What’s your name, anyway? the man yelled.

What’s yours? she said automatically. Like a child.

He grinned and said something but she didn’t hear it, she’d turned back to her phone. It had changed—the tiny array of icons had changed. She thumbed the keypad, and waited, and her heart leapt as the radiant pulses of dialing graphed across the screen.

So what’s yours? said the man.

She pressed the phone to her ear.

It was late morning. Th ey’d be up by now and showered. Sitting in the cafe next to the motel drinking coffee and reading the local paper and trying not to look too often out the window—trying not to even though they’d chosen the table, without discussing it, for the view that would include, any second now, the paired familiar shapes of daughter and son, exactly as their minds saw them, demanded them, moving carelessly up the strange street. Maybe, waking up in the strange rooms, even in separate strange rooms, but waking up without kids in the strange rooms in the strange mountain light and the air that made the heart work, maybe they’d felt closer to each other. Maybe they’d laughed. Touched. Maybe their hearts were beating with a new old love over their coffees when the phone rang.

She was smiling, she was crying, already hearing his voice: Hello? Caitlin? Where are you, sweetheart? And then she did hear his voice, deep and steady and familiar in her ear, and though it was only his voice mail she began to sob.

Daddy, she said, before the first blow landed.

23

At the end of sleep there was music, low and thumpy and harassing him back into the world. Grant lay on the sofa with his knees drawn up, her lap replaced by a coarse little cushion she’d somehow slipped under his head. He sat up, boots to the floor, and passed his hand roughly over his face. The music was outside, the deep bass pulsing over earth and floorboards. He looked around the darkened room. What had he done? He’d kissed her, there on the dusty sofa. He’d put his hand on her breast and she’d put her hand over his. But when he began on the buttons she stopped him. Rubbed his shortened fingers in hers like coins. She didn’t want to be a drinking accident, she said. He’d put his head on her lap then and she’d traced slow circles on his temples with her fingers. She’d turned off the light when she left.

But no, here she was—the shape of her, at the kitchen window, framed in the blue light beyond.

“You’d better come look,” she said.

He got to his feet and went to her and they both looked out.

Six of them over there on Emmet’s porch. Three boys, two girls, and Emmet. All but Emmet holding beers. Two of the boys and one of the girls sat on the steps while above them in the rockers like lord and lady sat Billy and the Gatskill girl, the rockers close so she could keep her fingers in Billy’s hair. The El Camino was parked before them in the dirt, the beat pumping from the open windows like blood.

“There’s your hootenanny,” Maria said.

Emmet stood in the light from the screen door, one hand yet on the latch, his white hair wild on his head. He had taken the time to pull coveralls over his pajamas and to put on his old brogans though not to lace them. With his free hand he gestured toward the El Camino and spoke to Billy, and Billy said something in reply over his shoulder, and the others ducked their heads in laughter.

Grant raised his watch to his face. “Almost midnight,” he said. “Your daughter will be home soon.”

Maria stared at him in the dark. “This is a good time for me to go, you’re thinking?”

“No, probably not. But—”

Something was happening over there; Emmet was crossing the porch. He took two steps down between young hips before Billy stood from the rocker and seized him by the upper arm. Emmet looked in amazement at the hand on his arm and then into his son’s face. His glasses flashed blue in the farm light.

Maria took Grant’s wrist and said his name.

“Hold on,” he said. “Hold on.”

“He’s going to hurt him.”

“Hold on.”

Billy said something to Emmet and Emmet said something back and then Billy was hauling him back up the steps by the arm. Emmet dug at his son’s fingers and planted his feet but with a modest tug Billy yanked him off balance and got him clomping pitifully toward the screen door. Billy opened the door and guided the old man through and shut it again. They stood staring at each other through the screen. Then Emmet turned away and his shadow on the porch floor grew small, and then it was gone. Billy took his seat again to cheers and raised bottles.

“I’ll be right back,” Grant said.

“Grant, we should call someone.”

“Who?”

“Sheriff Joe.”

“He’s way up there in the mountains.”

“Then Sheriff Dave down here.”

Grant opened a drawer and began rooting through batteries and old tin flashlights.

“What are you looking for?”

“Nothing.” He stood and slipped the cartridges into his pocket.

“Grant, you know what he did to that Haley boy.”

“I heard about it.” He went out the door and down the steps, and the old dog came out from under the porch and limped along behind him.

“Evening, neighbor,” Billy said, hailing him from the rocker. “Everyone, this here is Grant, the old man’s hired gun, as it were. Grant, this here is everyone.”

The young people raised their beers and bid him good evening.

“And you brought my dog too, I see. Where’s he been hiding you girl, huh? Get on up here. Get up here girl. Come on now.” Billy leaned forward in the rocker and the black leather jacket, hangered on the high chairback behind him, stirred like wings.

The dog lowered to her belly and flattened her ears.

“God damn it,” said Billy, slapping his thigh.

“Let her be, Billy.”

“Don’t tell me what to do, Grant.”

“She’s just a scared old dog.”

“She’s my scared old dog. Now get up here girl goddammit before I come down there and get you.”

Grant turned to look at the dog. She looked up and he made a shooing motion and she rose to all fours and slipped away into the dark.

“There goes your dog, Billy,” said one of the boys on the step. A lank and pimpled boy with a cigarette in his grin.

Billy stared at him until the boy’s grin collapsed and he looked away.

“I think maybe you better call it a night, Billy,” Grant said. “I don’t think your dad can sleep with all this. And fact is neither can I.”

“Really,” said Billy. “I didn’t think you had sleeping in mind, Grant.”

“That’s that waitress’s car,” said the pimpled boy. “The one what’s got that nigger daughter.”

Grant stepped up closer to the boy. He was truly a boy, younger than Billy by perhaps ten years. They were all younger, including the Gatskill girl. “You need to watch your mouth, son.”

“Is that right, Dad?”

“That’s right.”

“Shit, Vernon, that is right,” said Billy. “You talk like your dad fucked his sister and out you popped whistling Dixie.” There was laughter, and Vernon bared his bad teeth and said, “Hilarious, Billy.”

“I’m going inside for a minute,” Grant said. “I’d appreciate it if you all went on home like I asked.”

“I am home, Grant,” Billy said. “And there’s your irony: this wouldn’t even be happening if my old house over there weren’t otherwise occupied.”

Grant glanced back at the ranch house. The kitchen window a dark and featureless square in its face.

“There’s nothing to do about that tonight,” he said.

“No,” said Billy. “I agree with you there.”

Grant went up the steps and on inside and climbed the stairs. Emmet was in his bedroom, sitting on the edge of the bed. He appeared to be giving great thought to his boots, down there on his feet. Grant sat beside him, raising a faint cry from the coils.