. "Yes, I do. She hates me. But I went. It's Thanksgiving." She lifted her hand in a makeshift shrug and didn't bother adding that she had no choice, holiday or otherwise. "Anyway. I lost my temper over something she said, and I made Don... so angry. We left early because of me. It might not have been as bad if that hadn't happened.

"I don't remember what time it was when we got home, but the kids were asleep and I put them in bed so they wouldn't hear. I figured he'd be mostly talk. He never... beat me while I was pregnant with June and Charlie. Not really. Still, I didn't want to go through that -- him cussing me out, and me... just sitting there. Sometimes that's almost as bad as the other. So I stayed in June's room for a while. And I was looking at her and thinking about what you said. That the way Don treats me affects her and Charlie too." Ruthie's chest heaved, but she held on. "I've been thinking about that a lot lately. What if my little girl, my sweet, innocent baby girl, one day meets a man like her father, someone who slaps her and calls her names, and she thinks it's okay? Thinks it's normal? Because of me?" She shuddered, continuing in a whisper. "I couldn't live with myself."

"That won't happen," Joan said, her voice unsteady and far away.

Ruthie cleared her throat, gathering her composure. She reached back with her left hand, finding the side of Joan's leg and patting it. "I want June to be like you. You're the bravest person I know."

"You're brave, Ruthie."

"No, I'm not. I keep hiding. I would've stayed in June's room all night if he hadn't come to get me. That's the first thing he said: 'You can't hide in here forever, Ruth Anne.' Then he just stood in the doorway and waited." Ruthie brought her hand to her forehead and rubbed, wishing the memory of Donovan's broad-shouldered form, solid, hulking, half lit by the lamp in the hall, wasn't such a vivid one. She expected to look up and see him glaring at her, even now. "I didn't think he was going to let me past at first. When I did get out and shut the door, he shoved me into the living room and started in. F-this, F-that, I oughta break your goddamn neck." She practically gagged, the taste of Donovan's words bitter in her mouth, revolting. "I tried to walk away, but he grabbed my face and said I wasn't going anywhere."

She demonstrated, covering the lower portion of her face with her palm, thumb stretched towards one ear, remaining fingers aimed at the other. She let go quickly, her posture sagging again, the moment relived. Only, Donovan had not been so generous as to release her. "That's how I got the bloody nose. And that made him madder. Because I bled on his new shirt. So he yelled at me for that. I told him to keep his voice down, he'd wake the kids. He shook me and yelled, good, the kids should get a look at what a worthless piece of trash they had for a mother. And, Joan, he started dragging me to the hall like he really meant it and was going to wake them up."

Ruthie unclenched her fist, realizing her fingernails were about to puncture skin. "I fought him then. And I shouted at him because I knew it would tick him off and maybe he'd forget what he was doing. Well, it worked." With a hasty gesture, she indicated the ripening bruise on her cheekbone, eyelids, and part of her temple. "I fell into that big wooden hutch along the wall, the one with most of my angels on it. You know which one I'm talking about?"

"Y-yeah."

"A couple of them got knocked off and broke. He actually stopped and looked at them, his elbow cocked and his hand up in the air, ready to hit me again. He had an epiphany, I guess. You should have seen how happy it made him. He had this little smirk while he smashed the rest of them, like he was so clever." Ruthie clucked her tongue. "What's so clever about that? All I could think was he must be pretty slow not to have thought of it a long time ago. I've had those things for years, and he knows how much they mean to me. He even bought a few on birthdays and Christmas. Maybe that's all they were, something to use against me later. I didn't try to stop him though, and he finally got bored. Went back to smashing me.

"The rest is kind of fuzzy. I know I ran from him and ended up in the kitchen, but I don't remember how I got on the floor." Ruthie had begun to lose steam, the fervor of her words waning. She didn't want to continue, but she had already come this far. No point in turning back. "While I was down, he... he hit my stomach, or maybe he kicked me, I don't know. Whatever it was, he did it deliberately. And you were right about this." She pointed to the sling. "He yanked me up by my arm -- Christ Jesus, it hurt. He kept yelling at me to 'shut up! stop screaming!' I guess he didn't realize what he'd done." Or he had and didn't care, his fretfulness and wide-eyed concern after going a bit too far, testing her body a bit too much, ancient history, same as his first tearful vow never to hit her but that one time.

