Angels of Destruction

“You look like hell,” Diane said. “I'm so, so sorry.”


They hugged each other again and then broke off, holding hands as they crossed into the kitchen. Margaret unwound the story, unpacked the scarce details about Wiley and the Rinnicks, and uncovered a shocking paucity of any real clues. A sort of progress was achieved in the telling—for Margaret, the unburdening of her confusion and loneliness, and for Diane, the opportunity to feel useful again to her older sister. At three in the afternoon, they began to sketch out their plans for that night's meal, for how long she might stay. And after dinner and drinks, after Paul finally begged off to bed, they sat in the living room sipping white wine, the television on but soundless, and took up the matter again.

“Do you worry that she's never coming back?”

“I am trying not to think about her at the moment.”

“Some distraction is called for then. Let's play a game.”

“I don't want to play a game. The police haven't called today. Why don't they call?”

“Not cards. You always cheat at solitaire, and you're only cheating yourself, you know. How about the crossword? I'll get the newspaper.”

“That awful Rinnick woman. She drove Wiley to it. Bad blood always begins in the womb.”

“Don't say that, Maggie. You can't blame yourself for Erica's hormones.” She finished her wine and set the glass down on top of a magazine. “Love makes us do wicked things.”

“What does she know about love? She's still just a girl.”

“Now you sound just like Mom again. Those kids may not know a lot about life—the daily tricks to just get through the boredom and disappointment—but don't say the young don't know about love. It's the only thing they do know. From that first blast of air into a baby's lungs, they come into the world hungry for it, clamoring for affection.”

“Don't be ridiculous. A baby cries because she's hungry for mother's milk. Needs a diaper change. Or is startled, maybe cold.”

“No. Right from the beginning, we're wrenched from the one true love. The womb where that baby has spent every moment for nine months, listening to the music of the mother's heartbeat. And then the baby is pushed out in a fit of crying, on its own now, always looking for the missing piece. Where is my mother? Cold? Hungry? Crying for love, from the first day that's all we know. She's in love. Amour fou. She went willingly with him.”

“That's just lust, just raging hormones.”

“You ought to know enough not to confuse sex with love. One's the happy accident of the other. What about that boyfriend of yours down in Washington? I know you saw him, Maggie—”

“Jackson,” Margaret whispered. “I'll call Jackson. He'll know what to do.” She reached for the telephone, watched her sister tiptoe away the moment she began to dial.





19





The setting sun lit the underside of the clouds, reflecting glory on the bowl of the sky, suffused with gold, magenta, and pewter, even white renewed in its brilliance. From the top of a hill, Una watched the colors bend to evening as she waited for the approaching figure to negotiate the path through the woods. From afar, he looked like some Hindu deity, extra arms protruding from his sides, but the closer he came, the more clearly his appendages were revealed: in the cradle of his left arm, a shotgun broken down at the nexus of stock and barrel, and in his right, a rifle carried upright like a soldier's. Una studied the sky, then the man, calculating the time and distance, hoping he would come upon her while light remained for him to notice her and not react in fear or surprise. Beyond in the vale, the cabin lights blinked on window by window.

Wiley had planned to hide the guns on the property near the cabin and wake up early the following morning to clean and dry them properly in a private place. The girl had doubtless seen the pistol hidden in his jacket, but there was no need to alarm her or the old woman any further with a display of more firepower, no reason to spook them, for he had reckoned on their trust and help in getting out of these hills. Though he had not discovered where she hid it, they would need to borrow or steal the old lady's car. Or, if Erica objected to the idea, ask the old lady to drive them into town or out to the highway at least, where they could hitch a ride to Memphis and find another set of wheels. But when he saw Una come flying off the hilltop, earnest arms pumping and feet smacking the ground, he scrambled for some explanation. Breathless, she stopped short to wait, rested her hands on her knees, and lifted her mad red face to meet his gaze. “Mr. Wiley,” she panted. “Thought you'd never come, but you best be quick. She's been asking after you. She's real sick.”

He wanted her to slow down, so he rested the butt of the rifle on the ground and spoke in a calm tone. “Who's sick, Una? Your gramma?”

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