They were there, he saw when he reached the driveway mouth. He stood half-hidden behind a tamarack. The lights on the lower floor were on, and he could see people moving around. No one seemed to be watching for intruders. But he was afraid. He’d been afraid all along, but now he couldn’t keep his mind off it. Neither of them, he was fairly sure, would shoot him if they realized who he was. But everything depended on his seeing them first and making himself known. If one of them was watching from the woods to the right of Luke’s house (huge boles and branches, high brush in under the eaves, a flicker of lightning bugs within—the kind of woods he’d have run from in terror, in his childhood, and maybe could yet), then he was done for. He had no definite plan for what he would do when he got to the house, if he did. Something would come to him. No use just standing here, he thought. But he stayed. Chickens sat in the branches of the trees near the house.
He stood in the darkness at the mouth of the driveway for a long time, watching. If there was someone in the woods keeping lookout, sooner or later the one there would reveal himself; that was partly why he stayed where he was, Ben told himself. But there were other reasons too, and he began to face them. Who was in there, after all? Luke, Millie, the Indian, Tag, possibly Will. They were his flesh and blood, all but Nick, and it was true, he wouldn’t want harm to come to them. But surely neither Nick nor Tag would harm Luke: he’d be sick from the stress of all this, sure as day, and they wouldn’t hurt a boy half out of his mind with pain. And it was unthinkable that Tag would let any harm come to the brother who’d been his favorite. So that it was for Millie that Ben Hodge must go up to them, if he went. He merely stared at the recognition for a moment, then got down on one knee, squinting.
Maybe it had seemed to him that he loved her—once. It was so long ago now, and he’d been so young then, that he couldn’t tell for sure. He remembered standing in the horsebarn, combing his father’s old sorrel mare, his riding horse. One moment he was working alone (the light soft on the mare’s shiny coat, her smell and the smell of hay and molasses rich in his nostrils), and the next he had a feeling he was not. By the stirring of his blood he knew it was Millie, but he didn’t turn. He heard her come nearer. Her hands came onto his shoulders and he grew still, not moving the comb, in fact not breathing. After a long time she kissed him, light as a feather, on the back of his neck. Then he turned. “Don’t, Millie.”
Her eyes shone, and because she was beautiful, or because of his shame at what he’d almost done to her in the quarry that night, his heart raced. She smiled and flashed the dimple. “Why so petulant, lover?”
“I’m not your lover, Mil,” he said too softly, blushing.
“But petulant you are,” she said. “Well, cheer up. I bring good news.”
“What?” he said.
She turned away, coy, and walked around the back of the mare, running her hand lightly over its rump.
“You’ll get your ass kicked,” he said.
“Ooh! Shame on you!” she said. “And to a lady.”
Ben said nothing. As always, his mind turned in on him and filled him with bitter remorse. It was not her fault that he’d tried to seduce her or even that he might have succeeded, and not her fault that he was ashamed of himself—whether because he’d gone that far or because he hadn’t gone all the way, he couldn’t tell—and not her fault that he was wounded now by the sight of her. It was perhaps true that she loved him; he believed it. It might even be that she was the one he would love, finally, if he could get his feelings straightened out. But it was happening too fast, and he had meant it to be clean and beautiful, not like this. Yet her mockery showed pain. She teased him exactly the way Ruth would do when her feelings were hurt and she was damned if she would show it.
He said, “I’m sorry, Millie.”
She waved it off lightly. “Ah well, these things—” She was still moving her hands on the horse’s rump, smiling, brandishing the dimple. “Do horses feel sexy when you touch their you-know-whats?”
“For Christ’s sake, Millie.”
She laughed and went around to the other side like a dancer, then ducked down, putting her hands on her knees, to look under the horse’s legs at him. “Guess what,” she said.
“What?” Her collar hung open and he could see the hollow sweeping down from her throat, the smooth white rise on each side. He did not look away.
“Sweetie-pie, that ain’t no guess.”
“I give,” he said.
