eyebrows among the officers in his living room, and his pants are stained a damning red. He yanks the belt open, lets them fall to the floor, panic coloring his movements. Paul is halfway to the window seat, eyes scanning the room for an escape from all of this, when he sees it: Wyeth’s bassinet. A rare shaft of winter sunshine stabs through the window and shines on the white fabric hood, as if the sun itself is pointing a golden finger, illuminating the cradle’s emptiness.
There was a baby, his son. A baby that, when it was not screaming, when it did sleep, curled against Paul’s chest, the fontanel pulse thrumming against the hollow under Paul’s chin.
Paul stumbles into the window seat, among diapers and washcloths smaller than his palm, a handful of toys that rattle. He rests his head against the cool glass and watches them come. A dark swarm of them on the front lawn, a van with lights flashing blocking off the end of the street, and Paul cannot draw a breath. Somewhere past them, in the vast wide world, someone has his son. They are all in the wrong place.
He leaves his shirt on the windowsill and runs, crossing the room in three strides to the top of the stairs, hurtles himself down, the downstairs air cool on his bare legs and chest, bellowing, “Get out of here! Get away from her! Get out there! Get my son! Get him!”
38
Dark Night
JASON
Sundown. Jason lifts the broken blinds again, the streetlight flickering by the dark parking lot like always. Landlord’s El Camino, banged-up Taurus of the Martinez family, the Dodge Caravan of the alkie mom of the hot little piece with the kid across the way. Nothing new. Good, good.
Jason’s stomach is a mess, all worms-writhing and bloated, anxious. Eight hours, and Brandi’s still not back. Has she called Lisle, told him about the bathroom or the baby, or both? Because Jason knows his brother would call him in. Plenty of times when their father was looking to beat on someone, Lisle cheerfully gave Jason up. Just as many times, Jason pointed the finger at his little brother too. Half the time their own ma would meet the old man by the door with the belt in her hand, tattle on them, and then hold him or Lisle by the hair so he could administer their licks, That’ll teach you!
No loyalty, not even for the dog.
“Get off your asses, I’m going to teach you boys how to shoot right,” the old man had said, and Lisle had followed him outside warily. Age ten, Jason wouldn’t have put it past the bastard to give them each one of the canvas-strapped, scratched-up rifles he had slung over his shoulder, pit the boys against each other, let the best son win, survival of the fucking fittest. But it wasn’t; it was Pancho Villa, the dog, getting old, had a hard time getting up when it was time to go out for a crap. He was tied to a leafless piece of scrub in the yard, and the old man stuck a rifle in each of their hands. “Pancho has shit his last,” he said, and then grinned at Jason and Lisle. “So, who’s gonna go first?”
LISLE COULD HAVE CALLED him in. Right now, the cops could be sitting in ambush. Sex with a minor (no point in pointing out Lisle fucked her first, or that she was a rotted-mouth crank-whore), breaking parole, not to mention in the bedroom, the little problem-that-he-thought-might-be-a-solution. Christ, he could go away for life!
Fuck! Now the kid’s been screaming for two hours straight, walls thin as rolling papers around here, someone’s got to notice. They’ve got to get it some milk, but he’s scared to go out. No wheels, he’s a sitting duck. For all he knows they’re all lined up just past the parking lot waiting for him. He jerks the bedroom door open—it’s like cardboard and flies in his hands, twanging his shoulder.
Jesuschrist she’s got her shirt up and trying to stuff a flappy-floppy tit in his open mouth!
“What the fuck’s wrong with you?” And because he’s agitated, he cuffs the back of her head, not hard, but it breaks their rules. That’s the thing of their relationship, an agreement of bodies: Penny doesn’t open her legs for anyone, and he doesn’t lay a hand on her. She wears her loyalty to him like the coat of an Irish setter, glossy and auburn. Never once,