Primal

Chapter Twenty-Three

Waiting at the front door for Alison, Hank watches the last few leaves stuck to the oak tree in his front yard fall. They float to their deaths gracefully. It’s so out of character for him to make a morbid association like this. Alison looks like a wary rabbit as she skittishly exits the house and darts to the car. Hank has to run to hold the car door for her. He always holds her car door. He brings her coffee in bed on the weekends, and he sends her flowers unexpectedly. They cherish these little romantic gestures. When they’re out with other couples for dinner, and Alison rises to leave the table, Hank always rises as well, and rises again to pull out her chair when she returns. It is a chivalrous throwback that makes them feel special to each other. Other couples smile - a few women kick their own husbands under the table.

The drive to police headquarters requires scanning and concentration. There’s a lot for Alison to monitor. She peers out of the passenger car window and is thwarted by the heavy winter coats and hats that make identification tricky. Hank and Alison exchange a few forced sentences about the weather and then have little to say to each other. They sit in prickly silence. Hank turns on the radio and sings along without his usual enthusiasm.

They park and walk into the police station. Once in the lobby, Alison places each individual in a grid in her mind. The security screener uses the wand on them both and then waves them through. As they walk down the hall, all of the officers notice her. They exchange looks with each other after she passes. Hank finds this covert attention irritating and when he catches them, he punishes them with a look that would freeze blood, but there is no hiding; she is a known face in law enforcement circles. Somehow, this little woman killed three of the Burne brothers. After the newspapers and talk shows abandoned their attempts to interview her, she remained a topic of discussion among the police, the ATF, and the FBI. After all, it was the Burne brothers. It was an irreconcilable event, a stunningly unlikely result.

A uniformed officer escorts them to Detective Crane’s office. Alison sees every person along the way with intensified clarity: the woman with the big knuckles filling a cup at the coffee dispenser, the Latino officer with the overly stocky frame and flashy teeth, the two uniformed cops holding a folder and pretending not to notice her.

Once inside Crane’s office, she takes the seat opposite his desk. Her muscles let go and she relaxes. She feels safe here. As they wait, Hank paces. She is at rest. There is comfort in the deliberate order in this room. Crane is a right angle kind of guy: every sheet of paper on his desk is perfectly stacked, on the corner is a jar with eight sharpened pencils, the top of the file cabinet is a printer and a calendar with pictures of his family. Everything appears brand new. Even the items pinned to the bulletin board are in level lines. Alison breathes and feels calm.

Hank says, “This is a little creepy. Like it’s a prototype of an office.”

“I like it.”

And even these few inconsequential words hurt him, make him feel discounted and minimized. The walls are painted a doughy color that resembles a jar of chicken gravy. The floor moldings only go half way around the room. Alison wonders if they ran out of money or interest. She sees little nail holes in different spots on the walls testifying to the parade of detectives who have occupied this room. Witness to the coming and going of people who cared enough to put up pictures of their spouses, their children, their dogs - people who nail their heart to the wall of their office. She prizes the pictures she has of her family and decides to rearrange her photo albums as a project.

Detective Crane is relatively new to the crumby hallway that leads to his office. He was proud to make detective a few months ago. His wife and kids made him a special pork roast family dinner with a congratulations sign and a balloon. He had wanted to be a detective since he’d been a little boy sitting in front of the TV watching show after show where the good guys were funny and clever and always got their man. Reality has made a series of adjustments to that picture, but he is still proud, and he still loves his job. He may be a touch too refined for the grit of this work, but he was first in his class at the academy so he makes up for that with insight. He nods at Officer Simmons as they pass in the hall.

“Hey, Crane,” Officer Simmons says, “AK Allie is in your office. Just give a shout if you need backup.”

Crane smiles. “Right, thanks.” Inside, though, he doesn’t particularly like this kind of jocularity at a victim’s expense. As he reaches his office door, Officer Thomas joins him. They enter together.

“Hello, Mr. Kraft, Mrs. Kraft.” Crane shakes their hands and Thomas does the same. Alison doesn’t move from her chair. She narrows her eyes and studies them. One of the most alarming realizations about this ordeal for her has been how perfectly average the Burne boys looked. She thinks if there is a god, and he was intent on creating monsters, the least he could do was make monsters look like monsters.

Thomas says, “You’re a legend around here, Mrs. Kraft.”

“I’d like my fifteen minutes to be over.”

“Understandable.” Crane smiles.

