Full Dark, No Stars

“We’l think it is, a year from now when it’s al behind us.” Part of me actual y believed this. “Quickly, now. Before the pil ow-case starts to drip. Or the rest of the quilt.”

We carried her down the hal , across the sitting room, and out through the front door like men carrying a piece of furniture wrapped in a mover’s rug. Once we were down the porch steps, I breathed a

little easier; blood in the dooryard could easily be covered over.

Henry was al right until we got around the corner of the cow barn and the old wel came in view. It was ringed by wooden stakes so no one would by accident step on the wooden cap that covered it.

Those sticks looked grim and horrible in the starlight, and at the sight of them, Henry uttered a strangled cry.

“That’s no grave for a mum… muh…” He managed that much, and then fainted into the weedy scrub that grew behind the barn. Suddenly I was holding the dead weight of my murdered wife al by

myself. I considered putting the grotesque bundle down—its wrappings now al askew and the slashed hand peeking out—long enough to revive him. I decided it would be more merciful to let him lie. I

dragged her to the side of the wel , put her down, and lifted up the wooden cap. As I leaned it against two of the stakes, the wel exhaled into my face: a stench of stagnant water and rotting weeds. I fought with my gorge and lost. Holding onto two of the stakes to keep my balance, I bowed at the waist to vomit my supper and the little wine I had drunk. There was an echoing splash when it struck the murky

water at the bottom. That splash, like thinking Ride ’em, Cowboy, has been within a hand’s reach of my memory for the last eight years. I wil wake up in the middle of the night with the echo in my mind and feel the splinters of the stakes dig into my palms as I clutch them, holding on for dear life.

I backed away from the wel and tripped over the bundle that held Arlette. I fel down. The slashed hand was inches from my eyes. I tucked it back into the quilt and then patted it, as if comforting her.

Henry was stil lying in the weeds with his head pil owed on one arm. He looked like a child sleeping after a strenuous day during harvest-time. Overhead, the stars shone down in their thousands and tens of thousands. I could see the constel ations—Orion, Cassiopeia, the Dippers—that my father had taught me. In the distance, the Cotteries’ dog Rex barked once and then was stil . I remember thinking,

This night will never end. And that was right. In al the important ways, it never has.

I picked the bundle up in my arms, and it twitched.

I froze, my breath held in spite of my thundering heart. Surely I didn’t feel that, I thought. I waited for it to come again. Or perhaps for her hand to creep out of the quilt and try to grip my wrist with the slashed fingers.

There was nothing. I had imagined it. Surely I had. And so I tupped her down the wel . I saw the quilt unravel from the end not held by the pil ow-case, and then came the splash. A much bigger one than my vomit had made, but there was also a squelchy thud. I’d known the water down there wasn’t deep, but had hoped it would be deep enough to cover her. That thud told me it wasn’t.

A high siren of laughter commenced behind me, a sound so close to insanity that it made gooseflesh prickle al the way from the crack of my backside to the nape of my neck. Henry had come to and

gained his feet. No, much more than that. He was capering behind the cow barn, waving his arms at the star-shot sky, and laughing.

“Mama down the wel and I don’t care!” he sing-songed. “Mama down the wel and I don’t care, for my master’s gone aw-aaay!”

I reached him in three strides and slapped him as hard as I could, leaving bloody finger-marks on a downy cheek that hadn’t yet felt the stroke of a razor. “Shut up! Your voice wil carry! Your—. There, fool boy, you’ve raised that god damned dog again.”

Rex barked once, twice, three times. Then silence. We stood, me grasping Henry’s shoulders, listening with my head cocked. Sweat ran down the back of my neck. Rex barked once more, then quit.

If any of the Cotteries roused, they’d think it was a raccoon he’d been barking at. Or so I hoped.

“Go in the house,” I said. “The worst is over.”

“Is it, Poppa?” He looked at me solemnly. “Is it?”

“Yes. Are you al right? Are you going to faint again?”

“Did I?”

“Yes.”

“I’m al right. I just… I don’t know why I laughed like that. I was confused. Because I’m relieved, I guess. It’s over!” A chuckle escaped him, and he clapped his hands over his mouth like a little boy who has inadvertently said a bad word in front of his grandma.

“Yes,” I said. “It’s over. We’l stay here. Your mother ran away to St. Louis… or perhaps it was Chicago… but we’l stay here.”

“She… ?” His eyes strayed to the wel , and the cap leaning against three of those stakes that were somehow so grim in the starlight.