“That’ll be the day!” she said, and then “Ooh! The ole rake blushes.”
“Millie,” he said.
She put her hand to her collar and he blushed more deeply, knowing she knew he’d been looking down inside, and suspecting, in the same instant, that that was why she’d gone around and bent over to look up through the horse’s legs in the first place. She’d been planning it for days. She was a whore, a bitch; God only knew what diseases he might have gotten! But he knew he was lying. It was his own fault, all of it. The next instant she was coming under the horse to him, knowing very well that the sorrel was skittish (it lifted a hoof, hesitated, tentatively set it down) and she smiled at him, standing between him and the horse, and touched his arm with the fingertips of one hand. He touched her waist with his left hand, holding the stupid curry comb in the other, and after a long time their mouths came together and a shock of her sweetness went through him. He let the comb drop and clung to her, kissing her hard, pressing his body against her, sick with hope and shame. Millie pulled back and sucked her lips in between her teeth as if they’d gone numb. She shook her head slowly, lips parted. “Have you guessed?” she whispered.
“No.” He searched her eyes.
She said, “I’m getting married to your brother Will.”
His stomach jerked as if she’d jabbed it. “Don’t, Millie,” he said, “that’s not funny.”
But she drew her head back, still holding him. “It’s the truth, Ben.”
“It’s not. It’s dumb.”
And now she was not smiling. “It’s the truth.” And he realized that it was. She waited. She was not soft and coy now but awesome to him, outwardly the same but in her mind dark, ancient, and terrible as a stone tower under stars of ice; and if there was something she wanted him to say, there was not enough of him left to say it. Even the punishments his father dealt out did not leave his heart so shaky. The mare breathed deep and sighed, letting her back sag, infinitely weary of all man’s paltry machinations, and Ben Hodge, servant of sunlit visions, whose heart was set on holiness—like the girl in the story his father told, who threw roses in the air—was silent. She looked down, smiling again, though her eyes had gone wrong, then turned, went back slowly through the tack room, as she’d come, lightly trailing her fingertips over the leather of the saddles on the row of wooden frames.
At the other end of the barn, at the foot of the stairs leading up to the haymow, Art Jr stood in the shadows watching with his arms folded. He came out now—Ben had no idea how long he’d been there—and stood by the old sorrel’s head. Art Jr was constructed all of squares—square face, square chest, square fists, square feet—and his mind was a diagram. He said, “She wanted you to fight for her.” Ben shook his head, baffled by the linear simplicity of his younger brother’s world. It was true, no doubt. About the relations between A and B he was never wrong. Ben said, “How could I?” and Art Jr said, “I wouldn’t know,” as if that was that.
And so Will and Millie had gotten married, and Ben had held out, had matched, later, with an otherworldly gentleness and eyes-turned-inward passivity like his own, pale light unto pale light. They had lived in peace, a haven for Will’s sharp scapegoat pain, looking on from a distance at Millie’s resounding destructions. And he had thought sometimes that they were there, Will and Millie, as a foil to his life, a shadow that made him clear. There was no need, no use for such rage and pain as they suffered except that it made his serenity distinct. (But Vanessa said once, for she was just and merciful, though sometimes j
ealous, “She might have been different with you, though, Ben. That’s possible.” To which he’d replied, “I’d as soon have married my dad!” He was not sure how much Vanessa knew.) In any case, whether or not he had ever felt real love for Millie, he would not have his life any way but as it was. It was to Ben and Vanessa that their children came—Will Jr, Luke, Mary Lou—for a chance to grow up whole, or nearly whole. To Ben, not to the eldest of the sons, that their mother had come in her last months, to die. Vanessa would read to her hour after hour, the same passages over and over, for her intelligence was gone, or Ben would sit up with her, hearing her ramble through past and present, now that all times had collapsed to one. Once, sitting in the dark beside her bed, at peace with himself, just as she was once again at peace, the green nightlight close to the floor throwing her terrible features on the wall, he had remembered vividly that when she was young she was beautiful. She had red-auburn hair that she wore piled high on her head, and her flesh was white and soft. (He’d lain in bed, pretending to be asleep, watching. They were