Hank walks behind Alison’s chair and puts both his hands on her shoulders protectively. He levels his eyes at these men with a communication that says, “take care.” Crane gets it. Thomas is not that sensitive. He’s a guy who needs to be told things - sometimes more than once if he thinks you’re full of shit or dead ass wrong.

Thomas adds, “We got cops here, me included, who made a career trying to nail any one of the Burne boys and you dusted three in twelve hours.”

“You know how good we women are at dusting.”

Thomas laughs aloud and then seeing the look on Crane’s face, shuts up.

Crane takes the lead, “Mrs. Kraft, may we get you some coffee or tea?”

“No.”

Crane speaks gently, “I’m very glad to give you some really wonderful news.”

“Oh?”

“Ma’am, Ben Burne was positively identified in Port Arthur, Ontario. He has family there, an Uncle Rafael. The Canadians moved in to arrest him yesterday morning at his uncle’s cabin.”

“They have him?” Her heart leaps!

Thomas jumps in excitedly, “Burne put up a fight. The gunfire set off some explosives and the whole place went up. He was trapped inside like the rat he was.”

Reflexively, Hank gasps happily. “Thank god. Oh, good, great.” Alison does not react. He reaches for his wife. He shakes her, “Alison! It’s over.”

Crane smiles, he understands, “Now, I know some folks prefer a long trial and an opportunity to face him.”

Thomas breaks in, “I prefer him charbroiled and six f*ckin’ feet under. Oh…ah…excuse me.” Crane rolls his eyes. Thomas adds, “And also, personally, I wish I could’ve been the one to light that torch.”

“Thank you, Officer Thomas.” Crane silences him.

Alison has been sitting and waiting for the rush of relief. Nothing. No rush. No relief.

Hank says, “Thank you. This really helps us a lot. Doesn’t it, Alison?”

They all look at Alison for her reaction.

She is staring at her feet. Raising her eyes to Crane, “It doesn’t feel right.”

Crane speaks with kindness. He directs his words to Alison but he is clearly sending a message to Hank as well.

“Mrs. Kraft, I have trained officers who’ve been through less violent experiences who take leave to mend and recover.”

“I still feel him. He’s still around or I wouldn’t feel him.”

“It’s the trauma that’s still around - that is what you’re feeling. It’s like your body is caught in it. I’ve seen this so many times. Exercise can help. Relaxation techniques. Perhaps you should consider a vacation?”

“I’m not over my last vacation.”

Thomas laughs spontaneously. Alison can’t help but smile at Thomas. She likes that he is such an open book.

“Sorry.” Thomas shrugs.

Crane continues. “Right. What we would recommend is for you to go home. Raise your great son. Get back to your life as soon as possible. Routine is the best medicine.”

“Yes.” Hank is euphoric. “That’s exactly what we’re going to do.” Now, they will mend; their lives will come back into harmony as they recover the melody line lost in the madness. He will have his wife back. He will revel in an ordinary day: a good bye honey—have a good day at work—what’s for dinner—how was school—love you—good night kind of day. He will never underestimate the solace of normal again.

Hank grabs her hand as they walk out of the police station. He squeezes it three times, which meant I love you when they were dating. She looks up at him as the squeeze goes directly to the memories her heart holds dear. They remind her of a time before all of this, when she was young and in love, and the book of their lives was blank. They share a soft smile as he holds open her car door. Now, it will all stop. Her thin body falls heavily into the passenger seat. Now, the terrorizing visions of disembodied eyes, the unendurable dark and sleepless nights, the muscle tremors, the dirty muddy feeling of her skin, the constant flood of primitive hormones, all gone. She sinks into the leather upholstery and lapses into sleep in the time it takes Hank to walk around the car and get in. He turns on the motor. He looks over at her and sees she’s asleep and his relief is palpable. He slips off his suede jacket and lays it across her, leaving his hand lightly on her chest for just a moment; he feels her breathing in and out and it is nourishing. A gush of relief, like a cleansing, washes over him and his emotions are so raw his whole body feels swollen and pulpy. He is obscured sitting in the front seat behind the windshield of the car and so he allows himself the luxury of resting his forehead on the steering wheel, closing his eyes, and letting go for a bit, a little deserved relief - a shudder and a few tears of gratitude.

