So I had to invite her in, but what was in? There was no in, though for a moment I thought I could invent one. I closed my eyes, but when I opened them, it was still our shack facing me. There was nothing to do but lead her to it and watch her confusion. She must have thought it was a toolshed. She must have thought it was a hollow tree. She was a girl but she was my own mother following me to the door, my mother who’d never come to visit, who’d moved to Virginia with someone she told me to call stepdad, my mother who’d never met Perley, though we sent pictures once a year, had just sent another one, the only way we ever remembered that it was Christmas.
Inside, the girl made a noise deep in her throat, put her sleeve over her mouth. I heard that gag before I remembered the smell, the steamed guts and deer brain, the boiling head, the snake musk, the cat pee, the mildew. Helen was invisible, separated from us by stacks upon stacks of old belongings. What was all this shit? Why hadn’t we thrown it away? All of it worn-out, molding, broken, no use. I couldn’t explain it, not to myself or to anyone. The girl gagged, a deep growl, and I showed her to the sofa. She perched on the edge like hovering over a toilet seat. I hovered over her. I folded my hands because there was nothing else I could fold.
“Can I get you anything? A cup of coffee?” I asked, but she shook her head. She took out her tablet again, shone the thing up at her face.
“Is this your primary dwelling?” she asked, rolling her finger across the screen.
“We’re always working on it,” I said. I struggled to remember my project, which was still sweetness, smoothness, nothing to hide.
Helen stuck her head out from behind the insulation pile. Her arms were red to the elbows, coated in blood, guts, and brain.
“Who’s this? A Jehovah’s Witness?” she asked. The girl looked up.
“This must be Ms. Sweeney,” the girl said, and I was happy to correct her.
“This is Helen,” I said. “Helen Conley. She’s like Perley’s aunt. She’s kind of a butcher.”
“Licensed?” asked the girl.
“I’m not a butcher,” Helen said. “I just happen to be doing some butchering. What is this? What is this about? Who are you?”
“Helen,” I said, “it’s all right. She’s just asking.”
“Asking about what?” Helen asked.
“Asking about Perley’s bite, which is healing quite well,” I said.
“I don’t get it,” Helen said. “Are you Perley’s teacher? Are you the police? You don’t look like the police.”
“Are you a student in town?” I asked.
“Graduated,” the girl said. “With my B.A. in social work.”
“Congratulations,” I said. “Your mother must be proud.”
“A social worker?” asked Helen. “What do you want with us?”
“I do intake work for Children’s Services,” she said.
“Perley told his teacher about his snakebite,” I said.
“Oh shit, you’ve got to be kidding me,” Helen said.
“It’s healing well,” I said. “There’s nothing to worry about. Kids and their scrapes.” I clasped my hands together until they hurt. I never sat down.
“Where is Perley now? I’d like to talk to him,” the girl said.
Helen looked at me, but I didn’t say anything right away. I had nothing to hide, yet I was hiding, hiding, I was hiding him.
“Where is he?” the intake worker asked.
“There’s a lot of new studies out,” Helen began, “about what they call helicopter parenting. Experts are reexamining the benefits of nonintervention and free play.”
“Dignity of risk,” I said.
“Where is he?” the girl asked.
“He’s playing outside,” I said.
“Alone? In the dark? In the snow?” she asked. “Ms. Marshall. I’m asking you. Do you know where your child is?” She made to get up, but I beat her to it, lunged for the door, escaped onto the porch like fleeing a burning building.
I whooped. I whooped. I whooped. I whooped. I screamed into the woods. It was the screaming I’d grown up with, the hollers of angry grown-ups tearing past all the wolf trees at backyard borders, tearing them apart. I whooped. I didn’t hear back. I despaired.
Then came Perley’s whoop, and then came Perley. He bounded out of the darkness, down onto the porch, hatless and joyful, his small face red, his scar shining purple in the cold. My milk flooded. I lifted him up into my arms.
“There’s someone here to see you,” I said, crushing him as