going out, and so he’d cried, and though his father roared, she’d brought him here to her room where she could be with him a little longer.) She had on only her undergarments, as she called them; and now his father stood beside her, fully dressed, elegant, huge and dangerous and beautiful (to Ben’s child-eyes) and fearsome beside that gentleness and softness; but he stretched out his hand toward her as if timidly and touched her shoulder, looking over her head into the mirror at her, and after an instant she turned her head, gracefully, bending forward slightly, the way a blooded mare would turn its head to a groomsman’s touch, relinquishing nothing, though submissive, and she brushed his hand with the side of her face. “I think I’ll move Ben to his own room,” his father said. She smiled. “Do,” she said. Her permission and command. That’s what it all means, he’d thought that night long afterward, remembering and now understanding as he gazed at the terrible shadow of her profile—a silhouette of barren mountains, a bombed city. In peace like that in her own house once, she had died. There was no other life he’d have chosen in preference. If he’d loved Millie once, the part of him that had inclined, overmatched, toward darkness and war was long dead and buried, and he was grateful. He could pity her, forever torturing herself and Will and the children, but he need not approve her, need not return her good for the evil she’d done him and all his family. She had not earned from him any right to protection. For that matter, she probably needed none. No doubt she could manage Taggert as easily as any other man. No doubt she had tied his balls in knots already.
The woods were unmoving and hushed. There was no sound anywhere but Taggert’s far-away voice inside the house, a stream of words—you might have thought he was auctioning something—a monologue never broken by a sound from the others. There were no lights on in the upper-story windows. The gables of the house stood out against the sky, darker, more solid than the trees surrounding, but not more motionless. The air was pleasantly cool. He remembered sleeping out on the lawn with his brothers, in his childhood, and sitting up in the middle of the night to look toward the house like a watcher from a distant planet, hearing his father’s voice in the study arguing with a guest. And he felt again the feeling that had come to him then, that all was well, though he himself was not part of it; the feeling a man might have if he could come back from the grave and find life not changed by his absence. Then the voice in the house stopped. The trees waited. The dark gables appeared to take on weight, grow older. Kneeling with his forearm resting on his leg, his head bent, listening with every nerve, Ben Hodge breathed more lightly and shallowly, and then did not breathe at all.
Then he heard the shot and thought Millie! and in the same instant was running up the driveway, farm shoes thudding and crunching on the stones that lay spattered on the driveway like mountain scree. He was gulping as if he’d been running for hours (trees still motionless, house unmoved, as if only Ben Hodge, no one else, were alive). With his eyes on the door he was aware of the motionless limbs yawing over, above his head, black against starlight, and when he came to the door it fell open an instant before he touched it, and he saw the gun, then felt it in his belly and knew, calm and cold, that he was finished. He met the bearded man’s eyes and, though they were murderous, knew them, and at the same time, without looking away, he saw Luke and Nick and Millie on the couch, white but safe, and a gaudy magician’s table, goldfish bowl, something hanging from the far wall, and he understood that the shot was part of a magic trick, though now that understanding did not matter. He waited for the shot that would kill him and in parting grief saw Millie’s change: the gray that mocked the dye in her hair, on her puffy face black bruises. Bags under her eyes, chapped lips, no lipstick. But Nick and Luke looked worse. They were broken, like old men; Millie, just battered. She’d never be broken, chances were; would merely vanish one of these days, or her wrecked body would be found sitting upright and severe, abandoned like a house. Now again he was meeting his brother’s eyes, the face he had known now sunken to hair and scar, and no longer was he sure that the eyes had murder in them. Still Taggert said nothing, and the gun poking into Ben Hodge’s belly was firm. Millie said—a whisper—“Who is it?” Ben glanced at her, then once again met his brother’s eyes, and he understood, perhaps at the same time Taggert did, that he was standing in darkness; they could not see him from inside the room. The pressure of the gun lessened.