Walking toward his police car Officer Thomas glances over. He sees Alison Kraft crashed-out, head back, mouth slightly open and he thinks she looks child-like. Hank, too, seems to be asleep hunched over the steering wheel. Thomas doesn’t like things to get too complicated. Help the good guys. Kill the bad guys. Follow the law. Simple logic and a definitive direction works for him. He likes the lines that society draws clearly. It is when the victims enter his world that his hands feel too big and his mind clumsy. He feels all stuffy and dense, like his brain is soaked and packed with insulation. Victims make it all so messy. You cannot afford to feel for them because that will cloud your judgment. He is thankful that it worked out for these two. He never can figure out what makes one couple survive and go on to live their lives and another wind up chopped into pieces and scattered around in trash bins. There is no way to guess in advance which of the ones in that little fishing group on the island were going to leave, and which of them would end there. Years of police work has taught him there is no rationale for what happens, no predictive tool. He has found it is just as well not to wonder about the why of it all because it is no different from wondering about God, or about what makes a joke funny. Hank looks up suddenly sensing someone watching him. He sees Thomas a few feet away through the windshield. Their eyes meet. Thomas nods. Hank nods. It is the period at the end of their sentence. Thomas moves on. Hank starts the car.

Jimmy and Hank tiptoe around Alison for the next few days as she sleeps nearly continuously. Deep in a flooded slumber, she dreams she is on a down-filled raft in a blue swimming pool of warm water, gently floating with the hot fingers of the sun kneading the tight muscles on her back, and the backs of her legs, and with a gentle cool breeze skimming her face. She is unaware that several times her little boy has sneaked in, his bare feet padding silently on the gold carpet, and he has knelt by the side of her bed when no one was watching and just stared at her face, the face of his mom that finally looks normal again. The two sharp strain lines between her eyebrows have softened and the tightness around her mouth has let go.

Jimmy Kraft knows things about life that no nine year old should know: evil is alive. He knows this because it physically grabbed him by the shoulder and dragged him outside the lodge. Evil is a corporal presence with actual blood and bones and muscles to pull you, cut you, tear off your skin. It is not an imaginary spirit or fallen angel or apparition. It is not an ideology like they teach him in social studies class. It is not an empire, or a religion. It is human. It lives. It breathes. It spoke to him. And while that is terrifying to know, it also makes him feel like he can get it, reach it, hurt it, maybe kill it, and this is where the core of his healing comes from. Evil isn’t invincible if it has a shape, a head and a spine. He likes knowing that, likes thinking if he’s strong enough, and smart enough, he can defeat it, likes thinking that he can get his hands around the neck of evil and suffocate the life out of it when he grows up. When the police arrived on the island, Jimmy took some good hard looks at the dead Burne brothers. Others tried to shield him from the view, but they didn’t understand how badly he needed to see Kent with a hole in his chest the size of a basketball, Theo with his skull in two neat pieces, and Gravel stabbed, shot, completely pale and drained of blood. Jimmy has sublimated the visceral horror of that night and he has done a good job fitting himself back into the before time. A few of the games they play on the schoolyard seem dumb to him now, and all the injuries, the simple bumps and bruises that bring tears to the eyes of his schoolmates seem silly. Doctor Cartwell has warned Hank that there may be residual evidence of trauma as Jimmy grows. It could come in a lot of different forms. They would need to be alert and ready to help. Nevertheless, the doctor felt the prognosis was very good based on Jimmy’s ability to do his schoolwork and interact with his friends. They would need to wait to see what comes up.

On the fourth day, Alison wakes to voices downstairs. She looks over at the clock. It’s six-thirty, dinnertime. The fog in her brain clears. Music? Music is playing and there are clearly a lot of people downstairs. She picks up her cellphone by the bed and dials the house phone. It rings and Hank picks up, “Hello?”

“Could you come upstairs?”

A few moments later, he comes into the bedroom.

“Great. You’re up! Are you hungry?”

“What‘s going on?” she asks.

“It’s Sunday. Family dinner night.”

“What? No.”

“Yes.”

“I’m not ready.”

“You don’t have to do a thing.”

“I can’t.”

“Everyone brought something and the older cousins are going to clean up.”

“Oh, Hank, your family? No.”

He closes the bedroom door, walks over, and sits down on the side of the bed.

“You shouldn’t have invited them, Hank.”

“They wanted to come. They want to see you, to see us. They’re our family, Alison. They may be nuts and chews, but they’re our nuts and chews.”

“I can’t deal with it. And I feel responsible for their safety and it doesn’t feel safe having them all here near me.”

“It’s perfectly safe. I promise you.”

“There is no such promise.”

Hank feels a flash of anger because he knows this is true. He sends his true feelings into his gut and speaks with the kindness he knows she needs.

