"Why are you all looking at me that way?" he asked, and the tension in the house notched up as they heard the paranoia in his voice. Neither Kim nor Jared replied, and did their best to neither look at their father nor appear to be trying not to look at him.

Molly's wail rose to a scream.

"Does that child have to howl every time I come into the room?" Ted demanded.

As Janet scooped Molly up from the floor and tried to comfort her, she had to repress the angry words that threatened to spill from her lips: She only does it when you've been drinking! "Dinner will be on in a few more minutes," she made herself say instead.

"Then Jared can unload the car," Ted said, his eyes fixing on his son. "If it's not too much to ask." The last words were spoken with biting sarcasm, warning Janet that an explosion wasn't far away.

"Not a problem," Jared said, already on his feet. Kim, grabbing at the opportunity to escape the ugliness in the kitchen, quickly followed her brother.

"What's wrong with her?" Ted asked. "Do I look like I have some kind of disease or something?"

Once again Janet forced herself to hold her tongue, but when Jared carried inside a large box filled with bottles of liquor, she turned furiously on Ted.

"You said you were going to stop drinking." She struggled to keep her voice under control, and wished she'd found the strength to hold her anger in check until later, when she and Ted would be alone. But it was too late. Ted was already glowering at her.

"Just because it's here doesn't mean I'm going to drink it."

This time Janet did stifle the words that came to mind. But it didn't matter. She'd already set Ted off.

"You all make me sick," he rasped. "Can you blame me for having a drink every now and then, the way you all act?" He picked up the box of bottles, nearly lost his balance, then managed to recover himself. "You want dinner, go ahead and eat it. I'll take care of myself." He disappeared through a doorway that led to a butler's pantry and the big dining room beyond. Jared made a move to follow, but Janet stopped him.

"Don't. Just leave him alone. Maybe at least the rest of us can enjoy our dinner."

But of course they couldn't. The pall over the house grew heavier, and though Janet kept telling herself it was just the dank heat of the evening, all of them knew its real cause.

Somewhere in the house, Ted was drinking.

When dinner was finished and the dishes cleared and washed, Kim and Jared retreated to the second floor, pleading homework to be done and a few more boxes still to be unpacked. But when Jared lifted Molly into his arms-"Come on, small fry, if we have to work, so do you!"-Janet got the message loud and clear.

We don't want to deal with him.

After they left, Janet lingered in the kitchen. At first she told herself she simply wanted to be alone, wanted to put off dealing with her husband for as long as possible. But it was more than that.

Once again she was hearing her mother's voice, and this time it was saying something it had never said before: Leave him. Take the children, and leave him. He's a liar, he's a drunk, and whatever his problems are have nothing to do with you. Don't let him destroy you. Don't let him destroy the children. Get out now, before it's too late.

The words, so clear it was as if her mother were sitting at the kitchen table, shook Janet. Not because they were unfamiliar words.

She'd said them to herself a hundred times.

But always before, there had been qualifications.

And always before, fear had followed immediately on the heels of the thought. Fear of trying to raise the children alone. Fear of trying to put a roof over their heads, and food on the table, and clothes on their backs. But this evening, in the heavy heat of the Louisiana night, all the fears had fallen away.

Now she was far more afraid of staying. She stepped to the back door and looked out. The sky was a leaden black-a thick cloud blotted out whatever light the stars might have provided-and in the inky darkness she saw all the forces that suddenly seemed to be arrayed against her.

The priest, whose words of warning at the funeral seemed far more menacing in the dark of night than they had in the bright light of morning.

Jake Cumberland, who had stood glowering from the sidewalk as they buried Cora Conway.

All the people whom Ted had told her about over lunch, people who-for whatever reason-didn't want them here, and made no effort to hide their feelings.

Sister Clarence, who had chosen to humiliate her children on their very first day at St. Ignatius.

And what was keeping them here?

A free house, and an income that would allow Ted to drink all he wanted.

Why had she let herself believe that he'd really intended to stop drinking? Stupid! That's what she was-just plain stupid, like all the women she'd seen on those television talk shows who stayed with men who beat them, and cheated on them, and humiliated them every chance they got. So how was she any different from them?

Just because Ted didn't beat her, or cheat on her?

So what?

He lied to her-had lied to her hundreds of times over the years! Why had she believed him this time?

Stupid, stupid, stupid!

Well, ho more!

Stepping back into the kitchen, she closed the door, shutting out the darkness. As she started through the lower floor of the house, her mood began to lighten. A flood of relief told her she'd made the right decision far more strongly than the purely intellectual knowledge that she had no other choice.

If she and the children stayed here, something terrible would happen.

To all of them.

She found Ted slouched on the single tired sofa they'd brought with them from Shreveport and installed in the small den behind the living room. He was clutching a glass, and on the floor next to the sofa was a fifth of vodka, half drunk.

"I'm leaving tomorrow," she told him. "I'll take the kids and Scout-and Muffin, if she's back-and the car."

Ted lurched to his feet and took a step toward her, lost his balance and grabbed at the mantel over the small fireplace to steady himself. "You're not going anywhere," he growled, this time making no attempt to conceal the slur in his speech.

Janet refused to be drawn into a fight. The decision she'd finally made was giving her a serenity she hadn't felt in years. "It's over, Ted," she said, her voice so quiet it riveted her husband's attention. "All the years of lies, all the years of broken promises. I don't want to deal with it." Her glance took in the room; the reality of the life around her. Now, instead of the possibilities she'd seen through Ted's eyes a few days earlier, all she saw was the peeling wallpaper, the stained plaster, the filthy and broken chandelier that hung from a sagging ceiling. And every room in the house was just like it. "Look at this place," she went on. "It's just like our marriage-everything about it is rotten, and it ought to have been torn down years ago." Ted's fist clenched spasmodically, but Janet didn't so much as flinch. "Don't bother," she said. "It won't work. Don't bother to threaten me, don't hit me, and for God's sake, don't make me any more promises." She turned away, but at the door she looked back at him one more time. "And don't bother coming upstairs tonight, either. The bedroom door will be locked." She left the den and walked through the living room into the foyer, then started up the stairs. She was halfway to the landing where the staircase split when Ted's voice thundered through the house.

"You won't leave me!" he bellowed. "You'll never leave me!"

The calm she'd been feeling was shattered by her husband's fury. Racing up the rest of the stairs, she fled into her room, locking the door behind her. The thick oak slab would keep him away from her for the rest of the night, but it wasn't thick enough to protect her from the sound of his rage.