She comes back in and sees that Avis is crying, her face crumpled pink.
Gene stays in the den as Helen helps Avis wash her face and brush her teeth. Through the floor, she hears the jangling sound track of another 1970s vigilante film. She puts Avis back in the Block Island T-shirt and sits with her in Rufus’s room. There are no longer any children’s books in the house, so she retells the events of their day together. The girl looks at her without expression, then her face crumples again. The alarming pink color returns, the tears mingling with mucous and dripping into her mouth. Helen sits and waits, watching the contortions of the little girl’s face until she finally expends herself. Within moments, she has dropped to the pillow, asleep.
Helen, too, feels ready to collapse. As she is pulling on her nightgown, Gene creaks up the stairs and puts his head into the bedroom.
“You didn’t tell me she was sleeping here.”
“It’s just for one night.”
“Who are these people again? I’ve never heard you mention them.”
“The next-door neighbors. The mother couldn’t find a babysitter.” This is true in a way, Helen thinks.
“Well, you didn’t ask me.”
“Don’t worry, you don’t have to do anything. Just watch your Death Wish.” She turns away.
Helen wakes early. She lies quietly, feeling an unidentified spark, and after a few moments remembers Avis. Slipping out of bed and into the hallway, she turns the knob of Rufus’s bedroom. The girl’s head is still there, resting on the pillow. From this distance, the unfamiliar mass of hair looks to Helen like the fur of a small animal. She closes the door and retreats, lets the girl sleep.
She dresses in front of the full-length mirror. She pins her hair in an artful fashion, arranging a swag to cover the thinning place at the hairline. In a buttoned blouse and bias-cut skirt, she believes herself to look younger and more feminine than other women her age, those who wear robes and slippers in the house and sometimes in public. Even if she doesn’t step outdoors all day, even if it’s only to please herself when she passes a mirror in her own home, it is always worth the effort to look nice.
Today, before bringing her home, Helen might like to take Avis shopping, buy her some pretty clothes. She pictures a -scallop-collared shirt with pearly buttons, a skirt with pleats. They will have to go quickly, before Gene awakes, before the lights come on in the house next door. If the clothing stores are not yet open for business, perhaps they will go for breakfast somewhere.
Helen rouses the girl, who whines and shrinks away. It takes a few struggling minutes to pull her into a sitting position and to squeeze her into her clothing. This is followed by a tumultuous visit to the bathroom, a discovery of wet underwear. This is all right, Helen thinks. They can buy new panties, too.
Downstairs, Helen helps Avis with her shoes, looping the laces in careful bows. Lastly, she tries to do something about the knotty hair—but when Helen applies her boar bristle hairbrush, the girl screeches and pulls away. Like a kitten, she bounds into the living room and climbs onto the settee, her shoe soles digging into the upholstery. Helen feels her blood ripple. So, here it is at last, true evidence of the girl’s upbringing. She takes a breath. This is an important moment. It is crucial to control her response, to deliver her message correctly and firmly.
“Take your shoes off the sofa, please,” she commands.
Avis looks at her, thumb in mouth, and Helen detects a dark glimmer in her stare. It strikes her as the practiced gaze of the chronically guilty, which the girl’s mother has allowed her to master. Helen lowers her voice, steadies its tremor.
“I said take your shoes off the sofa, please. Now.”
Avis scrambles off the settee altogether and begins a directionless sprint, crying, “No! I wan’ my mommy!” Her sneakers slap through the hallway into the kitchen.
This is all theatrics, Helen understands. She knows the girl to be four years old, at least, and four-year-olds speak more fluently than this. She is positive that Rufus had composed complex sentences at this age.
Helen has just cornered the girl in the kitchen when the phone rings, and cannot risk going to answer it. She hears the vibrations of her husband’s voice through the ceiling, then the drum of his footsteps on the stairs.
When he comes into the kitchen, Helen looks sternly at Avis. “Please say ‘good morning’ to Mr. Tanner,” she commands.
Avis does not reply, but retreats farther into the corner, flanked by the trash can. Helen looks at her husband, the rigid mouth and scored forehead, and understands that something has happened.
“Rufus is in the hospital,” Gene says. “They’re saying he lost consciousness at a party. I don’t know. Maybe it was drugs.” Gene stands in the kitchen with his arms at his sides. “They said he’s awake now. Being monitored.”
“What?”
Gene turns from her, his hands shaking as he fumbles in the drawer for the car keys.