“Everyone in our lives has been affected by this. Try and think about how you would feel if something like this had happened to your dad?” This is exactly the right thing to say to her. She knows how she would feel. Yes, it helps her understand that others in the family have been injured in some minor way, certainly Carolyn who had a son and grandson to think about. Yes, it makes sense.

“Okay, I’m going to stay up here. I’m not ready for company.”

“Not company. Family. And everyone is hoping you’ll come downstairs. They want to see you, Alison.” He leans over kissing her, “Throw on some jeans and come on down. Aunt Beth just told Jill she’s adopted.”

“Jill’s adopted?”

“No.” He grins. She smiles, too. He turns, proceeds to the door and swings it open. He says over his shoulder as he steps into the hallway, “Please come down.” He walks out but does not go down the stairs. He stops and leans up against the wall to the right of the doorway in the hall by the edge of the stairs and listens. Did she get up? He waits to hear the bedspread rustle hoping to hear her foot hit the floor. He wills her out of bed with every ounce of energy he has. Get up, Alison, he thinks. Darling, get up. He carefully peeks around the doorway to find her staring directly at him with a little smile.

“I know you’re standing right there the stair didn’t creak,” she says.

“How do you know I didn’t fix that floorboard?”

“Did hell freeze over while I was napping?”

“I wouldn’t call three days napping, Rumpelstiltskin. Now, get your cute ass out of bed and help me deal with my relatives. Just fifteen or sixteen crushing hugs and the worst will be over.”

Downstairs, in the family room, Hank exchanges a hopeful look with his mother and mouths “maybe.” Everyone has fallen into their usual patterns of needling and teasing.

Emily complains to Jill, “I can’t believe you brought beans.”

“I was happy to,” Jill answers.

“But I was supposed to bring the baked beans,” says Emily testily.

“Yes, but last time you brought them from a can for god’s sake, Emily. So, I cooked some homemade.”

“Oh is that so? Well Jill, here, try these - they’re homemade. Muffins I brought to go with the beans.” Jill leans over and takes a bite of the muffin Emily holds for her.

“Mmm, actually Emily, these are really good.” She reaches for the rest of the muffin.

Emily levels her eyes at her sister, “And so good for you since I made them with my breast milk.” Jill’s eyes widen, her mouth full of muffin.

“No you didn’t?” Alison says from behind with a smile in her voice. Emily spins around. And even though Hank had methodically explained to each one of his relatives a seemingly infinite number of times how the best response would be for people to just act normally, well, that wasn’t in their natures. Emily throws her arms around Alison and the rest of the family swarms her like an agitated hive: sisters, cousins, aunt, uncles.

“Oh, shit.” Hank races over and tries to pull away his relatives. “Family please back off! Let her breathe!” And they separate.

“Relax, Hank, we’re just happy to see her,” his mom says.

He takes Alison’s hand, “My family - the inspiration for Velcro. Sorry, honey.”

Alison talks to herself, smile, maintain, fight the rising panic attack.

“I’m happy to see everyone, too.”

Hank’s mother says, “C’mon, Alison, let’s get a glass of wine away from the crazies.”

“We are your flesh and blood, Mother,” Emily yells after her.

“Every one of you takes after The Father.”

Alison’s breathing evens out as Carolyn leads her from the kitchen.

The Father was long gone when Alison joined the Kraft family. Over time, she has puzzled together pieces of him based on side comments and a few choice unrepeatable adjectives thrown around to describe the man who had walked out on the family. Hank told her once the entire extended family calls him The Father instead of your father or our father because they don’t really want to claim him. It was no small feat that Carolyn managed to raise her three kids on her own. The injury of being left shaped Hank. It is why he is committed to being such a good father, such a good son, husband, and brother, it made him a family man because little in life mattered more to him than not being like The Father.

Carolyn takes Alison’s hand and leads her out of the kitchen and into the quieter family room where they take seats on the sofa. Alison’s foot begins to shimmy with nervous energy. Her eyes skirt the room. She does not want to be here, or to fake this, or be expected to talk about it. Their curiosity is the problem. Their curiosity, understandable as it is, makes her feel conspicuous and dirty.

“Carolyn, I think I’ll go back upstairs.”

“No you won’t. I have questions,” Carolyn begins and Alison immediately turns away.

“Don’t ask me, Carolyn. I really don’t…”

Her mother-in-law interrupts forcefully, “What I want to know is did you see that Jimmy got an A on his report on ants?” Alison hears this and it feels like a slap across her face even though it wasn’t meant that way. Did Jimmy tell her this? Did she miss something? Something important to Jimmy? She clenches her teeth, angry with herself. Even her little boy has found his way back to life. She wrenches her nerves into submission.

