MISSILE STRIKE IMMINENT 4 page

“I appreciate your confidence—”

“But that’s not going to happen no matter what your Colonel Cox and the President of the United States may want. It’s not going to happen even if fifty thousand people march down Fifth Avenue in New York, waving signs with your face on them. Not with that fucking Dome still over our heads.”

“Every time I listen to you, you sound less Republican,” Barbie remarked.

She struck him on the bicep with a surprisingly hard fist. “This is not a joke.”

“No,” Barbie said. “It’s not a joke. It’s time to call for elections. And I urge you to stand for Second Selectman yourself.”

She looked at him pityingly. “Do you think Jim Rennie is going to allow elections as long as the Dome is in place? What world are you living in, my friend?”

“Don’t underestimate the will of the town, Julia.”

“And don’t you underestimate James Rennie. He’s been in charge here for donkey’s years and people have come to accept him. Also, he’s very talented when it comes to finding scapegoats. An out-oftowner—a drifter, in fact—would be perfect in the current situation. Do we know anybody like that?”

“I was expecting an idea from you, not a political analysis.”

For a moment he thought she was going to hit him again. Then she drew in a breath, let it out, and smiled. “You come on all awshucks, but you’ve got some thorns, don’t you?”

The Town Hall whistle began to blow a series of short blasts into the warm, still air.

“Someone’s called in a fire,” Julia said. “I think we know where.”

They looked west, where rising smoke smudged the blue. Barbie thought most of it had to be coming from the Tarker’s Mills side of the Dome, but the heat would almost certainly have ignited small fires on the Chester side as well.

“You want an idea? Okay, here’s one. I’ll track down Brenda—she’ll either be at home or at Dipper’s with everyone else—and suggest she take charge of the fire-fighting operation.”

“And if she says no?”

“I’m pretty sure she won’t. At least there’s no wind to speak of—not on this side of the Dome—so it’s probably just grass and brush. She’ll tap some guys to pitch in, and she’ll know the right ones. They’ll be the ones Howie would’ve picked.”

“None of them the new officers, I take it.”

“I’ll leave that up to her, but I doubt if she’ll be calling on Carter Thibodeau or Melvin Searles. Freddy Denton, either. He’s been on the cops for five years, but I know from Brenda that Duke was planning to let him go. Freddy plays Santa every year at the elementary school, and the kids love him—he’s got a great ho-ho-ho. He’s also got a mean streak.”

“You’ll be going around Rennie again.”

“Yes.”

“Payback could be a bitch.”

“I can be a bitch myself, when I have to be. Brenda too, if she gets her back up.”

“Go for it. And make sure she asks that guy Burpee. When it comes to putting out a brushfire, I’d trust him rather than any town firebarn leftovers. He’s got everything in that store of his.”

She nodded. “That’s a damned good idea.”

“Sure you don’t want me to tag along?”

“You’ve got other fish to fry. Did Bren give you Duke’s key to the fallout shelter?”

“She did.”

“Then the fire may be just the distraction you need. Get that Geiger counter.” She started for her Prius, then stopped and turned back. “Finding the generator—assuming there is one—is probably the best chance this town has got. Maybe the only one. And Barbie?”

“Right here, ma’am,” he said, smiling a little.

She didn’t. “Until you’ve heard Big Jim Rennie’s stump speech, don’t sell him short. There are reasons he’s lasted as long as he has.”

“Good at waving the bloody shirt, I take it.”

“Yes. And this time the shirt is apt to be yours.”

She drove off to find Brenda and Romeo Burpee.

Those who had watched the Air Force’s failed attempt to punch through the Dome left Dipper’s pretty much as Barbie had imagined: slowly, with their heads down, not talking much. Many were walking with their arms about one another; some were crying. Three town police cars were parked across the road from Dipper’s, and half a dozen cops stood leaning against them, ready for trouble. But there was no trouble.

The green Chief of Police car was parked farther up, in the front lot of Brownie’s Store (where a hand-lettered sign in the window read CLOSED UNTIL “FREEDOM!” ALLOWS FRESH SUPPLIES). Chief Randolph and Jim Rennie sat inside the car, watching.

“There,” Big Jim said with unmistakable satisfaction. “I hope they’re happy.”

Randolph looked at him curiously. “Didn’t you want it to work?”

