Claire ran across the street. In her mind’s eye she saw Mrs. Dixon’s plain, pale face. The sound of wind chimes and that face looking up at her from the alley. Those eyes had said something else besides what she had told her, that she’d come to check up on her. She’d looked at her with fear. Because she knew Claire knew without knowing.
Mary pounded on the big brown door. Then she rang the bell. She didn’t know what they thought they wanted her to do over here. What would her Michaelaen be doing over here? Why, if they thought Mrs. Dixon had anything to do with … why the very idea—like walking backward through her memory … so very many years ago … she’d come across her Michael in the garage and Mrs. Dixon in there with him. But, of course, nothing had happened. Nothing, Michael had told her. Nothing had happened and he was crying from the fear of the dark. Or had she told him that so he would think it? She knocked harder on the grand oak door.
“Mary,” Stan called, “we’re going in here whether she opens or not. Just get out of the way and Ryan and I—”
But right then the door opened, a squad car pulled up, Miss von Lillienfeld came outside on her lawn and Mrs. Dixon, seeing them all, pee-ed right down the front of her nice rayon dress.
“Christmas,” said Stan.
“Coming through,” Ryan came up the steps.
“Michaelaen!” Zinnie cried again hoarsely.
“Michaelaen!” they all called, and they went in and went through the house and kept calling. Only Michaelaen was far far away from them now, and even the hum of the fridge from that moment of opening had stopped. Even the hurry up cold had just stopped.
Claire came down the stairs after Johnny. He was back at the furnace, all sooty, glad not to have found Michaelaen there.
“Come on,” he said. “He’s not down here. I checked all over.”
“Where’s my son?!” Zinnie’s voice carried through the whole house. “Where’s my baby?!”
It was finally over. Mrs. Dixon grasped hold of the back of her husband’s cane chair and she knew it was finally over. If only that fool Claire had stayed away. But no. She’d had to return looking just like that little brat Michael who’d started the whole thing. It was all his fault. And now hers. Twins! They were both from the devil, that was where. Stirring things up. Making her remember. Why was Mary Breslinsky looking at her like that? So aghast. Didn’t she know this had nothing to do with her? This was separate.
So why did they keep up this shouting? What did they want? What did Mrs. Breslinsky’s girl Zinnie still want from her? Didn’t she know it was over? Hadn’t she shown them the cameras? She’d never touched Michaelaen. Their precious Michaelaen. They should only know what a little pig he was. What cunning little pigs they all were. Innocent children! Ha! Innocent nothing. Hadn’t her own father taught her all that. A hollow-sounding laugh ripped like gas from her throat.
“Come on, Claire.” Johnny’s voice sounded hollow in the cold, dismal cellar.
She turned with him to go, then looked for no reason back over her shoulder and noticed the trickle of water that ran from the refrigerator. She remembered the sprinkler. Only what would be worse, if he was there or if he wasn’t? “Johnny? Johnny, the refrigerator.”
She held her breath and watched the light bulb naked on a chain.
His head was on the wall of the sour refrigerator and his face, all pearly and closed, the color of drowned abalone. His hands and feet were blue.
“Helllllp,” Claire called with no sound, like a dream where you’re trying to run and go nowhere. But Johnny pulled him out, pushed her out of the way, and was running up the stairs and out onto the lawn.
“Get me some help here,” Johnny shouted to everyone.
“My baby! Let me see my baby!” Zinnie shrieked, only Johnny wouldn’t let her. He was down giving him mouth to mouth.
“Is he dead?” Carmela cried out.
“Hail Mary full of grace …” Mary prayed.
They were all coming out on their lawns. Everybody was out and they watched without talking. You could hear the short gasps Johnny made into his mouth, you could feel him breathe for him and the hope that waited, praying, inside every heart.
There was nothing.
Johnny lay down straight on top of him, smothering him, warming him, breathing for him. Making him live, goddammit, with all of the fury and faith he had in him. Come on. Come on. Live.
With an arc of his back like a lover’s reply, Michaelaen jerked with one spasm and vomited wildly.
“Yeah,” Johnny said to him. “Yeah.”
And the ambulance came, the paramedics ran over, and Johnny stood up, covered with vomit and furnace soot, and Claire looked at him standing there and thought she would die of this great love that held her.
They brought Mrs. Dixon out with no trouble. They led her down the steps slowly, almost softly, her very best red ruby earrings clasped firmly to her fat, doughy lobes. The neighbors stood about. Mrs. Dixon worried someone would steal her shopping cart off the porch and one of the officers pulled it inside.