“Did he?”

“And I have to tell you it was hilarious.”

“It was?”

“He needed to present his report orally to the class. So to remember, he gave each of the different kinds of ants names. Like he called the carpenter ant Mr. Hammer. It was very cute. And then, he made a poster board with drawings, and stapled samples of their preferred food all over the board, and the next morning the classroom was full of, guess what, ants!” Carolyn laughs aloud and Alison giggles.

As Carolyn jabbers on about Jimmy’s report on ants and Alison listens, she becomes aware that her hearing has changed. She hears everything that Carolyn is saying but she also hears whispering all around her. Her eyes catch the furtive glances of the family, all consciously pretending not to stare at her - she is the accident by the side of the road. Her senses are oddly heightened. How is it that she can discern what’s being said in the other room? Even though Jill is at least ten feet away and surrounded by rowdy kids, Alison hears her every word clearly, when she leans over toward Aunt Ruth and whispers, “Well, she looks okay, kind of.” Everyone is faking it. The whispering gets louder. Will I always be that woman she wonders? Will people always see the whole horror when they look at me? Do I need to move somewhere completely new to be free of it, to not see it reflected in the faces of those who look at me, to silence the whispering which sounds like a running faucet? She puts her hand on her chest and realizes she is trying to hide the bloodstain that is not there. She forces herself to focus on Carolyn’s animated face, but something is off deep in the core of her. An alarm is ringing. It was far away at first like a distant church bell carried on a furtive wind, but it has changed in character, changed in strength. She realizes it is not that everyone else is busy faking it - pretending that all is well - they believe all is well, all is healing, all is over. She is the one faking it because all is not well. It is not over. Is it? Why do I feel like I’m waiting? Waiting for what? Waiting for a dead man. I missed Jimmy’s A. I missed the goddamn ants and I cannot get that back.

Monday morning, Alison opens her eyes, pops out of bed, dresses for work and walks into the kitchen.

“How are my men?”

They look up from their cereal bowls, surprised. Hank has classical guitar music playing and seeing his wife there in the doorway accompanied by the soft honeyed chords is overwhelmingly beautiful to him. Music, Alison, Jimmy, he needs nothing else in the entire world.

“Mom! Are you coming to school?”

“Thought it was time I went back to work. Daddy shouldn’t have to do everything around here.”

“Sweet.” Jimmy turns back to his Cheerios.

“Yes.” Hank agrees.

Alison walks back into Harbor Hills Elementary School and heads for the teachers’ lounge to get a cup of coffee. This was her customary practice. Stepping inside the three-story building, she is acutely aware of the sights and sounds around her. Primitive systems in her brain that she never needed before have been activated: she scans rather than sees; she listens rather than hears, and the scents typically in the air hit her in the face: the smells of grass on the sneakers in the long grey locker as she passes, as well as the funky stench of the gym socks crammed inside of them. Her world is visually crisp, loud, and pungent. She has a new exacting attentiveness to every detail. The ceiling feels lower than she remembers. Although, she thinks, maybe I haven’t ever really noticed the ceiling before. Walking briskly down the hallway toward the lounge she makes a game of stepping on only the black floor tiles, which makes her feel a little like a child inside the child’s world and that feels good. Passing the open staircase to the next floor, she turns the hallway corner and enters the teacher’s lounge. She breathes in. Someone has dripped coffee onto the pad under the pot and it has burned there. She smells that, too. The bulletin board is crammed with reminders. She notices the semicircular ghost streaks left behind from the washcloth that wiped off the little red table hours ago. She has walked into this room a hundred times and never noticed those things. She decides to research the brain to learn what activated all of these detail systems. Must be in the brain stem, she speculates. It is a little fascinating to be in this new place, to see and hear the world in such detail. She grabs the coffee pot and a mug from the shelf. Denise and Gary enter behind her.

Denise cries delighted, “Alison!”

Alison spins around dropping the mug that shatters into large porcelain chunks when it hits the floor. Aggressively, she holds the hot glass of the coffee pot in both of her hands unaware of the burning in her palms. Denise and Gary are both startled by her reaction. A tense instant, and then Alison’s expression relaxes.

Denise says, “Alison, I’m so sorry.”

“Oh!” Alison puts down the hot pot and looks at her palms. Red but thankfully not burned.

“We shouldn’t have come up behind you like that.”

Fighting to regain her calm, “Completely my fault; seems I startle easily these days.”

Gary reaches down and picks up the pieces of the broken mug. “Are your hands okay?”

