Poe's children: the new horror : an anthology - By Peter Straub Page 0,145

where blood-red murals crowded every corner of wall, where beaded moccasins and a mortar-and-pestle and an atlatal and a dozen other artifacts covered the bookshelves and end tables.

“Is my dad here?”

“He went to get cinnamon rolls. He said you liked cinnamon rolls.” She had this husky quality to her—a uniform layer of fat beneath which muscles moved—that to Elwood made her seem equally suited for hard labor or tender sex. “So tell me, where’d you guys get all this stuff?”

“How long ago did my dad leave?”

“I don’t know. Twenty, thirty minutes. Long enough for me to get dressed and make coffee and poke around.” She slurped her coffee and sat down at the table and scooted a chair toward him with her bare foot. “Sit down, why don’t you. Take a load off. You drink coffee?” He shook his head, no, and sat next to her. He could feel her eyes on him, but couldn’t meet them. He concentrated instead on the rose-quartz deer skull, the way it sparkled under the sun shining through the window. “You’re a handsome kid. You look a lot like your old man.”

When she didn’t say anything else, he said, “Thanks.”

From the garage came the noise of the door rumbling up and the Bronco pulling in, and Kim said, “Speak of the devil.”

They both stared at the far end of the kitchen, waiting for the door there to open, and when it did, Denis hurried in with a brown grocery bag clutched to his chest. “Hey,” he said, his eyes jogging between them, settling on Elwood. “You’re up.”

An uncomfortable silence filled the kitchen, along with the smells of cinnamon and butter warming in the microwave, as Denis prepared their plates and poured orange juice and coffee. His war paint had faded and smeared so that his face looked bruised, shadowy.

He dropped a rolled-up newspaper on the table and Kim took the rubber band off it and spread it between her thumb and forefinger. She then let her head fall between her knees and whipped it back, grabbing her hair into a ponytail. This made her face appear even rounder.

She wants us to see her, Elwood thought. She wants us to see her clenched jaw and narrowed eyes, to know we’re in trouble.

The microwave beeped and Denis pulled from it a steaming paper plate with three rolls on it. When he set one on Elwood’s plate, and then on Kim’s, she said, “You know what I’d like to know?” Denis didn’t answer, but kept his eyes on her. He knew something was coming—and then it came. “I’d like to know how two white boys ended up owning a bunch of museum-quality redskin shit they don’t have any right owning.” She said this softly, calmly, which made her seem all the more threatening, somehow.

Denis took a step away from her and said, “I don’t know how to answer that.” There were weird pauses in his speaking, as if he was out of breath.

She pointed a thick brown finger at him, and her face twisted into a grotesque scowl. “You better learn how to answer. You better learn.” She began to punctuate every few words by stabbing her finger into the table. “Come tomorrow, I’m thinking you might have some elders and some tribal police asking some pretty serious fucking questions you better learn how to answer.”

Elwood watched his father’s hands ball into fists, and he wondered, would he strike her? But he only lowered his head, concentrating on his shoes.

Kim continued, the anger mounting in her voice. “I mean, what were you thinking? Bringing me here?” Elwood wondered the very same thing. “You want to get caught or something? Or you just so dumb and horny you hoped I wouldn’t notice?” Here she put her hands to either side of her head, incredulous. “Or you think I’m going to be all, like, wow and shit. Like happy to see your little museum?” She snorted like a horse after a hot run. “You gotta be kidding me.” She jumped from her chair with such force it fell backward. “Where’s my shoes? Where’s my jacket?”

She walked in an aimless circle and then went to the closet next to the staircase. She jerked it open and screamed. Sitting among the coats and boots was the dead Indian, snarling at them, monkeylike in its huddled brown shape.

She put a hand between her breasts, over her heart, as if to calm it. She seemed to spit at them when she spoke. “You