"June and Charlie," Ruthie said, puckering, having to start over. "I didn't see them come in. How much they saw? Who knows." She lifted her hand half-heartedly, and it flopped back into her lap. "They screamed so loud. That's what made him stop. He was holding me up and then he just... wasn't there, just dropped me. Next thing I remember is the hospital."

"Oh, Ruthie..."

Ruthie spun in Joan's direction, her eyes brimming with hot tears. She touched her belly where Donovan had delivered his punishment. Because that's what it was; he had wanted to punish her. Unsatisfied with the results he was getting, he found a new method. "How could he, Joan?" she asked. "It's his baby inside me, and he did it anyway."

The comb forgotten, its purpose served, slipped from Joan's fingers and landed noiselessly in the dense rust-orange yarn of the bathroom rug, a match to the lid cover Ruthie sat upon. Glistening streaks of moisture had dried on the girl's cheeks and fresh ones were forming. She knelt, putting herself at a level below Ruthie instead of towering above her.

"He is sick," Joan said. "He's a sick, dirty coward, and he wants you to be as miserable as he is. But you can't let that happen, Ruthie. Remember the little girl who went trick-or-treating with us? Remember what she said to you? Your soul is beautiful. I know for a fact she was right. Trust me. Don knows it too. That's why he does this to you. 'Cause he's ugly inside." She clasped Ruthie's hand. "That's the only reason."

Ruthie studied the girl's earnest face and found comfort there, and release. For the first time that evening and the second time since she had met Joan, she allowed herself a good long cry. She held nothing back.

Part II: THE SOUND & THE FURY

2:15 A.M. Helen squinted at the Roman numerals on the clock face and recounted. If the timepiece hadn't been a gift from Will's favorite aunt and uncle, she would have taken the thing off the kitchen wall and replaced it with a normal clock, one with real numbers she could decipher. But yes, she decided, it did say 2:15. And that was her cue for bed.

Sleep was probably a hopeless fancy, what with being wired on Coke, worried about Kevin, worried about Ruthie, worried about Will, and exiled to Luke's bedroom for the night. But at least she might doze once or twice, and that was better than no rest at all.

Yawning, she placed her, Ruthie's, and Joan's cups in the sink, shook her head and rolled shut the bag of Doritos, then balled the napkins that had served as plates and tossed them into the garbage. She was about to flick off the kitchen light when a knock at the back door startled her and made her say, "Well, it's about time."

She shuffled back through the kitchen, her slippers scuffing the floor, the breezy fabric of her robe fanning out behind her. "You may be a grown man," she grumbled as she went, "but I am still your mother, and I need to know where you are. Learn not to lose your house key, maybe then I'll trust you."

Her hand was on the dead bolt, turning it while she swept the curtain aside to peer out the window at her son. She froze in the middle of reaching for the door knob. Quickly, she fumbled with the lock, the bolt returning to its shaft with a thunk. She retreated a step, dropping the curtain and hoping she hadn't been seen by Donovan Snow, who waited on the other side of the door, his body looming as he leaned on the jamb like an actor filming a passionate scene, he and his lover about to share a farewell kiss.

"Hey, uh, Helen? It's Don Snow. You know, Ruth An- Ruthie's husband. Sorry to bug you so late." His knuckles went rat-a-tat on the windowpane. His voice was muffled and had a vague slur. "I was going by and saw your lights on back here. Can I talk to you for a minute?"

Helen clutched the sides of her robe, winding them around her fingers. She felt a hot, overwhelming panic about to erupt in her chest, but she forced it away, reined it in before it became paralyzing. She would not be cowed by this man. This bully. She was tempted to open the door just so she could slam it in his face. She opted for frowning at him through the thin glass partition.

"I know who you are," she said, standoffish but not hateful. As if speaking to the pesky neighbor boy who used to wait on the porch for Joan when she was ten years old and wanted nothing to do with him. "My family and I are in for the night. Whatever you need, I'm sure Will would be happy to discuss it with you tomorrow."

"Well, it's about Ruth Anne. So I'd rather talk to you."

"What about her?"

"She's- could you open the door?"

Helen waited.