“Yeah, it’s nothing.” She thinks, really nothing. Pain is relative. It is true there are thresholds. She knows what her body can’t take. A little burn like that? Nothing.

Denise puts her arms around Alison, “We are so glad to have you back. It wasn’t the same around here.” Denise does this partially to hide her surprised expression at how different Alison looks. There are a few little scars on her face from where she was whipped and cut by tree branches and her complexion is sallow. That shimmer of light that used to come from her eyes is gone. She feels oddly stiff in Denise’s hug, because physically she hasn’t let go of it all, yet.

“Your class will be thrilled to see you,” Denise says and then pulls back and looks into her eyes. “You know, Alison, we’ve been friends a long time. I can’t imagine what you’ve been through, but I’m here if you need to unload on someone.”

“Thank you, Denise.” Alison is touched by the genuine affection. There is a poignant pause that they both feel emotionally stuck in: so much to say and nothing really useful. And then, Gary, is Gary…

“Personally, I’m just hoping to not piss you off.” He makes them both giggle and the fleeting softness that lights Alison’s eyes is like a sweet reminiscence from another time.

What is so therapeutic for Alison is the speed with which the kids in her class move on. They gather around to say hello and immediately complain about the series of gnarly substitutes who attempted to take her place.

After school, Alison stays late in her classroom hoping to enhance her newfound peace by a little needed organization. Different substitutes left behind folders of half-graded tests. Returned homework is strewn around the tables. Chaos has ruled the classroom. Alison stacks homework pages by date as she reviews the day in her mind. How did she do? Okay. Not great. I can’t believe I didn’t remember Jamie Hopper’s name. Ridiculous. I know that kid inside out. I suppose that’s just a remnant of the exhaustion. It will take time. At least, everyone keeps telling me so. I’ll feel better when this classroom is back in order. I think I need to look at the day like a series of little sips instead of trying to gulp it down. I can rest inside the little achievements that way: breakfast: check, driving to work: check, morning classes, etcetera. Alison gives up on the stack of homework in front of her and walks over to the windowsill where a pile of medieval history projects are stacked. She moves the top project on castles aside and reveals a poster board with three models of medieval weapons taped to it, one of which is a knife made out of aluminum foil. She touches it with one of her fingers. It feels sticky. Sticky on the blade. Yes, blood sticky. Blood is sticky. Wait, is this sticky or am I imagining it is sticky? She leans in compelled by the shape and the gleam. She perceives a blurry image on the shiny silver blade. She squints. The indistinguishable image pops into terrifying clarity: Gravel’s face. She is back in the shed and she feels his body tissues give way as she twists the knife in his back and his hot blood runs hot down her arm. His rage passed into her body like bacteria - it lives inside of her. Someone is behind her! She spins. Kent stands there with his dead bugged-out eyes and a gaping hole in his chest! He walks toward her. Denise does not recognize this woman looking at her. It is not Alison. Her eyes are wild. Her entire face is contorted. Denise steps back defensively and gasps, “Alison?” Alison’s expression clears. She squints. She sees Denise - it is Denise. She tries to pull it together but her throat closes. She can’t. She is surging with violent energy. Run. She needs to run. Unglued, she pushes past Denise and out of the room. In a manic frenzy, Alison runs past a few students who jump quickly out of her way. She looks down at her feet and mud - there is mud everywhere! Where? Out? She darts for the back, fire stairwell. Run. Somewhere inside she knows she is home, and then, also that she is not - not home - not - not safe. She bursts into the stairwell. Takes two steps, then another two, then slows one, one, one, then she stops. She stands gathering her wits. She looks around. I’m in school. I’m in the school. She breathes in forcefully attempting to even out her breathing. Muscles in her limbs are shimmying from rolling spasms. She gradually sinks down onto the stair and sits. She rubs her eyes and a few tears fill them. I am going mad. Or am I already mad? Is Hank right? Her head is heavy and her limbs feel weighted. How long can I exist on the edge like this? She puts her forehead down on her knees, her arms fall limply to either side, and she is perfectly still. Recover. Breathe. She tries to suck air deep into her lungs and then out slowly, calming. I need help. I must face that. But these therapists, what they want I don’t. I don’t want to think about it, talk about it, scrutinize it, or dissect it. I want to forget it. Maybe that’s the fallacy, that I want what is not possible. Maybe I can’t do this on my own. A noise. From the landing two floors below, an odd noise, slow, like someone is creeping. Her head snaps up. Yes. I heard that. No, no I didn’t. It’s nothing. Someone is creeping up the stairs. I can’t pretend I didn’t hear that. There it is again. She rises and presses her back up against the wall. She tries to see down through the opening for the hand railings. Another cautious footfall below her. Someone is slowly climbing the stairs. Too slowly. She slips out of her heels and tiptoes in her stocking feet toward the railing to look over. Yes, she sees something. Something on the railing below, is it a shadow, no a hand. A man’s hand! Ben’s hand. Twirling around, she rushes back up the stairs out through the fire door stumbling into the third floor corridor. She sees no one. A few teachers are in the hall speaking with the assistant principal and they watch flabbergasted as Alison blasts passed them in her stocking feet carrying her shoes. At the other end of the hall, where there is an open staircase, she leaps down the steps two at a time for three flights, and then bursts through the front door of the school. Shredding her stockings on the asphalt, she races to her car. In a wild panic, she reaches for her purse. No purse. In the classroom. Her purse is in the classroom and her keys are in her purse. Oh, her mind whines loudly, no keys, no keys. She looks frantically around the parking lot. A number of parents stare wide-eyed and mouths open at Alison shoeless, coatless, and trembling. Parents exchange worried glances. What should they do? Alison spins to face the school building. No. I cannot go back. I can’t go in there. He’s in there. I can’t go back in there. I know. At least that I know. She takes a step back, another step. She turns her back to the school and runs away leaving her purse and her jacket back in the classroom racing down the frigid street.

