Under the Dome

“Yes, please.” The beer was warm but she drank greedily. She was very thirsty. She fished one of the Percs out of her pocket and swallowed it with another long gulp. She felt the buzz hit her in the head. It was fine. She fished out another Perc and offered it to Alden. “Want one of these? They make you feel better.”

He took it and swallowed it with beer, not bothering to ask what it was. Here was the Motton Road. He saw the intersection late and swung wide, knocking the Crumleys’ mailbox flat. Sammy didn’t mind.

“Grab another, Missy Lou.”

“Thank you, sir.” She took another beer and popped the top.

“Wa’m see my boy?” In the glow of the dashboard lights, Alden’s eyes looked yellow and wet. They were the eyes of a dog who’d stepped in a hole and went legbroke. “Wa’m see my boy Rory?”

“Yes, sir,” Sammy said,

“I sure do. I was there, you know.”

“Everybody was. I rented my fiel. Prolly helped to kill im. Din know. We never know, do we?”

“No,” Sammy said.

Alden dug into the bib pocket of his overalls and pulled out a battered wallet. He took both hands off the wheel to pull it open, squinting and flipping through the little celluloid pockets. “My boys gay me this warret,” he said. “Ro’y and Orrie. Orrie’s still ’live.”

“That’s a nice wallet,” Sammy said, leaning across to take hold of the steering wheel. She had done the same for Phil when they were living together. Many times. Mr. Dinsmore’s truck went from side to side in slow and somehow solemn arcs, barely missing another mailbox. But that was all right; the poor old guy was only doing twenty, and Motton Road was deserted. On the radio, WCIK was playing low: “Sweet Hope of Heaven,” by the Blind Boys of Alabama.

Alden thrust the wallet at her. “There e is. There’s my boy. Wif his grampa.”

“Will you drive while I look?” Sammy asked.

“Sure.” Alden took the wheel back. The truck began to move a little faster and a little straighter, although it was more or less straddling the white line.

The photograph was a faded color shot of a young boy and an old man with their arms around each other. The old man was wearing a Red Sox cap and an oxygen mask. The boy had a big grin on his face. “He’s a beautiful boy, sir,” Sammy said.

“Yeah, beauful boy. Beauful smart boy.” Alden let out a tearless bray of pain. He sounded like a donkey. Spittle flew from his lips. The truck plunged, then came right again.

“I have a beautiful boy, too,” Sammy said. She began to cry. Once, she remembered, she had taken pleasure in torturing Bratz. Now she knew how it felt to be in the microwave herself. Burning in the microwave. “I’m going to kiss him when I see him. Kiss him once more.”

“You kiss im,” Alden said.

“I will.”

“You kiss im and hug im and hold im.”

“I will, sir.”

“I’d kiss my boy if I could. I’d kiss his cole-cole cheek.”

“I know you would, sir.”

“But we burrit him. This morning. Right on the place.”

“I’m so sorry for your loss.”

“Have another beer.”

“Thank you.” She had another beer. She was getting drunk. It was lovely to be drunk.

In this fashion they progressed as the pink stars grew brighter overhead, flickering but not falling: no meteor showers tonight. They passed Sammy’s trailer, where she’d never go again, without slowing.

17

It was about quarter to eight when Rose Twitchell knocked on the glass panel of the Democrat’s door. Julia, Pete, and Tony were standing at a long table, creating copies of the newspaper’s latest four-page broadside. Pete and Tony put them together; Julia stapled them and added them to the pile.

When she saw Rose, Julia waved her in energetically. Rose opened the door, then staggered a little. “Jeez, it’s hot in here.”

“Turned off the AC to save juice,” Pete Freeman said, “and the copier gets hot when it’s overused. Which it has been tonight.” But he looked proud. Rose thought they all looked proud.

“Thought you’d be overwhelmed at the restaurant,” Tony said.

“Just the opposite. Could’ve shot deer in there tonight. I think a lot of people don’t want to face me because my cook’s been arrested for murder. And I think a lot of people don’t want to face each other because of what happened at Food City this morning.”

“Come on over here and grab a copy of the paper,” Julia said. “You’re a cover girl, Rose.”

At the top, in red, were the words FREE DOME CRISIS EDITION FREE. And below that, in sixteen-point type Julia had never used until the last two editions of the Democrat:

RIOT AND MURDERS AS CRISIS DEEPENS

The picture was of Rose herself. She was in profile. The bullhorn was to her lips. An errant lock of hair lay on her forehead and she looked extraordinarily beautiful. In the background was the pasta and juices aisle, with several bottles of what looked like spaghetti sauce smashed on the floor. The caption read: Quiet Riot: Rose Twitchell, owner and proprietor of Sweetbriar Rose, quells food riot with the help of Dale Barbara, who has been arrested for murder (see story below and Editorial, p. 4).