The constant heat had Alva worried about his chickens. Then she hung up.
Brett looked up from his cereal when she came into the kitchen. Jim Junior was very carefully making rings on the table with his orange juice glass and talking a mile a minute. He had decided sometime during the last forty-eight hours that Brett Camber was a close relation to Jesus Christ.
“Well?” Brett asked.
“You were right. Dad didn’t ask Alva to feed him.” She saw the disappointment and worry on Brett’s face and went on: “But he’s going up to check on Cujo this morning, as soon as he’s got his chickens tended to. I left the number this time. He said he’d call back one way or the other.”
“Thanks, Mom.”
Jim clattered back from the table as Holly called him to come upstairs and get dressed. “Wanna come up with me, Brett?”
Brett smiled. “I’ll wait for you, slugger.”
“Okay.” Jim ran out trumpeting, “Mom! Brett said he’d wait! Brett’s gonna wait for me to get dressed!”
A thunder, as of elephants, on the stairs.
“He’s a nice kid,” Brett said casually.
“I thought,” Charity said, “that we might go home a little early. If that’s all right with you.”
Brett’s face brightened, and in spite of all the decisions she had come to, that brightness made her feel a little sad. “When?” he asked.
“How does tomorrow sound?” She had been intending to suggest Friday.
“Great! But”—he looked at her closely—“are you done visiting, Mom? I mean, she’s your sister.”
Charity thought of the credit cards, and of the Wurlitzer jukebox Holly’s husband had been able to afford but did not know how to fix. Those were the things that had impressed Brett, and she supposed they had impressed her as well in some way. Perhaps she had seen them through Brett’s eyes a little . . . through Joe’s eyes. And enough was enough.
“Yes,” she said. “I guess I’ve done my visiting. I’ll tell Holly this morning.”
“Okay, Mom.” He looked at her a little shyly. “I wouldn’t mind coming back, you know. I do like them. And he’s a neat little kid. Maybe he can come up to Maine sometime.”
“Yes,” she said, surprised and grateful. She didn’t think Joe would object to that. “Yes, maybe that could be arranged.”
“Okay. And tell me what Mr. Thornton said.”
“I will.”
But Alva never called back. As he was feeding his chickens that morning, the motor in his big air conditioner blew, and he was immediately in a life-or-death struggle to save his birds before the day’s heat could kill them. Donna Trenton might have called it another stroke of that same Fate she saw reflected in Cujo’s muddy, homicidal eyes. By the time the issue of the air conditioner was settled, it was four in the afternoon (Alva Thornton lost sixty-two chickens that day and counted himself off cheaply), and the confrontation which had begun Monday afternoon in the Cambers’ sunstruck dooryard was over.
Andy Masen was the Maine Attorney General’s Wunderkind, and there were those who said that someday—and not too distant a day, either—he would lead the A.G.’s criminal division. Andy Masen’s sights were set a good deal higher than that. He hoped to be Attorney General himself in 1984, and in a position to run for Governor by 1987. And after eight years as Governor, who knew?
He came from a large, poor family. He and his three brothers and two sisters had grown up in a ramshackle “poor white trash” house on the outer Sabbatus Road in the town of Lisbon. His brothers and sisters had been exactly up—or down—to town expectations. Only Andy Masen and his youngest brother, Marty, had managed to finish high school. For a while it had looked as if Roberta might make it, but she had gotten herself knocked up higher than a kite following a dance her senior year. She had left school to marry the boy, who still had pimples at twenty-nine, drank Narragansett straight from the can, and knocked both her and the kid around. Marty had been killed in a car crash over on Route 9 in Durham. He and some of his drunk friends had tried to take the tight curve up Sirois Hill at seventy. The Camaro in which they were riding rolled over twice and burned.
Andy had been the star of the family, but his mother had never liked him. She was a little afraid of him. When talking to friends she would say, “My Andy’s a cold fish,” but he was more than that.