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You have to do something. What’s the right thing to do?
“I’m so proud of you,” she whispered to the children. “You’re being so brave and quiet. You’re showing Mama how to be brave, too.”
How can you help them? How can you get help? There’s no way to know where he is except when he’s practically on top of you.
As they sat pressed against the rough masonry, all tangled arms and unseeing eyes, she was certain that if the children had been only a little younger, if this had happened only a few months ago, they would never have been able to be this quiet. This obedient. Ready to comfort her. Able to accept that bad things could happen.
They understand that life can snap in half.
“What do we do, Mama?” whispered her daughter.
“Wait. Listen. Be quiet as we can. Sometimes the hardest thing to do is nothing.”
Her son wiggled on her lap, cuddled into a ball against her chest. The rubble on the floor pressed into her where the robe had shifted off her legs.
Delicious.
You were falling asleep. It was stress. Of course it was. That voice slinkingin your ear. It’s only normal. Normal confusion, a normal reaction, in an abnormal situation.
Even so, she scratched a finger in her ear as if to clean the voice of the Corner out of the hollow places.
She focused on the light up and down of her son’s breathing. His softness, the heaviness of his head against her bruised breast.
Her daughter crawled back to the blanket. She could hear the girl wrapping it around her, protecting herself from the cold and grime.
“Let’s think,” she whispered, “about what to do. Just think. Not talk. Just think for a little while, and wait quietly.”
“Okay, Mama.”
How long will you wait? How long can we stay? Think it through.
There’s the sippy cup, full but small. There’s the diaper. The blanket. The kids may fall asleep. Easier to keep them quiet longer if they do. When it’s light outside, will he leave? How long has it been already?
A gust of wind blew down the chimney, clattering the dampers. She shivered.
“Due to the predicted intensity of the storm,” the recorded message from the school had said, “we’ve canceled both morning and afternoon in-person school tomorrow. Virtual session attendance is still mandatory. We recommend all our community members avoid driving. Be safe.”
Friday in-person school’s canceled because of the storm. And for virtual? Even if they don’t dial in, the teachers will just do what they always do—send an email they don’t expect you to respond to. Then Saturday, Sunday. No one expects us anywhere until Monday. And they’re out of school for Christmas starting Thursday. It’s possible—probable—that the school would even assume you’re isolating before the holidays so you can safely spend time around family. They might phone to scold you, but that’s it. They wouldn’t call the police or anything. It’s just too much time. Too much time for them to get hungry, thirsty. To make noise. Time for him to search the house. Listen close. Find us.
As though she’d called out to the Corner, she heard a soft and alien weight above. Slow and even steps crossed her daughter’s room. Then, apop!
She was certain that the sound was the door to her daughter’s armoire. It had magnets that worked overwell, making its doors difficult to pull and ridiculously noisy when opened. There was silence, then thecling!sound that must be him closing the armoire, the hard refastening of the magnets that would yank the knob right out of your hand.
Another thing that needs fixing.
Her son snuffled into her chest.
He’s checking all the closets.Not looking for things to take. Not shouting in a scary voice anymore. He’s looking for us. Looking in places big enough for someone to hide.
The footsteps were measured. Methodical. Quiet as he was trying to be, each footstep made a muted thud as he crossed the landing overhead and went into her son’s room.
The little girl moved to her side and wrapped arms tight around her. She could feel the motions of her daughter’s head as it lay on her shoulder, the way she tipped an ear to search out the Corner’s sounds.
A cold whistle of wind came through the vent in the stairs. Had he opened a door somewhere?
Criiick!Yes, again he’d stepped on the long floorboard in the hall outside her son’s room. Which meant he was likely headed out of the original part of the house, through the room above the kitchen in the old addition, back toward the modern addition that held her room, the guest room, the laundry room.
Has he noticed the attic door yet? Doubtful. You would have heard it open.