Big Jim grimaced as his sore shoulder twinged. “Of course, but I never thought it would. And that fellow with the girl’s name and his new friend Julia managed to get everyone all worked up and hopeful, didn’t they? Oh yes, you bet. Do you know she’s never endorsed me for office in that rag of hers? Not one single time.”

He pointed at the pedestrians streaming back toward town.

“Take a good look, pal—this is what incompetency, false hope, and too much information gets you. They’re just unhappy and disappointed now, but when they get over that, they’ll be mad. We’re going to need more police.”

“More? We’ve got eighteen already, counting the part-timers and the new deputies.”

“It won’t be enough. And we’ve got—”

The town whistle began to hammer the air with short blasts. They looked west and saw the smoke rising.

“We’ve got Barbara and Shumway to thank,” Big Jim finished.

“Maybe we ought to do something about that fire.”

“It’s a Tarker’s Mills problem. And the U.S. government’s, of course. They started a fire with their cotton-picking missile, let them deal with it.”

“But if the heat sparked one on this side—”

“Stop being an old woman and drive me back to town. I’ve got to find Junior. He and I have things to talk about.”

Brenda Perkins and the Reverend Piper Libby were in Dipper’s parking lot, by Piper’s Subaru.

“I never thought it would work,” Brenda said, “but I’d be a liar if I said I wasn’t disappointed.”

“Me too,” Piper said. “Bitterly. I’d offer you a ride back to town, but I have to check on a parishioner.”

“Not out on Little Bitch, I hope,” Brenda said. She lifted a thumb at the rising smoke.

“No, the other way. Eastchester. Jack Evans. He lost his wife on Dome Day. A freak accident. Not that all of this isn’t freakish.”

Brenda nodded. “I saw him out at Dinsmore’s field, carrying a sign with his wife’s picture on it. Poor, poor man.”

Piper went to the open driver’s-side window of her car, where Clover was sitting behind the wheel and watching the departing crowd. She rummaged in her pocket, gave him a treat, then said, “Push over, Clove —you know you flunked your last driver’s test.” To Brenda, she confided: “He can’t parallel-park worth a damn.”

The shepherd hopped onto the passenger side. Piper opened the car door and looked at the smoke. “I’m sure the woods on the Tarker’s Mills side are burning briskly, but that needn’t concern us.” She gave Brenda a bitter smile. “We have the Dome to protect us.”

“Good luck,” Brenda said. “Give Jack my sympathy. And my love.”

“I’ll do that,” Piper said, and drove off. Brenda was walking out of the parking lot with her hands in the pockets of her jeans, wondering how she was going to get through the rest of the day, when Julia Shumway drove up and helped her with that.

The missiles exploding against the Dome didn’t wake Sammy Bushey; it was the clattery wooden crash, followed by Little Walter’s screams of pain, that did that.

Carter Thibodeau and his friends had taken all of her fridge-dope when they left, but they hadn’t searched the place, so the shoe-box with the rough skull-and-crossbones drawn on it was still in the closet. There was also this message, printed in Phil Bushey’s scrawly, backslanting letters: MY SHIT! TOUCH IT AND U DIE!

There was no pot inside (Phil had always sneered at pot as a “cocktail-party drug”), and she had no interest in the Baggie of crystal. She was sure the “deputies” would have enjoyed smoking it, but Sammy thought crystal was crazy shit for crazy people—who else would inhale smoke that included the residue of matchbook striker-pads marinated in acetone? There was another, smaller Baggie, however, that contained half a dozen Dreamboats, and when Carter’s posse left she had swallowed one of these with warm beer from the bottle stashed under the bed she now slept in alone … except for when she took Little Walter in with her, that was. Or Dodee.

She had briefly considered taking all of the Dreamboats and ending her crappy unhappy life once and for all; might even have done it, if not for Little Walter. If she died, who would take care of him? He might even starve to death in his crib, a horrible thought.

Suicide was out, but she had never felt so depressed and sad and hurt in all her life. Dirty, too. She had been degraded before, God knew, sometimes by Phil (who had enjoyed drug-fueled threesomes before losing interest in sex completely), sometimes by others, sometimes by herself—Sammy Bushey had never gotten the concept of being her own best friend.