Alison looks up. She is on her back porch stoop breathing heavily. How did I get home? Wait. She doesn’t remember. I ran? Did I run all the way home? She looks down at her feet. They’re filthy and bleeding from numerous cuts and stubs. Her toes are numb and white from the cold. Oh, god. What’s happening to me? She raps on the back kitchen door. Jimmy opens the door and looks warily at his mom.

“Mom?”

She forces normal, “Hi, honey.”

“What are you doing?”

“Left my keys by accident.”

“You don’t have any shoes on?”

“Oh, ah, yeah, stubbed my toe and I just…my shoe didn’t. Enough questions young man.” She pushes past him and goes upstairs.

In the bathroom, she turns on the hot water faucet for her sink. As it fills with steaming water she closes the connecting pocket door that leads to Jimmy’s bedroom, leaving the door to her room opened so she can hear. Pulling off her shredded stockings she tosses them in the little bathroom trash pail. She pulls a bottle of hydrogen peroxide from the vanity cabinet and pours a bit into the hot water. Sliding up onto the bathroom counter she plunges her feet into the sink to soak. I know what I saw. The hot water hits her toes and they feel like she is walking on fire! She scrunches up her face, vigorously shakes her feet and leaves them to soak. She knows this happens when one is close to frostbite. I know what I saw. She massages the toes encouraging circulation. God, did I look like a crazy woman running barefoot down Hilldale? Who saw me? She drops her forehead to rest on her bent knees and allows the hot water to do its job, to coax life back to her damaged and frozen toes. I know what I saw. The hydrogen peroxide will be an adequate disinfectant because the street was so cold it is unlikely any kind of infection can result from these cuts. I know. Over and over in her head like a line from a song she cannot let go of: I know what I saw. It repeats without her thinking it. It repeats in time with her heartbeat.

Jimmy watches his mom all through dinner with trepidation. His conversation stutters around in aimless fits and he feels no subject is the right one. Clearly, school did not go so well for his mom, but she is resistant to discuss it. He thinks it could be because her car broke down, but he doesn’t believe that is what it is. It feels like more of that other stuff, when she’s here but she’s not here, he thinks. He keeps looking at her and hoping he will see her like she was this morning. He desperately wants to see his mom again.

Jimmy answers his dad, “No I went home with Alan because we had a project. Mom stayed after for work.”

“Oh.” Hank senses her slipping away just like Jimmy does.

“So…” Jimmy shrugs, “I guess I’ll go do my homework.”

“Okay, son, always a good plan.”

Jimmy carries his plate to the sink and goes to do his homework.

“So you walked home then?” Hank asks her as casually as he can manage.

“Yes.”

“Why didn’t you call Triple A?”

“I just didn’t.”

“Did the engine turn over?”

“Sort of.”

“Sort of? Alison, did it seem like the battery or something else? I can go over and take a look tonight at the school. Give me your keys.”

“No, I’ll figure it out tomorrow.”