At last Taggert said, directly to Ben, as if speaking to him, not the others, “There’s nobody here. Not a sign.” And then, slowly, as planets pass, he turned away from Ben and closed the door.
“I heard running,” Nick said, low.
Then Tag’s voice. “It must have been a deer, or a cow, maybe. There’s nothing there.”
Ben stood in the darkness rubbing his arms.
2
One of the prisoners was singing, in the cells in back. Figlow leaned on his elbows, dark eyebrows low with wrath. Tom Sangirgonio sat on the railing beside Figlow’s desk, relaxed, long-boned, his small round head tilted to listen.
“Shit,” Figlow said, tightening his fists, and the boy glanced at him, smiling.
“You need a vacation,” the boy said.
A few words came through. Ah got mah mah jawwng wuk-kin . . .
“Vacation hell. It’s worse at home,” Figlow said. “My kid in school with you?”
“I know her,” Tommy said, and smiled again. His smile was like his father’s, warm and at the same time ironic. His eyes, like his father’s, were sharp and black as an Indian’s.
“Little bitch is somethin else,” Figlow said. It was a joke, but his mouth jerked over to the right, and the boy knew he meant it.
He shrugged. “She seems ok though. I don’t know.”
“At you all the time,” Figlow said. “I mean it.”
“Yeah, well. You know. Girls.”
“Madonna mia!”
The singing stopped for a moment, and they waited. It started again.
“Shit,” Figlow said. “People are somethin else. You see that wreck this mornin? Them showdogs? Shit. Dead dogs all over the fuckin street, or draggin theirselves around with broken legs and heads tore open. I went past it. I wasn’t on duty yet. I seen the truck-driver, talkin with Pieman and Lewis—they were the first ones there. He didn’t look happy, I can tell you. Expensive dogs.” He jerked his lip as if with scorn. “You could tell. Other guy got killed. Some guy from Pennsylvania. Man, he hit that thing like a bat out of hell, I mean he was driving at a high rate of speed. Shit.”
“I didn’t see it,” Tommy said.
Figlow shook his head, wincing, maybe seeing dead showdogs in his mind. After a minute he said, “What they say about her, kid?” He winked.
Tommy smiled again. “Whom?”
“Come on, whom-shmoom, my kid, that’s whom. She pretty cute, eh?” He winked and moved his shoulder a little.
Tommy pursed his lips, thought of teasing, and then changed his mind. “They say she’s a really
nice girl.”
“Shhhhtt!” Figlow said, pleased, suspicious. He tipped his head, raised two fingers to motion Tommy nearer, but Tommy merely smiled. Figlow winked again. “In the showerroom, boy, with their hard-ons in their hands.”
He blushed, smiled, shrugged. A chill went through him.
“‘She’s a really nice girl,’ that’s what they say. Eh?”
Panicky, he smiled on and nodded.
Figlow rolled his eyes up. “This generation!”
And when his father was there, coming out of Clumly’s office with papers in his hand. “Hey, Figlow, how you like to go kill a few those bastards back there, hey?”
Figlow lit up with mock pleasure, grabbing for his gun.
Miller said, “He’d do it, yeah?”
Tom grinned.
Figlow got up from his desk and went back to the cellblock. When he was out of sight, they laughed.
“You need help, Dad?” Tommy said.
“Not now. I’ll be with you in a minute, providing nobody runs over anybody the next ten minutes, or shoots up a movie house.” He let his eyes rest a moment on Tom, then grinned and turned away. “Hold the fort,” he said. Then, looking out the front door, he went still all over, and instinctively Tommy moved closer.
A heavy Negro woman with gray hair was coming up the walk, alone, moving slowly, like a burned-out star. She stared straight ahead of her but did not seem to see them. When she came into the light thrown from the office they saw blood on her arms and all over the front of her dress. Miller went down to her and took her elbow without a word, and helped her up the steps. She came through the door, and Tommy turned his face away. Her forehead was torn open.