Certainly she’d had her share of one-night stands, and once, in high school, after the Wildcats basketball team had won the Class D championship, she had taken on four of the starters, one after the other, at a postgame party (the fifth had been passed out in a corner). It had been her own stupid idea. She had also sold what Carter, Mel, and Frankie DeLesseps had taken by force. Most frequently to Freeman Brown, owner of Brownie’s Store, where she did most of her shopping because Brownie gave her credit. He was old and didn’t smell very good, but he was randy, and that was actually a plus. It made him quick. Six pumps on the mattress in the storeroom was his usual limit, followed by a grunt and a squirt. It was never the highlight of her week, but it was comforting to know that line of credit was there, especially if she came up short at the end of the month and Little Walter needed Pampers.

And Brownie had never hurt her.

What had happened last night was different. DeLesseps hadn’t been so bad, but Carter had hurt her up top and made her bleed down below. Worse had followed; when Mel Searles dropped his pants, he was sporting a tool like the ones she’d sometimes seen in the porno movies Phil had watched before his interest in crystal overtook his interest in sex.

Searles had gone at her hard, and although she tried to remember what she and Dodee had done two days before, it didn’t work. She remained as dry as August with no rain. Until, that was, what Carter Thibodeau had only abraded ripped wide open. Then there was lubrication. She had felt it puddling under her, warm and sticky. There had been wetness on her face, too, tears trickling down her cheeks to nestle in the hollows of her ears. During Mel Searles’s endless ride, it came to her that he might actually kill her. If he did, what would happen to Little Walter?

And weaving through it all, the shrill magpie voice of Georgia Roux: Do her, do her, do that bitch! Make her holler!

Sammy had hollered, all right. She had hollered plenty, and so had Little Walter, from his crib in the other room.

In the end they had warned her to keep her mouth shut and left her to bleed on the couch, hurt but alive. She’d watched their headlights move across the living room ceiling, then fade as they drove away toward town. Then it was just her and Little Walter. She had walked him back and forth, back and forth, stopping just once to put on a pair of underpants (not the pink ones; she never wanted to wear those again) and stuff the crotch with toilet paper. She had Tampax, but the thought of putting anything up there made her cringe.

Finally Little Walter’s head had fallen heavily on her shoulder, and she felt his drool dampening her skin— a reliable sign that he was really and truly out. She had put him back in his crib (praying that he would sleep through the night), and then she had taken the shoebox down from the closet. The Dreamboat—some kind of powerful downer, she didn’t know exactly what—had first damped the pain Down There, and then blotted out everything. She had slept for over twelve hours.

Now this.

Little Walter’s screams were like a bright light cutting through heavy fog. She lurched out of bed and ran into his bedroom, knowing the goddam crib, which Phil had put together half-stoned, had finally collapsed. Little Walter had been shaking the shit out of it last night when the “deputies” were busy with her. That must have weakened it enough so that this morning, when he began stirring around—

Little Walter was on the floor in the wreckage. He crawled toward her with blood pouring from a cut on his forehead.

“Little Walter!” she screamed, and swept him into her arms. She turned, stumbled over a broken cribslat, went to one knee, got up, and rushed into the bathroom with the baby wailing in her arms. She turned on the water and of course no water came: there was no power to run the well pump. She grabbed a towel and dry-mopped his face, exposing the cut—not deep but long and ragged. It would leave a scar. She pressed the towel against it as hard as she dared, trying to ignore Little Walter’s renewed shrieks of pain and outrage. Blood pattered onto her bare feet in dime-sized drops. When she looked down, she saw the blue panties she’d put on after the “deputies” had left were now soaked to a muddy purple. At first she thought it was Little Walter’s blood. But her thighs were streaked, too.

Somehow she got Little Walter to hold still long enough to plaster three SpongeBob Band-Aids along the gash, and to get him into an undershirt and his one remaining clean overall (on the bib, red stitching proclaimed MOMMY’S LI’L DEVIL). She dressed herself while Little Walter crawled in circles on her bedroom floor, his wild sobbing reduced to lackadaisical sniffles. She started by throwing the blood-soaked underpants into the trash and putting on fresh ones. She padded the crotch with a folded dish-wiper, and took an extra for later. She was still bleeding. Not gushing, but it was a far heavier flow than during her worst periods. And it had gone on all night. The bed was soaked.

She packed Little Walter’s go-bag, then picked him up. He was heavy and she felt fresh pain settle in Down There: the sort of throbbing bellyache you got from eating bad food.

“We’re going to the Health Center,” she said, “and don’t you worry, Little Walter, Dr. Haskell will fix us both up. Also, scars don’t matter as much to boys. Sometimes girls even think they’re sexy. I’ll drive as fast as I can, and we’ll be there in no time.” She opened the door. “Everything’s going to be all right.”

