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  Troy got up from the desk, took off her scarf, and ran her fingers through her hair. She twisted the scarf into a tight rope in her hands. Instead of answers, Emma was creating more questions. Questions she herself should have thought of instead of riding around trying to think of the least painful, wussy-ass way to kill herself.

  “I’ll be back,” she mumbled.

  She already had the front door open when Emma asked, “Where are you going?”

  Troy met her eyes and then looked away before answering. Her words came out slow and concise as if she were speaking to a child. “I’m going to break into your neighbors’ places and steal whatever food they have, and then I’m going to come back here and give it to you. After I do that, I’m going to lie on your couch and get some sleep, because now that I know that someone else is awake, I might be capable of sleeping for more than half an hour. Is that all right with you?”

  A low wail emanated from the area of Emma’s stomach.

  “I thought so,” Troy said and pulled the door shut. She bit her lower lip. What would cause someone to wall themselves up in their own home to the point that they don’t know when the rest of the world goes to hell in a hand basket? Worse yet, what would cause her to stay there, even after she knows something’s wrong? Troy tested the first knob and continued walking down the hall. Her frustration was already reaching the boiling point. She would check one more door, and then she would go to another floor so that she didn’t scare Emma when she went nuts on one of her neighbor’s front doors.

  Chapter Seven

  Standard, Oregon, September, Years Ago

  The Boy’s shoelaces had worked themselves loose again. Shoelaces, at least untied ones, bothered Hoyt. Anything that bothered Hoyt usually earned a slap on the back of the head. So The Boy tucked his feet back beneath the chair and kept his body still. He knew he hadn’t done anything to get in trouble. Not unless this was about the fight, but he couldn’t see why getting his ass kicked would be reason to call his father in.

  Unless, his teacher, Ms. Carter, was planning on telling Hoyt what a pansy he had for a son.

  The idea of Hoyt finding out that he got chased as far as the Pump and Go Gas Station almost every day made The Boy’s stomach cramp. Something trickled down the side of his leg. Sweat, he hoped.

  Hoyt had worn his Sunday best. Not that his Sunday best had gotten use on any Sunday that The Boy could remember.

  “Mr. Pokorney, it’s nice to meet you,” Ms. Carter said as she rushed through the door. She looked so beautiful that The Boy forgot that he should be afraid.

  “Hoyt. You can call me Hoyt, Ms. Carter. The Boy’s mother couldn’t make it. She’s having female problems.” Hoyt’s laugh made The Boy’s eardrums tingle and the smile he put on turned The Boy’s stomach. It was the same one he had used on Amy, the waitress at Bernie Ann’s Corner Side Cafe. Ms. Carter returned Hoyt’s smile, but it didn’t reach her eyes like it did for him when he answered a question right. The Boy wondered what a black eye had to do with Pam’s female problems.

  Ms. Carter looked down at her folder. The Boy liked how she was wearing her hair and how neat and clean her desk was. Everything in its place, even the folder that he was sure Mrs. Orson, the school secretary, had handed her just before she walked in the door.

  The one thing that The Boy didn’t like about Ms. Carter was the way she got quiet sometimes. She would ask a question and after you gave her the answer, she wouldn’t respond right away. It made him feel like he had said something wrong, even when he knew he was right. She was doing that now and it scared him because he knew Hoyt wouldn’t like it any more than he did.

  “Mr. Pokorney,” she began.

  The Boy jumped as Hoyt cleared his throat. The sound was like the rat-tat-tat of machine gun fire in one of those old westerns with all midget actors that his grandma liked to watch every Sunday.

  “Hoyt,” Ms. Carter said with the same smile she used when she didn’t want to tell a student that their answer wasn’t quite right. “Are you aware that your son has shown an affinity for math?”

  Hoyt looked at The Boy and then back at Ms. Carter with the same smile he used on all women he was sure found him good looking. The Boy gripped his armchair and looked down at the floor and hoped Hoyt didn’t call Ms. Carter a gal.

