Under the Dome

The question was whether or not Big Jim would actually hurt her, and Brenda thought the answer was no. She believed she was physically safe from Big Jim, no matter what worries Barbie might have—worries that were, no doubt, partly the result of his wartime experiences. This was a dreadful miscalculation on her part, but understandable; she wasn’t the only one who clung to the notion that the world was as it had been before the Dome came down.

16

Which still left the problem of the VADER file.

Brenda might be more afraid of Big Jim’s tongue than of bodily harm, but she knew it would be mad to show up on his doorstep with the file still in her possession. He might take it from her even if she said it wasn’t the only copy. That she would not put past him.

Halfway up Town Common Hill, she came to Prestile Street, cutting along the upper edge of the common. The first house belonged to the McCains. The one beyond was Andrea Grinnell’s. And although Andrea was almost always overshadowed by her male counterparts on the Board of Selectmen, Brenda knew she was honest and had no love for Big Jim. Oddly enough, it was Andy Sanders to whom Andrea was more apt to kowtow, although why anyone would take him seriously was beyond Brenda’s understanding.

Maybe he’s got some sort of hold on her, Howie’s voice spoke up in her head.

Brenda almost laughed. That was ridiculous. The important thing about Andrea was that she had been a Twitchell before Tommy Grinnell married her, and Twitchells were tough, even the shy ones. Brenda thought she could leave the envelope containing the VADER file with Andrea… assuming her place wasn’t also locked and empty. She didn’t think it would be. Hadn’t she heard from someone that Andrea was down with the flu?

Brenda crossed Main, rehearsing what she’d say: Would you hold this for me? I’ll be back for it in about half an hour. If I don’t come back for it, give it to Julia at the newspaper. Also, make sure Dale Barbara knows.

And if she was asked what all the mystery was about? Brenda decided she’d be frank. The news that she intended to force Jim Rennie’s resignation would probably do Andrea more good than a double dose of Theraflu.

In spite of her desire to get her distasteful errand done, Brenda paused for a moment in front of the McCain house. It looked deserted, but there was nothing strange about that—plenty of families had been out of town when the Dome came down. It was something else. A faint smell, for one thing, as if food were spoiling in there. All at once the day felt hotter, the air closer, and the sounds of whatever was going on at Food City seemed far away. Brenda realized what it came down to: she felt watched. She stood thinking about how much those shaded windows looked like closed eyes. But not completely closed, no. Peeking eyes.

Shake it off, woman. You’ve got things to do.

She walked on to Andrea’s house, pausing once to look back over her shoulder. She saw nothing but a house with drawn shades, sitting gloomily in the mild stink of its decaying supplies. Only meat smelled so bad so soon. Henry and LaDonna must have had a lot put by in their freezer, she thought.

17

It was Junior who watched Brenda, Junior on his knees, Junior dressed only in his underpants, his head whamming and slamming. He watched from the living room, peering around the edge of a drawn shade. When she was gone, he went back into the pantry. He would have to give his girlfriends up soon, he knew, but for now he wanted them. And he wanted the dark. He even wanted the stink rising from their blackening skin.

Anything, anything, that would soothe his fiercely aching head.

18

After three twists of the old-fashioned crank doorbell, Brenda resigned herself to going home after all. She was turning away when she heard slow, shuffling steps approaching the door. She arranged a little Hello, neighbor smile on her face. It froze there when she saw Andrea—cheeks pale, dark circles under her eyes, hair in disarray, cinching the belt of a bathrobe around her middle, pajamas underneath. And this house smelled, too—not of decaying meat but of vomit.

Andrea’s smile was as wan as her cheeks and brow. “I know how I look,” she said. The words came out in a croak. “I better not invite you in. I’m on the mend, but I still might be catching.”

“Have you seen Dr.—” But no, of course not. Dr. Haskell was dead. “Have you seen Rusty Everett?”

“Indeed I have,” Andrea said. “All will soon be well, I’m told.”

“You’re perspiring.”

“Still a little touch of fever, but it’s almost gone. Can I help you with something, Bren?”