But her old rustbucket Toyota was far from all right. The “deputies” hadn’t bothered with the back tires, but they had punctured both front ones. Sammy looked at the car for a long moment, feeling an even deeper depression settle over her. An idea, fleeting but clear, crossed her mind: she could split the remaining Dreamboats with Little Walter. She could grind his up and put them in one of his Playtex nursers, which he called “boggies.” She could disguise the taste with chocolate milk. Little Walter loved chocolate milk. Accompanying the idea came the title of one of Phil’s old record albums: Nothing Matters and What If It Did?

She pushed the idea away.

“I’m not that kind of mom,” she told Little Walter.

He goggled up at her in a way that reminded her of Phil, but in a good way: the expression that only looked like puzzled stupidity on her estranged husband’s face was endearingly goofy on her son’s. She kissed his nose and he smiled. That was nice, a nice smile, but the Band-Aids on his forehead were turning red. That wasn’t so nice.

“Little change of plan,” she said, and went back inside. At first she couldn’t find the Papoose, but finally spotted it behind what she would from now on think of as the Rape Couch. She finally managed to wriggle Little Walter into it, although lifting him hurt her all over again. The dish-wiper in her underwear was feeling ominously damp, but when she checked the crotch of her sweatpants, there were no spots. That was good.

“Ready for a walk, Little Walter?”

Little Walter only snuggled his cheek into the hollow of her shoulder. Sometimes his paucity of speech bothered her—she had friends whose babies had been babbling whole sentences by sixteen months, and Little Walter only had nine or ten words—but not this morning. This morning she had other things to worry about.

The day felt dismayingly warm for the last full week of October; the sky overhead was its very palest shade of blue and the light was somehow blurry. She felt sweat spring out on her face and neck almost at once, and her crotch was throbbing badly—worse with every step, it seemed, and she had taken only a few. She thought of going back for aspirin, but wasn’t it supposed to make bleeding worse? Besides, she wasn’t sure she had any.

There was something else, as well, something she hardly dared admit to herself: if she went back into the house, she wasn’t sure she’d have the heart to come back out again.

There was a white scrap of paper under the Toyota’s left wind-shield wiper. It had Just a Note from SAMMYprinted across the top and surrounded by daisies. Torn from her own kitchen pad. The idea caused a certain tired outrage. Scrawled under the daisies was this: Tell anyone and more than your tires will be flat. And below, in another hand: Next time maybe we’ll turn you over and play the other side.

“In your dreams, motherfucker,” she said in a wan, tired voice.

She crumpled the note up, dropped it by one flat tire—poor old Corolla looked almost as tired and sad as she felt—and made her way out to the end of the driveway, pausing to lean against the mailbox for a few seconds. The metal was warm on her skin, the sun hot on her neck. And hardly a breath of breeze. October was supposed to be cool and invigorating. Maybe it’s that global warming stuff, she thought. She was first to have this idea, but not the last, and the word which eventually stuck was not global but local.

Motton Road lay before her, deserted and charmless. Starting a mile or so to her left were the nice new homes of Eastchester, to which The Mill’s higher-class workadaddies and workamommies came at the end of their days in the shops and offices and banks of Lewiston-Auburn. To her right lay downtown Chester’s Mill. And the Health Center.

“Ready, Little Walter?”

Little Walter didn’t say if he was or wasn’t. He was snoring in the hollow of her shoulder and drooling on her Donna the Buffalo tee-shirt. Sammy took a deep breath, tried to ignore the throb coming from The Land Down Under, hitched up the Papoose, and started toward town.

When the whistle started up on top of the Town Hall, blowing the short blasts that indicated a fire, she first thought it was in her own head, which was feeling decidedly weird. Then she saw the smoke, but it was far to the west. Nothing to concern her and Little Walter … unless someone came along who wanted a closer look at the fire, that was. If that happened, they would surely be neighborly enough to drop her off at the Health Center on their way to the excitement.

She began to sing the James McMurtry song that had been popular last summer, got as far “We roll up the sidewalks at quarter of eight, it’s a small town, can’t sell you no beer,” then quit. Her mouth was too dry to sing. She blinked and saw she was on the edge of falling into the ditch, and not even the one she’d been walking next to when she started out. She’d woven all the way across the road, an excellent way to get hit instead of picked up.

