Page 41 of Nightwatching

Her husband cut chunks of the cake. When he started to cut her a serving, she waved him off. “No thanks. I’m full.”

“For real? You’re turning down dessert?”

“Yep.”

“Maybe you should be short with people more often,” her husband teased. His irritation was gone, his expression one of vindication. “Guess that’s what gets you free food.”

“Guess so,” she said.

She watched her family eat the cake. Icing coated her daughter’s lips. She wiped a glob of it off her son’s chin, swept crumbs from his shirt. She went into the café for a to-go box, relieved that she didn’t see the manager inside. She used two forks to lift the leftover cake into the box. Couldn’t close the top because of the size of the thing. Had to carry it out with the Styrofoam lid flopping. She kept the box wedged between her feet in the passenger seat of the car on the way home so it wouldn’t slide, get icing on the seat, the door.

The next day while her children played outside, while her husband flew over a harbor filled with boats, their sails small as bug wings in his camera lens, she threw the cake in the trash.

“Can we have some of the leftover cake for dessert?” the children asked after dinner.

“I ate it,” she said.

“What do you know,” her husband chuckled. “Not able to resist free food after all.”

Her grandmother’s voice reverberated in her head.

“Nothing in this world’s free,” it said.

15

She clapped her hand over her son’s bawling mouth.

“Shhhhh, shhh! Mama’s here,” she whispered. “Shhhhh!”

In the light cast through the vent, she saw her daughter lean close to her little brother, whisper something, press her forehead to his.

She refocused, took stock.

There’d been no hitch in the Corner’s steps, the last two stairs echoed BOOM! BOOM! before his footfalls slammed across the landing, followed by the thumping sound of him hurrying through her daughter’s room.

No pauses, no hesitation.

“He didn’t hear,” she whispered with relief so thick it filled the hidden place. “He didn’t hear us! It was too noisy, it’s okay, we’re okay. Buddy, I’m going to take my hand off your mouth now, okay? You have to—have to!—be quiet. We can’t let him hear us.”

Tentatively, she removed her hand. It was wet with his spit. It burned. In the light that seeped into the hidden place from the chandelier on the stairs, she saw her son had bitten her palm.

“Mama!” He plunged his head against her chest, crying.

“Shhh, I know you’re scared,” she told her son. “I know, but shhh.”

“He’s going to light a fire.” Her daughter’s voice was high pitchedand desperate, her hands twisting the belt of the robe. “He’s going to burn us up!”

“Shhh, shhh. He’s still looking for us. Looking for the attic door. We have to be quiet.”

Together, their eyes went to the ceiling of the hidden place. Scrabbling sounds, footsteps. Yes, he was searching up there. It wouldn’t be long until he found the attic.

Something warm and wet slowly poured over her, a realization coated with terror.

This is it. The first little sliver of opportunity you’ve had to get help since you hid them away. You know he’s telling the truth. You know he’s willing to burn you out. Or wait you out.

In her mind’s eye she saw the manager casually pocket their receipt at the café. A receipt that would have had her husband’s name on it. Remembered the slither of his eyes over her little girl.

He’s been planning this. Planning this for four months.

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