  “Has he, now?” His tone made The Boy even more nervous. It was always like this at home. Before a fight. Hoyt always got gentler before things got real bad. The Boy’s bladder was so full now that his leg began to shake.

  He wanted to yell at Ms. Carter to get on with it. He didn’t understand why she had called Hoyt here. His grades were good and he didn’t make trouble.

  “Yes, some of the other teachers and I have organized a science club with some courses that are geared more toward middle and high school. We offered your son one of the spots and he refused. He said you needed his help at home.”

  “He said that, huh?” Again Hoyt looked at him, but The Boy continued looking down at the floor. His cheek cooled when Hoyt turned his gaze back to Ms. Carter.

  The Boy slumped forward and began to fumble with his shoelaces. He squeezed his eyes shut. Some-bitch Some-bitch. He repeated the mantra over and over in his head. Pee eased out of his penis; he grabbed his ankles, pressed his tummy into his crotch to stop the flow, and prayed.

  “He told you right. I do need him to help me with my work.”

  “Hoyt.” Ms. Carter’s voice had softened and The Boy heard papers shuffling. Neither of them seemed to notice that he was still bent over. He clenched and unclenched his stomach. The pressure was building so much that he had begun to rock. Some-bitch Some-bitch. Should he tell them he had to go? No, they’d make him stand up. He didn’t know what was worse: peeing his pants in front of Ms. Carter or the beating he would get for embarrassing Hoyt.

  “Do you know your son wants to be a doctor?” His penis felt like it had shriveled up into his stomach.

  “A doctor,” Hoyt said and then he laughed. “He’s seven years old.”

  “It’s never too early to start children toward their future. In ten years, your son will be ready for college. With grades like his and his sharp mind, he could be eligible for a full scholarship.”

  Hoyt sat with his heel propped back against the leg of his chair, pressing so hard that his calf muscles stretched the seams of his pants. Something dark and brown spotted his white sock and The Boy wondered if it were Pam’s blood. He had seen old blood several times in his life. But Pam had been fine this morning, aside from the black eye. It dawned on The Boy that Ms. Carter had just told Hoyt that she thought he could go to college someday. She thought he could be a doctor. A doctor. He sat up and looked at her. His resentment was gone, along with his need to pee.

  “If my boy wants to go to school,” the emphasis on “my” made The Boy’s fingers stumble as he tried to tie his shoes, “money won’t be a problem.”

  It was such an obvious lie The Boy could imagine Ms. Carter’s eyes bugging out of their sockets. He hoped they weren’t. He hoped she didn’t question Hoyt on anything, because that was never a good idea.

  “Of course not, Mr. Pokorney. I was merely letting you know that I think your boy has a chance to do so, if he wants to become a doctor.”

  Hoyt’s laugh rang out again. “You’re back to calling me ‘Mr. Pokorney’ again.” Hoyt’s voice sounded odd. The Boy was embarrassed, as if he shouldn’t be in the room. Ms. Carter wasn’t moving; her eyes were glued to Hoyt. Watching him like anyone would who’s keeping an eye on a dangerous thing. He wondered if she had seen it, if she had figured out what he had known all of his life. There was something missing in Hoyt. It was like those gorillas at the Oregon zoo. They seemed peaceful, but there was nothing in them that would make them feel bad if they decided to tear you apart.

  “Thank you for taking an interest in my boy. I’m sure his mother will be real happy that a seven-year-old could make such an impression on his teacher.” Ms. Carter looked as if she was going to c
orrect Hoyt and then thought better of it. She looked at The Boy and he smiled at her letting her know that it was okay. He was eight years old, not seven. It didn’t matter that his father didn’t remember how old he was, but it did matter that she knew.

  Hoyt stood up as if he’d realized he needed to be somewhere else, and Ms. Carter did the same. More words were said, but The Boy didn’t know what they were, and then he was looking at the back of Hoyt’s muscular body as he hurried to catch up. He didn’t remember saying goodbye to Ms. Carter, but he hoped he had.

