36
Water roared in her bad ear. Pounding relentlessly like someone driving a nail into her skull. Her arms, above her head, burned with immobility. Her legs ached. She opened her eyes to light and mist, and closed them again. Her tongue fought the intrusive terry and could not push it out.
Over the sound of the water, a slam. A vibration in the floor of the tub. A door closing, somewhere beyond the water.
Her mind moving as if in cold lake water, grabbing at thoughts but coming up with only slippery, rotting impressions.
Cotton on the ground. Blood on her thighs. The copper-taste of bile. The second grader in the back seat, sneezing beneath a quilt. Hands between her legs, uninvited, probing, taunting. Her fingerprints on a foyer table. The old brick mansion, void of her son, her husband, herself. Chalk dust on her hands. An accident report on her desk.
She bent her head forward, backward, to the side, but the spray of water was wide, and still it struck her ear.
Images, tumbling one atop the other in the darkness behind her eyelids.
A puppy trembling in the back of Bill’s car on the way to Kate’s dorm room.
Donnie at five, sitting with Kate in the living room of their Richmond townhouse, helping her put together a Christmas box for children in Ethiopia. Pencils, toothbrushes, combs, stickers, crayons. Donnie saying, “I bet those kids’ll be really happy when they get this.”
Kate nodding, smiling. “It’s good to help other people.” Donnie asked what the children’s names were. Kate didn’t know.
Donnie firing his rifle at the dead apple tree and the bark opening like a dark, brown flower.
The mouth of a gun screaming silently at her from the other side of the car.
A girl with the red war-stripes, laughing in the passenger’s seat. The girl. The murderer.
Where was the girl? Maybe she’d gone off to steal a car.
Maybe she had gone to steal a chain saw.
Kate spasmed in the warmth of the water. She opened her eyes again and blinked. Steam rose to her nostrils; mist collected on her eyelashes in tiny beads.
The water drops were real. They were now.
The television droned loudly in the bedroom. Scratchy violin music and high-pitched dialogue from actors hired to voice-over cartoons. Did Mistie go out with the girl? No. No. The girl hated Kate. She hated Mistie. Mistie was in there on one of the beds, watching the cartoon.
Go back to sleep, Kate. It’s easier when you’re sleeping. The water will go away if you sleep.
Mistie sneezed. Kate’s head whipped up and back and she looked at the open door leading to the bedroom. She could see just the very corner of the room, the edge of the dresser on which the television sat. Mistie was on the bed in there, watching T.V. as Kate hung like a beef carcass in the tub.
Kate’s drew in the damp, warm air through her nose. Grit and dried sweat ran down her skin to swirl and vanish into the drain. As her breaths eased, her mind cleared. Vague, nebulous thoughts drew together, took shape.
Bitch.
Kate had taken her chance to save Mistie Henderson from her abusive home, and the goddamn little murdering bitch, on a whim, had snatched it away.
Goddamned little bitch!
On a whim the girl had turned Kate’s dream around, smashed it, and threw it back in her face. She had nearly killed them both in the lake, and then pulled them back from the brink so she could have something with which to play. Something to entertain her on this trip to Texas.
Wrong. Wrong wrong wrong.
Little shit.
Kate’s fists clenched. She bore down with her whole body, lifting her legs to her chest and pulling. The rod bent a little but did not give.
Fucking little shit. Who the hell does she think she is? How dare she do this to me!
She yanked on the rod; she put her feet on the tiled rear wall and drew herself up, but the rod did not fall.
I’m a teacher! I’m Kate McDolen! I will not let the little bitch control me!
She fought the shower curtain rod, twisting, jerking, slipping on the wet tub and regaining her balance. The rod held tightly. She stopped and waited, gathered her wits and her strength. She pulled again, gritting her teeth into the terry gag as if that would fortify the whole of her body and soul.
The rod bent a bit more, but did not break free of the walls.
Okay. Stop a minute.
Her breathing was wild and irregular, but her resolve was not.
Stop and wait.
Outside in the bedroom, it sounded as if Mistie was laughing.
I’ll wait, thought Kate. I’ll be here. I’ll play her game. But I’ll use my sharper wit and my better breeding. I’ll kill her if I have to, but she will not win.
Okay.
Oh, yes.
The warm water began to grow cooler on Kate’s neck and shoulder. She shivered, but grit her teeth. Her lip went up in a sneer around the soaked and heavy gag. Oh, when the girl got back they’d have a talk. Oh, yes they would.
Okay.