Donovan raked at his sleek black hair, the gold in his wedding band catching the light, glinting like the eye of some nocturnal creature. A screech owl, a fox. He shifted his weight; his amiable expression wavered. "You happen to know where she is? Me and her, we had a little misunderstanding earlier. She took off." He glanced sideways, distracted by a noise or a shadow, his turned head making him difficult to hear. "I'm looking for 'er."

A little misunderstanding. Son of a bitch.

"I haven't seen her, Don."

"She's a liar. Whatever she told you I did, it's crap. It's total b.s."

"I said I haven't seen her."

"Just open the door. I know she's in there." Donovan raised both of his arms, planting his hands on either side of the doorway, high up. Making himself bigger.

"Go away, Don. It's the middle of the night. Ruthie's not here."

Donovan's jaw slackened then jutted forward, the white ridges of his bottom teeth visible just above his meaty lower lip. He slit his eyes at her, black pupils glittering. His breath made a faint haze on the windowpane. He didn't budge.

"I'm calling the police," Helen said.

"You do that. Be sure and tell 'em they gotta come and arrest one of their own men."

Fuming, Helen dropped the curtain again. She took a step backwards and watched for Donovan's silhouette to disappear from the flowered drape, which worked like a scrim, the outside light obscuring her and emphasizing him. But to be safe, to be absolutely certain he wasn't able to see in, she used the length of her outstretched, opened-palm hand to off the entire panel of light switches on the wall, flooding them both in darkness.

She heard him swear. And then something, his foot or his shoulder or his whole body, rammed against the door, accompanied by the sound of wood splitting. She jerked into motion, giving a quick leap in the air and darting towards the kitchen, nearly colliding with the wall, skirting the hall tree and its oak bench that almost claimed her kneecap. "Oh!" she cried.

Another dull thud.

Helen made it as far as the first row of cupboards before she realized the cordless phone was not in its base. She felt suddenly off-kilter, as if a rug had been snatched from beneath her feet or she had neared the edge of a cliff too quickly. God, where had she left it? She listened to the crackling of glass as it was busted from its frame, the tinkle it made as it fell soft, chime-like, the clunk of the dead bolt that followed, and she replayed in her mind the previous half hour or so. She had answered the phone thinking it was Kevin on the line; she had kept it with her after Ruthie and Joan went upstairs; she had gone into the den, the downstairs bathroom, the living room and back to the kitchen...

There. There it was, on the cushion of the chair where Ruthie sat when she and Joan had joined Helen at the table. She lunged for it, had it in her grasp, pressed the wrong button before finding Talk, the tiny display screen and number keys illuminated by a pale green glow. Her fingers shook. 9-1...

Before her thumb depressed the second 1, a powerful set of hands clamped hold of her arm, one at her wrist, the other at her elbow. She sucked air between her teeth, reacting to fright and a stab of pain, and lost her grip on the phone. It bashed against the table, bounced to the floor, the battery hatch popping loose, vanishing under the fridge. Donovan released Helen's elbow and scooped the phone up, looking to see if the call had gone through. It hadn't.

"Let go of me," she snarled, trying to wrench free of him, "and get out of my house. I swear to God-"

She had no clue what she was about to swear to, and she never finished the thought. Donovan surprised her by letting her wrist go.

"Look," he said, "let's just calm down. Let's just calm the fuck down. We can settle this real simple. All I want's my wife and my kids. That's it. This can go real smooth. I'll get 'em, we'll leave, I'll replace your window -- hell, I'll pay for a whole freakin' new door and install it myself. I like Girardi. I'll explain to him and apologize, and it'll be fine. Just give me Ruth Anne."

He had been drinking. Heavily. He was rank with it, a hard liquor smell that permeated the room and seemed to steal the oxygen in it, making Helen dizzy. The fluorescent bulb above the sink was on; he stood in the pool of bleached light, a subtle sway to his big frame. He wore no coat, only a trim-fitting Polo shirt, dark blue or black, the long sleeves pushed up, ready for action.

"Go to Hell." Helen gazed past him, judging the distance to the telephone in the living room and if she could make it. "When my husband finds out you're here, he'll-"

"Save it. I know where Will is." Donovan craned his neck and bunched his shoulders in an exaggerated shrug, his eyes roving, pretending to search. "And it ain't here," he added.