  Once inside the truck, country music blared through the one working speaker in the passenger door. The engine caught on the first try and The Boy hadn’t even muttered his prayer. He felt himself relax. The seat that he shared with Hoyt shifted and the music lowered until he could hear the truck’s steady idle. The Boy closed his eyes and turned, as if looking out the window. It would start now.

  “A doctor, huh?” Hoyt’s voice was too calm.

  “They said we had to put something.”

  “Why a doctor?”

  “’Cause they help people.”

  “You sure you don’t just want to look at naked women?” Hoyt sounded like he had just heard a funny joke. He sometimes sounded like that during football season and he’d already had the first of what would be several beers. The Boy almost liked him then. Almost.

  “That’s it, ain’t it? You think if you become a doctor you get to look at girls’ bodies and shit. Bet you’d get to do all kinds of nasty shit, too.”

  Heat started in his hands and radiated up his arms and neck and to the top of his head. He was getting angry, so angry that if he didn’t know for a fact that Hoyt would hurt him, he would lie on his back and try with all his might to kick Hoyt’s head through the window. Hoyt didn’t know shit about being a doctor. He swore up and down that he had never even been to one. Doctor Rose had let The Boy use the stethoscope to listen to his own heart. He had told him about the operations he had performed. The Boy hadn’t told him about his own operations, but he wanted too. He could be a doctor if he wanted to. And once he became a doctor, he would show Hoyt.

  “I bet you think you’re smarter than me, don’t you, boy” The question was quiet, too quiet, and all of the anger that had been settled on the top of The Boy’s head now eased down to his pelvis. He had to pee again.

  “Naw, sir,” he said out loud. But secretly, way in the back of his head, he was screaming. Yes, you big dumb bag of shit on fire. I am smarter than you. Ms. Carter thinks I can be a doctor. You ain’t even smart enough to go to one when you’re sick. I am smarter than you and better than you. All of this flew through his head at the speed of light with so much anger and power that it surprised even him. Up until that point, he hadn’t realized that he hated Hoyt.

  The first blow caught him by surprise. He rocked up against the door, but didn’t utter a sound. Crying made it worse. He didn’t look at Hoyt either; he just waited for the next one. The threat of it hung in the air between them the same way it had for as long as The Boy could remember.

  *

  “I was just thinking.”

  “About how much you suck at spades?” Emma asked without looking up from the copy of Little Women that Troy had “checked out” of the library for her.

  “No.” Troy still felt miffed at having lost to Emma. The smirk on Emma’s face would have been annoying if she wasn’t so damned cute about it. Troy was sprawled on the floor next to Emma’s window seat. The copy of Pride and Prejudice that Emma had insisted that she read was between her elbows. She hadn’t admitted that she was enjoying it yet, and she wouldn’t for a while.

  “No, you weren’t thinking about how much you suck at spades or…?”

  “I do not suck at spades.” Emma looked up then, and Troy had to back down. “I really like that game,” she said in a quiet voice.

  A small dimple appeared at the side of Emma’s mouth. “Yeah, but you suck at it.”

  “I taught you how to play!”

  Emma gave her a perfect “your point is?” look, which Troy had also taught her.

  “Yeah, well you suck at Monopoly,” Troy said, quite smug in the knowledge that she had beaten Emma the last three times they had played.

  “We’ll see who sucks tonight.” The dimple disappeared behind the cover of Little Women, and Troy picked up her mug of tea and filled her mouth with the hot liquid to keep from laughing. Would she ever get used to being around someone so innocent? Emma would say things like that and not have the least idea how sexual it sounded. At least Troy didn’t think she did.

  “As I was saying, you rude little thing, if everyone was just asleep, wouldn’t they be emaciated? Dying from starvation?

  Frowning, Emma looked up from her book. The little dimple was gone.

  “I can’t believe I didn’t think about that. Sleeping or not, it’s been two weeks; they should all be either dead or dying.”

  “That’s what I thought, too.”

  “Have you seen any dead people?”

  Troy shrugged.

  “I don’t get close to them, Em. They’re kind of creepy. But I think I would know, right? I mean, wouldn’t there be a smell?”

  “Depends on how long they’ve been dead. But yeah, there would be a smell.”