She looked over her shoulder, hoping for traffic. There was none. The road to Eastchester was empty, the tar not quite hot enough to shimmer.

She went back to what she thought of as her side, swaying on her feet now, feeling all jelly-legged. Drunken sailor, she thought. What do you do with a drunken sailor, ear-lye in the morning? But it wasn’t morning, it was afternoon, she had slept the clock around, and when she looked down she saw that the crotch of her sweats had turned purple, just like the underpants she’d been wearing earlier. That won’t come out, and I only have two other pairs of sweats that fit me. Then she remembered one of those had a big old hole in the seat, and began to cry. The tears felt cool on her hot cheeks.

“It’s all right, Little Walter,” she said. “Dr. Haskell’s going to fix us up. Just fine. Fine as paint. Good as n —”

Then a black rose began to bloom in front of her eyes and the last of her strength left her legs. Sammy felt it go, running out of her muscles like water. She went down, holding onto one final thought: On your side, on your side, don’t squash the baby!

That much she managed. She lay sprawled on the shoulder of Motton Road, unmoving in the hazy, Julyish sun. Little Walter awoke and began to cry. He tried to struggle out of the Papoose and couldn’t; Sammy had snapped him in carefully, and he was pinned. Little Walter began to cry harder. A fly settled on his forehead, sampled the blood oozing through the cartoon images of SpongeBob and Patrick, then flew off. Possibly to report this taste-treat at Fly HQ and summon reinforcements.

Grasshoppers reeee ’d in the grass.

The town whistle honked.

Little Walter, trapped with his unconscious mother, wailed for a while in the heat, then gave up and lay silent, looking around list-lessly as sweat rolled out of his fine hair in large clear drops.

Standing beside the Globe Theater’s boarded-up box office and under its sagging marquee (the Globe had gone out of business five years before), Barbie had a good view of both the Town Hall and the police station. His good buddy Junior was sitting on the cop-shop steps, massaging his temples as if the rhythmic whoop of the whistle hurt his head.

Al Timmons came out of the Town Hall and jogged down to the street. He was wearing his gray janitor’s fatigues, but there was a pair of binoculars hanging from a strap around his neck and an Indian pump on his back—empty of water, from the ease with which he was carrying it. Barbie guessed Al had blown the fire whistle.

Go away, Al, Barbie thought. How about it?

Half a dozen trucks rolled up the street. The first two were pickups, the third a panel job. All three lead vehicles were painted a yellow so bright it almost screamed. The pickups had BURPEE’S DEPARTMENT STORE decaled on the doors. The panel truck’s box bore the legendary slogan MEET ME FOR SLURPEES AT BURPEES. Romeo himself was in the lead truck. His hair was its usual Daddy Cool marvel of sweeps and spirals. Brenda Perkins was riding shotgun. In the pickup’s bed were shovels, hoses, and a brand-new sump pump still plastered with the manufacturer’s stickers.

Romeo stopped beside Al Timmons. “Jump in the back, partner,” he said, and Al did. Barbie withdrew as far as he could into the shadow of the deserted theater’s marquee. He didn’t want to be drafted to help fight the fire out on Little Bitch Road; he had business right here in town.

Junior hadn’t moved from the PD steps, but he was still rubbing his temples and holding his head. Barbie waited for the trucks to disappear, then hurried across the street. Junior didn’t look up, and a moment later he was hidden from Barbie’s view by the ivy-covered bulk of the Town Hall.

Barbie went up the steps and paused to read the sign on the message board: TOWN MEETING THURSDAY 7 PM IF CRISIS IS NOT RESOLVED. He thought of Julia sayingUntil you’ve heard Big Jim Rennie’s stump speech, don’t sell him short. He might get a chance Thursday night; certainly Rennie would make his pitch to stay in control of the situation.

And for more power, Julia’s voice spoke up in his head. He’ll want that, too, of course. For the good of the town.

The Town Hall had been built of quarried stone a hundred and sixty years before, and the vestibule was cool and dim. The generator was off; no need to run it with no one here.

Except someone was, in the main meeting hall. Barbie heard voices, two of them, belonging to children. The tall oak doors were standing ajar. He looked in and saw a skinny man with a lot of graying hair sitting up front at the selectmen’s table. Opposite him was a pretty little girl of about ten. They had a checkerboard between them; the longhair had his chin propped on one hand, studying his next move. Down below, in the aisle between the benches, a young woman was playing leapfrog with a boy of four or five. The checker players were studious; the young woman and the boy were laughing.