Helen's fortitude was failing her, slipping away the harder she held onto it, wet sand through the cracks of her fingers. She tried to breathe normally, but her lungs seized at the air they got and demanded more. She had not been claustrophobic for years, not until this moment, with him flashing that smug, triumphant smile. He took something out of the back pocket of his jeans and toyed with it.

"You're married to a cop. Don't you know how useful one of these can be?" He held it up -- his badge. Police: Arcadia, Maryland. It shined in his hand, the ultimate proof that he was in control. "You can find out all kindsa shit with it. Like when I checked at the station to see if my missing wife had made any calls" - he shook his head, indicating she hadn't - "Good girl. And while I was there, buddy of mine asked if I'd heard about poor Girardi in the hospital, with kidney stones. Said the wife phoned in sick for him. Well, that was ironic since I was planning to check the hospital next. Guess what they told me there? That Ruth Anne had gone to a 'shelter.'"

"Bull," he snorted. "She may be one dumbass little bitch, but there's no way in hell she'd take the kids someplace like that. I know her too well." He flaunted the badge again. "Lady at the desk changed her tune when I showed her this. She got all flustered and kept apologizing for only knowing that Ruth Anne had left with some friends. Couple of women."

Women.

"But the best part." He was gloating as he reached for his back pocket a second time, bringing forth a slim cell phone, expensive from the looks of it. "It was Ruth Anne who gave herself away. I didn't even have to hunt for your number. She's got it saved: H & J. Didn't get an answer the first time I tried, but I knew for sure she was here the second time. Heard her talking to your daughter in the background." He suddenly clenched his teeth and squeezed the cell phone until his fist vibrated. "She left this in my car. I bought her the goddamn thing so I'd know where she's at, but she's always forgetting it or some stupid shit. 'Oh, I turned it off, Donnie. I'm so, so sorry...'"

As he was occupied with mocking Ruthie, his voice shrill and whiny, Helen ran. Her plans were sketchy, ill-formed, probably destined to fail. But she made it to the living room entrance, charging like the devil was at her heels. The devil clad in suede oxfords that thundered on the floorboards in swift but not frantic pursuit. He was confident he could stop her. Joan beat him to it.

"Mom?"

"Stay up there and lock the door," Helen ordered, before she had even glanced over to see that the warning came too late. Her daughter and Ruthie were already on the middle landing of the staircase and descending farther, their expressions startled and confused, mirroring one another, though Ruthie's was more apprehensive.

"What?" Joan said. Then she spotted him.

Joan lurched forward, coming to such an abrupt standstill that the top half of her body tried to keep moving down the stairs, unaware her legs would not follow. She grabbed the banister at her left, at the same time feeling Ruthie bump her on the right. They had been walking so closely together, their arms touching, their feet in synch. And they had seen Donovan together too. He was approaching from the dining room, on Ruthie's side of the banister, also the side of her injured arm, and Joan's first concern was for that, for just how far he would able to reach and how much damage he could inflict from where they stood.

But his pace slowed. He didn't rush at them or put his hand through the gaps in the carved wooden bars by their legs, grabbing. For quite a while, all he and anyone else did was stare. When he finally did draw nearer, edging around Helen, who seemed transfixed, her mouth slightly ajar, he went as far as the bottom step and stayed there, one foot on it, his elbow propped on the flourished end of the handrail: Rhett Butler gazing up at Scarlett O'Hara on the steps of Tara.

"Christ, Ruth Anne," he said, disbelieving, "look at you."

Ruthie's body pressed against Joan, rigid at first, then limp and yielding, as if everything below her skin had been stretched taut and released with the snap of a rubber band. Small and trembling, her hand burrowed into Joan's. Joan held it.

Donovan studied Ruthie, intent on her clothes, the sling, and her battered face, still pretty beneath the bruises. "What happened to your arm?" he asked.

The baffled way he spoke infuriated Joan. He acted like he really had no clue, like maybe he expected to hear about a skiing accident, a bone-crunching tumble down a steep slope. "You dislocated it, asshole," she said, hurling the words at him. A shame she couldn't throw a punch with the same ferocity. But she was sure as hell ready to try. "You pulled her bone out of socket! Does that mean anything to you?"

Of course it didn't.

