The Passage - By Justin Cronin Page 0,3

of the drive and headed down the county road.

—It ain’t your house, she said.

—You’re right about that. Bill took a bottle of Old Crow from over the sink and poured some in a jelly jar, though it was only ten o’clock in the morning. He sat at the table but didn’t cross his legs like he meant to get comfortable. Ain’t my oil, either.

Jeanette rolled over and tried to stand but couldn’t. She watched him drink for a minute.

—Get out.

He laughed, shaking his head, and took a sip of whiskey.

—That’s funny, he said. You telling me that from the floor like you are.

—I mean what I say. Get out.

Amy came into the room. She was holding the stuffed bunny she still carried everywhere, and wearing a pair of overalls, the good ones Jeanette had bought her at the outlet mall, the OshKosh B’Gosh, with the strawberries embroidered on the bib. One of the straps had come undone and was flopping at her waist. Jeanette realized Amy must have done this herself, because she had to go to the bathroom.

—You’re on the floor, Mama.

—I’m okay, honey. She got to her feet to show her. Her left ear was ringing a little, like in a cartoon, birds flying around her head. She saw there was a little blood, too, on her hand; she didn’t know where this had come from. She picked Amy up and did her best to smile. See? Mama just took a spill, that’s all. You need to go, honey? You need to use the potty?

—Look at you, Bill was saying. Will you look at yourself? He shook his head again and drank. You stupid twat. She probably ain’t even mine.

—Mama, the girl said and pointed, you cut yourself. Your nose is cut.

And whether it was what she’d heard or the blood, the little girl began to cry.

—See what you done? Bill said, and to Amy, Come on now. Ain’t no big thing, sometimes folks argue, that’s just how it is.

—I’m telling you again, just leave.

—Then what would you do, tell me that. You can’t even fill the oil tank.

—You think I don’t know that? I sure as by God don’t need you to tell me that.

Amy had begun to wail. Holding her, Jeanette felt the spread of hot moisture across her waist as the little girl released her bladder.

—For Pete’s sake, shut that kid up.

She held Amy tight against her chest. —You’re right. She ain’t yours. She ain’t yours and never will be. You leave or I’m calling the sheriff, I swear

—Don’t you do me like this, Jean. I mean it.

—Well, I’m doing it. That’s just what I’m doing.

Then he was up and slamming through the house, taking his things, tossing them back into the cardboard cartons he’d used to carry them into the house, months ago. Why hadn’t she thought it right then, how strange it was that he didn’t even have a proper suitcase? She sat at the kitchen table holding Amy on her lap, watching the clock over the stove and counting off the minutes until he returned to the kitchen to hit her again.

But then she heard the front door swing open, and his heavy footsteps on the porch. He went in and out awhile, carrying the boxes, leaving the front door open so cold air spilled through the house. Finally he came into the kitchen, tracking snow, leaving little patches of it waffled to the floor with the soles of his boots.

—Fine. Fine. You want me to leave? You watch me. He took the bottle of Old Crow from the table. Last chance, he said.

Jeanette said nothing, didn’t even look at him.

—So that’s how it is. Fine. You mind I have one for the road?

Which was when Jeanette reached out and swatted his glass across the kitchen, smacked it with her open hand like a ping-pong ball with a paddle. She knew she was going to do this for about half a second before she did, knowing it wasn’t the best idea she’d ever had, but by then it was too late. The glass hit the wall with a hollow thud and fell to the floor, unbroken. She closed her eyes, holding Amy tight, knowing what would come. For a moment the sound of the glass rolling on the floor seemed to be the only thing in the room. She could feel Bill’s anger rising off him like waves of heat.

—You just see what the world has in store for you, Jeanette. You