Barbie started to withdraw, but too late. The young woman looked up. “Hi? Hello?” She picked up the boy and came toward him. The checker players looked up, too. So much for stealth.

The young woman was holding out the hand she wasn’t using to support the little boy’s bottom. “I’m Carolyn Sturges. That gentleman is my friend, Thurston Marshall. The little guy is Aidan Appleton. Say hi, Aidan.”

“Hi,” Aidan said in a small voice, and then plugged his thumb into his mouth. He looked at Barbie with eyes that were round and blue and mildly curious.

The girl ran up the aisle to stand beside Carolyn Sturges. The longhair followed more slowly. He looked tired and shaken. “I’m Alice Rachel Appleton,” she said. “Aidan’s big sister. Take your thumb out of your mouth, Aide.”

Aide didn’t.

“Well, it’s nice to meet all of you,” Barbie said. He didn’t tell them his own name. In fact, he sort of wished he were wearing a fake mustache. But this still might be all right. He was almost positive these people were out-of-towners.

“Are you a town official?” Thurston Marshall asked. “If you’re a town official, I wish to lodge a complaint.”

“I’m just the janitor,” Barbie said, then remembered they had almost certainly seen Al Timmons leave. Hell, probably had a conversation with him. “The other janitor. You must have met Al.”

“I want my mother,” Aidan Appleton said. “I miss her bad. ”

“We met him,” Carolyn Sturges said. “He claims the government shot some missiles at whatever is holding us in, and all they did was bounce off and start a fire.”

“That’s true,” Barbie said, and before he could say more, Marshall weighed in again.

“I want to lodge a complaint. In fact, I want to lay a charge. I was assaulted by a so-called police officer. He punched me in the stomach. I had my gall bladder out a few years ago, and I’m afraid I may have internal injuries. Also, Carolyn was verbally abused. She was called a name that degraded her sexually.”

Carolyn laid a hand on his arm. “Before we go making any charges, Thurse, you want to remember that we had D-O-P-E.”

“Dope!” Alice said at once. “Our mom smokes marijuana sometimes, because it helps when she’s having her P-E-R-I-O-D.”

“Oh,” Carolyn said. “Right.” Her smile was wan.

Marshall drew himself up to his full height. “Possession of marijuana is a misdemeanor,” he said. “What they did to me was felony assault! And it hurts terribly !”

Carolyn gave him a look in which affection was mingled with exasperation. Barbie suddenly understood how it was between them. Sexy May had met Erudite November, and now they were stuck with each other, refugees in the New England version of No Exit. “Thurse … I’m not sure that misdemeanor idea would fly in court.” She smiled apologetically at Barbie. “We had quite a lot. They took it.”

“Maybe they’ll smoke up the evidence,” Barbie said.

She laughed at this. Her graying boyfriend did not. His bushy brows had drawn together. “All the same, I plan to lodge a complaint.”

“I’d wait,” Barbie said. “The situation here … well, let’s just say that a punch in the gut isn’t going to be considered that big a deal as long as we’re still under the Dome.”

“I consider it a big deal, my young janitor friend.”

The young woman now looked more exasperated than affectionate. “Thurse—”

“The good side of that is nobody is going to make a big deal out of some pot, either,” Barbie said. “Maybe it’s a push, as the gamblers say. How’d you come by the kiddos?”

“The cops we ran into at Thurston’s cabin saw us at the restaurant,” Carolyn said. “The woman who runs it said they were closed until supper, but she took pity on us when we said we were from Massachusetts. She gave us sandwiches and coffee.”

“She gave us peanut butter and jelly and coffee,” Thurston corrected. “There was no choice, not even tuna fish. I told her peanut butter sticks to my upper plate, but she said they were on rationing. Isn’t that about the craziest thing you’ve ever heard?”

Barbie did think it was crazy, but since it had also been his idea, he said nothing.

“When I saw the cops come in, I was ready for more trouble,” Carolyn said, “but Aide and Alice seemed to have mellowed them out.”

Thurston snorted. “Not so mellow they apologized. Or did I miss that part?”

Carolyn sighed, then turned back to Barbie. “They said maybe the pastor at the Congregational church could find the four of us an empty house to live in until this is over. I guess we’re going to be foster parents, at least for awhile.”

Date: 2015-12-17; view: 545