"Fuck off. I wasn't talking to you, you nosy brat. You weren't even there. I didn't do that. I might've tugged on her, but I didn't-"

"Yes, you did," Ruthie said quietly, almost drowned out by his denial, its volume increasing the longer he continued. After a few unsuccessful attempts, she was able to meet his eye. She took deep, gasping breaths. "You did, Don, and then you ran away. Where? To a bar? How much did you have to drink to forget about your son and daughter and how scared they were?"

"It was you who woke them up, you and your loud mouth!" He shook his head disappointedly. "Used to be you didn't make a sound. Used to be you knew when to shut the hell up. See why I don't want you hanging around with these bitches?" He jabbed his finger at Joan, at Helen. "You're starting to act just like them. Think you're hot shit, huh? Real tough? That why you gotta stand there and hold someone's hand? Jesus, what a baby."

"Stop it, Donnie. Stop and... go home... go back to the bar. Wherever. Just leave me alone."

"Okay. I'll go." He paused, giving everyone hope so he could have the pleasure of stealing it back. "But you're coming with me. Get June and Charlie, and get your little ass down these stairs."

Joan tightened her grip on Ruthie's hand, afraid it might slip away.

"Now, Ruth Anne," Donovan commanded.

"No."

"What?"

"No. I'm not going with you."

Donovan brought his other foot up, fully on the step now. He scrunched his face and turned his ear towards Ruthie, as if he were hard of hearing. "What then? You're leaving me? Taking my kids and moving in here, that it? Explain it to me, Ruth Anne." But he kept going. "You really are a goddamn idiot, you know that? These people don't care about you!"

"Yes, we-"

He cut Joan off. "Soon as they find out what a sneaky, lying bitch you are, they won't want anything to do with you. I don't even know why I put up with you. You got everything a woman could want: a big house, fancy car, nice clothes, damn job you don't need, all this shit that costs an arm and a leg but you don't bother using" - he reared back suddenly and pitched the cell phone he had been holding at Ruthie, overhanded, the way a major leaguer might throw a fastball - "and none of it is good enough! You still gotta pull a stunt like this."

The cell phone had missed its intended target and smashed on the banister, half its silver casing whizzing in one direction, the other half spewing parts that clinked and skittered away like bugs when they hit the stairs. Ruthie was turned inward, her face buried against the side of Joan's arm, her breath warm and rapid on the skin there.

Donovan held up his hand, signaling for Helen to back off when she began to move in a stiff, forced manner. He had an advantage where he stood. A single step backward blocked her path, two or three forward put him directly in front of Ruthie and Joan. He kept the position and waited until Ruthie peered at him with one eye, the one he hadn't blackened. He snapped his fingers then pointed at his feet. "C'mon," he said.

"I'm not going with you," she repeated. She was resolute, but her voice had that alarmingly young quality again, so vulnerable it made Joan ache and want to protect her twice as fiercely. "I've lived this way too long. And now our children are getting dragged into it. It's not fair to them. They deserve better."

"Better than me?"

"Better than us. Together," she whispered.

Donovan's eyes narrowed, boring into Ruthie. When her gaze stayed fixed on him instead of roaming elsewhere or dropping to the floor, he gave a quick sniff. It sounded final. "Well," he said, "I can fix part of that problem."

Joan's reflexes were keen, every muscle tensed, every tooth prepared to bite, every fingernail ready to scratch, to dig deep in flesh and leave marks. One for Ruthie, then June, then Charlie, and a couple for her and Helen too, just because. On the rare occasions when she wasn't getting creamed at dodge ball during P.E., she felt a similar keyed up, heightened sense of perception that told her where to step and when. She knew what Donovan's next move would be before he made it, and she positioned herself in front of Ruthie, shielding her as he sprung up the stairs.

It worked. For about three seconds. Donovan raised his elbow and nudged Joan aside, her hip colliding with the banister. She cried out, more surprised than hurt, and heard Ruthie do the same as he caught her by the shoulders, paying no mind to her tender arm, jerking her right off her feet for a moment. He swung her around, his back turning to Joan so she couldn't see, could only listen to another of Ruthie's cries, feeble and birdlike, a mournful cooing in the depths of the throat. Joan latched onto his flexed bicep, tugging, but he ripped it away from her.

"Let her go, you bastard!" she shouted, thumping her fist against his shoulder repeatedly.