“Honey, I’m happy to go and -”

“I’ve got it!” she snaps at him. She can’t tell Hank what happened. This is an impossible situation for them, they are too close to hide things from each other, but she knows she must stay quiet. She realizes some people think she’s becoming unbalanced. And I suppose, she thinks, I’m not altogether certain they aren’t right. I suppose there is a scintilla of doubt there. How can I not have doubts when what I see and hear is inconsistent with what everyone around me thinks and says? How do I rectify these contradictions? She holds her husband’s eyes and Hank sees the confusion, he recognizes the distant look, and they both know she is lying. Hank had believed they were making progress and so he swallows the disappointment and he looks away. He wants to be patient, but he is beginning to feel like Alison isn’t fighting to come back to them. His impatience is becoming unwieldy and he wants their life back. He can’t persist in ignoring the consequences of her continued detachment on their son. It perpetuates Jimmy’s injury and lengthens his recovery time. The impenetrable mask that seemed gone for good this morning is still there. It separates his son from the mother he urgently needs and the threads of Hank’s compassion are fraying as he saw unequivocally the loss on Jimmy’s face at dinner. Alison picks up the dinner plates and carries them to the sink. She peers out the kitchen window into the pitch black of the backyard. Get spotlights, she thinks. She scrapes the leftovers into the disposal. Hank wipes the counters. As he passes the controls, he switches on the music system and Ray Charles enters the room. Hank sings along “Georgia…” At least there is solace in the music. Alison lifts her head from the sink. She walks over and switches off the music.

“No Ray Charles? Feel like someone else?”

“No music.”

Hank looks at her as if she is speaking gibberish. “What do you mean?’

“No more music. We can’t have music.”

“All night?”

“No music for a while.”

“Why not?” He’s been patching the family back together by himself, trying to be everything for both her and Jimmy, but now the nightmare is over. He does not have any more energy left for this. His music is not negotiable. It is his identity. He feels his temper rise up and his face turns red. She knows me, he thinks! She knows about music and me. She knows this if she knows anything.

“This is a little like telling me to stop breathing.”

“It’s too loud,” she says.

“So I’ll turn it down.”

“No. We can’t hear.”

“Can’t hear what?”

“Anything.”

Hank raises his voice as he eggs her on, “Like what?” He whips down the kitchen towel and turns to her taking it on. The vein on his forehead is pulsing. She stops scraping the dish, carefully puts it down, and turns to face him.

“We need to hear if someone is around.”

“Someone who?”

She grits her teeth, “We can’t get sloppy!”

The scab is ripped off between them.

“He’s dead, Alison!”

“On the contrary, he is loving this! The squirming, the fear, the game of us wondering.”

“We’re not wondering.”

“Yes.”

“Alison! For god’s sake, wake up! This isn’t a game it’s our lives! You’ve got to pull it together. I’ll do whatever I can to help, but you’ve got to try!”

Jimmy innocently opens the swinging kitchen door.

“Hey, Dad, I need robot batteries.”

“End table in the foyer.”

“Okay.” Jimmy turns and exits.

Alison remembers that is where she keeps the handgun. She goes after him. “No! Wait. I’ll get…”

Hank grabs her arm. “It’s not in there.”

“What?”

“The gun isn’t in there.”

Angrily, “Where is it?”

“I got rid of it.”

Furious, she yells, “Have you lost your mind?”

For a sour moment, they stand like that: Hank with his fingers harshly gripping her arm and Alison half-turned toward the door. The words she just spoke bang around the room. She knows what he is thinking. He thinks she has lost her mind. That is what he thinks. That is what everyone thinks. Too bad, I know what I know. I know it’s not over. I can feel he’s around.

“Hank, something strange happened out there between us.”

“No, we’re still the same.”

“Not you and me - me and him.”

“You and him! Now there’s a you and him? There is no you and him.”

“Something…some kind of animal thing passed between us and I’m trying to protect us.”

“You want to protect us? To protect our family? Give me back my wife! Give Jimmy back his mother!” They are squeezed in a fist of conflict. It is all so wrong. They know it is wrong, and they both want it to end, but they cannot see through the fog of the storm between them. They are both certain they are right and being so certain makes compromise untenable.

“I wish you understood.” She pulls her arm away. “But I can’t pretend it is not happening.” She walks toward the swinging door.

“Alison!” She stops never having heard that tone from her husband. There is danger in it; it feels like a tipping point. “It is not happening.” She does not feel quite as defiant as she looks when she spins around and pushes through the swinging door. Hank pushes his way out the back kitchen door. He shoves his hands into his pockets and walks around the frozen backyard in circles crunching the rigid blades of grass under fuming feet.

* * *