  Troy rolled onto her back and closed her eyes. It bothered her that she felt so content. It was almost like she was accepting what was happening. She felt she should be doing more, but for the life of her, she didn’t know what else she could do.

  Emma hadn’t spoken in so long that Troy assumed that she had gone back to her book until her voice came out low and contemplative. “So they aren’t sleeping, are they?”

  It took Troy a moment to realize that Emma was asking a question, not stating the obvious. “What makes you say that?”

  “If they’re just asleep,” her words were measured, as if she wasn’t sure herself what she was trying to say, “they would still need food.”

  “Maybe.” Emma was going down the same road she herself had gone down days before. She set her mug on the floor and reached across and touched Emma’s hand to get her attention. Emma jumped, but Troy didn’t think it was from fear, so she didn’t remove her hand. “I know what you’re thinking. But I don’t know the answer. I know those people out there are breathing; they have pulses, they’re warm.”

  “But how could they survive like that?”

  Troy sat up on her elbows and looked at Emma. “I don’t know. I just know they aren’t dead.”

  “Then are we?”

  “Now why in the hell would you say something like that?”

  “Because nothing else makes sense.”

  “You’re right. Nothing makes sense. And it hasn’t since I woke up in that damn hospital. But why would you all of a sudden come to the conclusion that we’re the dead ones? What, you think this is some kind of Armageddon, and God rewards the good folks by giving them the heaven of everlasting sleep out on the dirty-assed sidewalks?”

  Troy stood up. The words dropped from her mouth like stones. “Or maybe you believe you and I are the ones in hell. One problem with that theory.” Troy pointed to the bars on the windows. “I don’t think this is your idea of hell. You’ve been in purgatory for, what is it? Two years now? That’s it, isn’t it? You want to stay here. Nothing has changed for you. You used to hide in your plush little condo, and you still do. There’s no one to bother you here. No one to scare you, right? That’s not living, Emma. That’s just sitting around waiting to die.”

  Emma sat up, her face a tight pale mask. “Why are you saying all this? You know it’s not true.”

  “Because I don’t understand why you and I are here and she…”

  The hurt and shock on Emma’s face was like a dash of cold water.

  “What were you going to say?”

  Troy shook her head; she would not discuss Patricia with Emma. It wasn’t any of Emma’s business. She had to think. She’d blown up at Emma for no reason. She needed to
get away before she said something so hurtful that she couldn’t take it back. “I’m going for a ride.”

  “There’s a storm coming in.”

  “This is Portland, remember? I ride in rain all the time.” Troy felt most of her anger seep away, but Emma still reacted as if she had been slapped. She said something about going to bed, and left the room. Troy picked up Dite and realized as she pulled the door closed behind her that she was not looking forward to her ride.

  Chapter Eight

  Cold wind crept down the collar of Abe’s jacket like the icy fingers of death. His knees were wet from kneeling in the dewy grass. He had returned to hide behind this same oak tree for the last two days. He had been so sure that she would show. If this Harvey woman had been Troy’s lover, and instinct told him she was, Troy would spend time at her gravesite, especially if she perceived her world as falling down around her ears. But as he sat there pondering those things, it occurred to him that if Troy had not accepted her girlfriend’s death, why would she go to her grave? Wouldn’t that have to be a form of acceptance in itself? Still, she wasn’t sleeping at home, so he had no other way to find her but to wait here like an idiot. And then he would not let her out of his sight again.

  He shuddered as the smell of earth and manure drifted to him. He had always hated graveyards. Hell, he hated dead people. That was one of the reasons he had become a doctor, to retard death if he could; and now here he was, hiding behind a tree in a graveyard, waiting for someone who might not even be alive. The fact that this cemetery had flat plaques instead of the traditional tombstones should have made him feel better, but it didn’t. Kneeling as he was, it would be easy to fool himself into believing he was looking out over a park or a meadow. The fact that there were plaques with the names of deceased men, women, and children nestled in the grass on all sides of him made it impossible for him to relax. This is not your failure, he reminded himself.