Donovan turned enough for her to glimpse the hold he had on Ruthie, who was tilted at a precarious angle, his fingers knotted into the front of her sweater and his other hand at her waist the only things preventing her from a backwards tumble to the floor several stairs below. "You really want me to let her go?" he sneered.

Joan stilled her fist, eyes widening. He was going to do it. He was going to do it, and Ruthie knew it too: with the hand she had use of, she gripped his thick wrist, begging, "Please, Donnie," and choking on a sob. She blinked, expelling two large tears, one for each cheek, but didn't open her eyelids after that. She set her lips in a thin line and held her breath. She was preparing to fall.

And she would have, if not for Helen's mad dash past the staircase, around the railing which overlooked Kevin's wheelchair ramp, down the ramp itself, and straight to the telephone that mingled with the magazines and coasters on the living room coffee table. Donovan stormed after her, clearing the stairs in a few quick strides, Ruthie in tow, bent and dangling from his arm like a worm on a fishhook. Ruthie kicked at nothing but air, and when he reached solid ground, Donovan hefted her further up and tighter against him, both of them grunting. She wriggled and writhed; he struggled and gave her a vicious jounce, and another, trying to tame her.

It was a horrible sight and a fascinating one, their bodies competing, heedless of each other, no words spoken, just small hiccupping noises from Ruthie and labored puffs of air from Donovan. He was midway down the ramp when he lost his balance, stumbled, pitched forward. It was either land flat on his face or drop the extra weight. He chose the latter, casting Ruthie aside with an unceremonious toss. She hit the carpet all at once, spread-eagle, the floorboards beneath humming and Helen's knickknacks rattling in their shelves. Joan gasped in unison with Helen, who had the phone to her ear, relating the emergency at Detective Will Girardi's home. Donovan simply kept in motion, his knee folding, grazing the floor, but not felling him.

He wrested the phone from Helen with little effort, though she dodged him and managed to recite the street and digits of her address; he chucked it at the vacant fireplace, plastic clattering against brick, three for three.

Kneeling next to Ruthie's prone figure, Joan looked on helplessly, torn between fear for her mother and her friend. But Donovan wasn't interested in Helen. He jabbed his index finger into her collarbone, a "you better not try that again" type warning, and neared her menacingly until she was seated on the sofa cushion, no place else to go. Then his focus went back to Ruthie, and he ambled in her direction, casual, as if he hadn't just thrown her the way some people peel off a jacket or pair of shoes, discarding them in the corner.

God help me, Joan thought. God help me. And to Ruthie, she said, "Can you sit up? You gotta get up." In the same breath, she told Donovan, "Stop. Please don't do this."

No one would listen. Other than shifting onto her side, her body quaking gently, Ruthie went nowhere. Donovan wasn't deterred by pleas or Joan's foot smashing into his ankle. And God. He seemed to have forsaken them all.

Crouching, Donovan touched Ruthie's head, looking almost merciful, looking like he might say, "Are you okay, baby? Are you hurt?" But his fingers nestled into her silky hair, damp yet from the wet comb, only to capture a fistful and yank it. Ruthie opened her mouth in a silent scream, rising half off the floor, her hand flailing and flailing until she had something in her grasp - Donovan's ear - and reciprocated the gesture, pulling, tugging, hanging on so fast that she stood along with him as he bolted upright.

"Fuck!" He unleashed her and repeated the curse, shaking loose the golden strands that were tangled round his knuckles. When he couldn't pry her fingers away, he shoved, the force coming from behind, toppling her again.

Joan saw blood and knew for certain that the noise she had heard was Ruthie's chin striking the coffee table's wooden edge.

A grisly streak formed on the carpet when Donovan used his wife's foot to haul her closer to him. He flipped her over, onto her back, straddling her abdomen. His hands were at her throat. She gurgled and sputtered through bloodstained lips.

Diving at him, Joan plastered herself to Donovan's arched back, wrapping his head in a tenacious hug. As kids, she and Kevin had played I Give, ages eight and eleven, squeezing each other till lungs burned, arms throbbed, and someone either surrendered or declared a tie, on account of parental scolding. She used that technique now, half expecting Donovan's skull to pop, she squeezed so hard. Instead she was lifted heavenward as he got to his feet, roaring and trying to buck her off. She encircled his waist with her legs and clung for all she was worth.

