Picked up from passage by Justin Cronin
He ended up living in the house with her and Amy. She couldn’t say if she had invited him to do this or if
it had just somehow happened. Either way, she was instantly sorry. This Bill Reynolds: who was he
really? He’d left his wife and boys, Bobby and Billy in their baseball suits, all of it behind in Nebraska.
The Pontiac was gone, and he had no job either; that had ended, too. The economy the way it was, he
explained, nobody was buying a goddamn thing. He said he had a plan, but the only plan that she could
see seemed to be him sitting in the house doing nothing for Amy or even cleaning up the breakfast dishes,
while she worked all day at the Box. He hit her the first time after he’d been living there three months; he
was drunk, and once he did it, he burst out crying and said, over and over, how sorry he was. He was on
his knees, blubbering, likeshe’d done something tohim . She had to understand, he was saying, how hard
it all was, all the changes in his life, it was more than a man, any man, could take. He loved her, he was
sorry, nothing like that would happen again, ever. Heswore it. Not to her and not to Amy. And in the
end, she heard herself saying she was sorry too.
He’d hit her over money; when winter came, and she didn’t have enough money in her checking account
to pay the heating oil man, he hit her again.
—Goddamnit, woman. Can’t you see I’m in a situation here?
She was on the kitchen floor, holding the side of her head. He’d hit her hard enough to lift her off her
feet. Funny, now that she was down there she saw how dirty the floor was, filthy and stained, with
clumps of dust and who-knew-what all rowed against the base of the cabinets where you couldn’t usually
see. Half her mind was noticing this while the other half said, You aren’t thinking straight, Jeanette; Bill hit
you and knocked a wire loose, so now you’re worrying over the dust. Something funny was happening
with the way the world sounded, too. Amy was watching television upstairs, on the little set in her room,
but Jeanette could hear it like it was playing inside her head, Barney the purple dinosaur and a song about
brushing your teeth; and then from far away, she heard the sound of the oil truck pulling away, its engine
grinding as it turned out of the drive and headed down the county road.
—It ain’t your house, she said.
—You’re right about that. Bill took a bottle of Old Crow from over the sink and poured some in a
jelly jar, though it was only ten o’clock in the morning. He sat at the table but didn’t cross his legs like he
meant to get comfortable.Ain’t my oil, either .
Jeanette rolled over and tried to stand but couldn’t. She watched him drink for a minute.
—Get out.
He laughed, shaking his head, and took a sip of whiskey.
—That’s funny, he said.You telling me that from the floor like you are .
—I mean what I say. Get out.
Amy came into the room. She was holding the stuffed bunny she still carried everywhere, and wearing a
pair of overalls, the good ones Jeanette had bought her at the outlet mall, the OshKosh B’Gosh, with the
strawberries embroidered on the bib. One of the straps had come undone and was flopping at her waist.
Jeanette realized Amy must have done this herself, because she had to go to the bathroom.
—You’re on the floor, Mama.
—I’m okay, honey. She got to her feet to show her. Her left ear was ringing a little, like in a cartoon,
birds flying around her head. She saw there was a little blood, too, on her hand; she didn’t know where
this had come from. She picked Amy up and did her best to smile.See? Mama just took a spill, that’s
all. You need to go, honey? You need to use the potty?
—Look at you, Bill was saying.Will you look at yourself? He shook his head again and drank.You
stupid twat. She probably ain’t even mine .
—Mama, the girl said and pointed,you cut yourself. Your nose is cut .
And whether it was what she’d heard or the blood, the little girl began to cry.
—See what you done?Bill said, and to Amy,Come on now. Ain’t no big thing, sometimes folks
argue, that’s just how it is.
—I’m telling you again, just leave.
—Then what would you do, tell me that. You can’t even fill the oil tank.
—You think I don’t know that? I sure as by God don’t need you to tell me that.
Amy had begun to wail. Holding her, Jeanette felt the spread of hot moisture across her waist as the little
girl released her bladder.
—For Pete’s sake, shut that kid up.
She held Amy tight against her chest. —You’re right. She ain’t yours. She ain’t yours and never will
be. You leave or I’m calling the sheriff, I swear
—Don’t you do me like this, Jean. I mean it.
—Well, I’m doing it. That’s just what I’m doing.
Then he was up and slamming through the house, taking his things, tossing them back into the cardboard
cartons he’d used to carry them into the house, months ago. Why hadn’t she thought it right then, how
strange it was that he didn’t even have a proper suitcase? She sat at the kitchen table holding Amy on her
lap, watching the clock over the stove and counting off the minutes until he returned to the kitchen to hit
her again.
But then she heard the front door swing open, and his heavy footsteps on the porch. He went in and out
awhile, carrying the boxes, leaving the front door open so cold air spilled through the house. Finally he
came into the kitchen, tracking snow, leaving little patches of it waffled to the floor with the soles of his
boots.
—Fine. Fine. You want me to leave? You watch me. He took the bottle of Old Crow from the table.
Last chance , he said.
Jeanette said nothing, didn’t even look at him.
—So that’s how it is. Fine. You mind I have one for the road?
(in a church)
She’d found the note in the girl’s backpack not long after her mother had left. Something about the
circumstances had made Lacey uneasy, and looking at the girl, she realized what it was: the woman had
never told her the girl’s name. The girl was obviously her daughter—the same dark hair, the same pale
skin and long lashes that curled upward at the ends, as if lifted by a tiny breeze. She was pretty, but her
hair needed combing—there were mats in it thick as a dog’s—and she had kept her jacket on the table,
as if she were used to leaving places in a hurry. She seemed healthy, if a little thin. Her pants were too
short and stiff with dirt. When the little girl had finished her snack, every bite, Lacey took the chair beside
her. She asked her if she had anything in the bag she wanted to play with, or a book they could read
together, but the little girl, who hadn’t spoken a word, just nodded and passed it from her lap. Lacey
examined the bag, pink with some kind of cartoon characters glued on—their huge black eyes reminded
her of the girl’s—and remembered what the woman had told her, that she was taking her daughter to
school.
She unzipped the bag and inside found the stuffed rabbit, and the pairs of rolled-up underpants and
socks and a toothbrush in a case, and a box of strawberry cereal bars, half empty. There was nothing
else in the bag, but then she noticed the little zippered pouch on the outside. It was too late for school,
Lacey realized; the girl had no lunch, no books. She held her breath and unzipped the pouch. There she
found the piece of notebook paper, folded up.
I’m sorry. Her name is Amy. She’s six years old.
Lacey looked at it for a long time. Not the words themselves, which were plain enough in their meaning.
What she looked at was the space around the words, a whole page of nothing at all. Three tiny sentences
were all this girl had in the world to explain who she was, just three sentences and the few little things in
the bag. It was nearly the saddest thing Lacey Antoinette Kudoto had ever seen in her life, so sad she
couldn’t even cry.