How long they careened about the room, Joan didn't know. She was vaguely aware that Helen had disappeared, and it frightened her, her mother being gone. She shut her eyes and nuzzled into the curve of Donovan's neck, willing him to pass out or... anything, just anything, because she had begun to lose her grip. But he won in the end, and this time when she heard a body hit the floor, it was her own.

Joan sat up instantly, too dazed by the sudden drop to register the sting in her elbows and buttocks. Donovan loomed above, but it was Ruthie she sought out, their gazes locking. Even slumped against the coffee table leg, absolutely wasted, gulping air and catching fluid from her split chin, palm cupped to it, Ruthie looked apologetic. Forgive me, said her eyes, this wasn't supposed to happen to you. Then Ruthie's attention turned to Donovan, his relentless pursuit not over, unfinished business left to tend to.

"You'll have to answer for what you're doing, Don," she warned, scooting away as he reached.

"To who? God?" he said, with disdain. "Got news for you, Ruth Anne. He doesn't give a shit what I do to you."

In a final desperate attempt to stop Donovan, Joan crawled on hands and knees and launched at his leg. She had him. She sunk her teeth in just above his ankle, meeting resistance and bone. It hurt to bite like that, but when he howled in pain, she chomped down harder. Several wild kicks freed him, one of them making contact, the serrated tread of his shoe glancing her cheek. She touched wetness and came back with bloody fingertips. But it was the blow that followed, the brain-jarring wallop to the side of her head, which stunned her most and caused her to throw both hands up, protecting her face.

Ruthie was screaming at him. Stop, stop! God damn you! Something fell or was thrown. Joan felt woozy, felt another hand, this one gentle, shielding her. She peered through the cracks in her fingers, watching Donovan raise his fist again. Whether he meant it for her or Ruthie was hard to tell. He had enough hatred in his eyes for both of them.

And then, bang! Joan's eardrums exploded with sound: that first deafening pop, the immediate ring-buzz-hiss right after, Ruthie's startled squeal, high and piercing. Bang! More of the same, only now there was a thump, and the defensive embrace Joan had been gathered into gave a jolt, like Ruthie had woken from a half-sleep dream of falling falling falling, just in the nick of time, just before earth nabbed her.

It took the scorched, musty smell of gunpowder for Joan to realize she had heard bullets being fired. The thump must have been Donovan; he was lain out before her and Ruthie, his long, lean form spread wide, theirs bunched together, pressing in on each other to avoid him.

"Oh, my God," Ruthie murmured. "Oh, God."

Joan's head wobbled unsteadily on her neck, but she turned to the staircase, to see what Ruthie was looking at, and saw her mother. Arms extended, a pistol quivering in her hands, Helen was almost unrecognizable. Her pallid face twisted into odd expressions as she lowered the weapon, bending at the knees, placing it on the step. She withdrew as if it had snapped at her, a malicious creature about to have her fingers for lunch.

Later, Joan got the full story -- knowing that the police response time in Arcadia was ten minutes, a lifetime, or maybe the end of one, when a daughter and friend were being attacked, Helen had mounted the stairs, gone to her bedroom, fumbled with the lockbox she demanded Will keep his gun in, even if the kids were old enough and smart enough not to play with it and shoot themselves dead. She had been headed for the door when a tiny voice asked, "Where's my mama?" and a peek over the mattress revealed June and Charlie huddling between bed and dresser, terrified, their ears alert to the commotion downstairs. But they were lost in a dark, unfamiliar room and hadn't found their way out, thank God. "Stay in here, babies. Shh, don't cry," Helen, gun hidden behind her back, had told them, adding, "Your mama's all right," before she left, locking the door and pocketing the key. But that was a lie. Ruthie hadn't been all right, and neither had Joan. And Donovan... the first bullet had missed, the second he took square in the chest.

"Oh, God," Ruthie repeated now, edging closer to her husband.

Joan feared it was a ruse, that his vacant eyes would go cold and mean any minute, and his rampage would continue. Ruthie must have thought so too, her touch tentative on his shoulder. When he didn't yell or punch, she moved even closer and knelt by his side. For a long while she remained there, her hand motionless against him, her blood mixing with his.