a warning voice whispered in her head, Shelly didn’t move. She waited, shivering from a chill that had nothing to do with the mountain air, until her mother straightened up and moved away.
Could winning be that easy? Momma was a proud woman, in those days as protective of her reputation as she was of her liquor bottles. A good woman never drank in public, she often assured Shelly, and a good woman took care of her man and her kid before she took care of herself.
The girl looked toward the gravel driveway, where her father’s pickup wasn’t. Daddy was still at the mine; he wouldn’t be home until after dark.
She’d come out if he were here. She’d climb into his arms and ride his bony hip into the house. She’d be happy to see him, even if they found Momma passed out on the sofa. Her daddy loved her, but he was rarely home.
She had just buried her face in her folded arms when new sounds reached her ear—the steady swish of tall grass and the heavy heh, heh, heh of a panting animal. Shelly spun on her belly, turning toward the gap in the lattice where she had wormed her way in.
She saw her mother’s legs scissoring through the grass, accompanied by four brown-and-white paws, a small head, a snarling muzzle and two rows of jagged teeth.
“I’ve got Harley,” her mother called, a victorious edge to her voice. “And I’m gonna let him go if you don’t come out this instant. What’s it gonna be, Michelle Louise? Shall I send Harley in after you?”
For an instant the girl couldn’t speak. The neighbor’s pit bull haunted her nightmares and often drove her from peaceful sleep into her father’s arms. Harley had never actually threatened her, but he bore an unfortunate resemblance to a dog that had attacked her once, pinning her to the ground while it ripped at her upper lip.
A thin scar still marked the spot.
“No, Momma.” Torn between her desire to surrender and her fear of the waiting beast, Shelly rose as high as she could. “I’ll come, Momma, but get rid of the dog.”
“He’s stayin’ right by my side until you walk yourself through that front door.”
“Momma, I’ll come, but I don’t like that dog.”
“I’m not gonna argue with you, Shelly. Get your fanny out from under there and get in the house.”
Shelly gulped down a sob and crawled forward, then froze when the dog lifted his head, ears pricked to attention. When he growled deep in his throat, she knew he could see her…or he smelled her fear.
Dogs know, the Smith boys had told her. Dogs know when you’re scared of ’em. When they smell your fear, they’ll attack ’cause they know they can take you down.
“Momma?” She bit the inside of her lip and looked toward the pale legs. She could see the edge of the housecoat, a blue fabric scattered with white daisies. “Momma, take Harley away and I’ll come out.”
A fly, drawn by her sweat, hit her face and bounced away, then circled and landed on her cheek.
“Momma?”
“I’m still here.” Her mother’s voice had gone flat, almost pleasant. Anyone passing by might have thought she was waiting to give her daughter a welcome-home hug.
Harley growled and pulled at the leash. Shelly rocked back on her haunches, one hand pressed to her mouth as a cry bubbled up from someplace in her chest. She tried to choke off the sound, but she failed and began to sob in a high, pitiful, coughing hack. “Ma-ma! I—can’t—come—with—”
“Stop your cryin’, Shel, I didn’t raise no coward. I’ll hold the dumb dog—you get yourself out here right now.”
“But—I—can’t—”
“If you don’t, I’m letting Harley go. Wonder how long it’ll take him to wiggle under there and tear you up? I saw him get a possum the other day. Even though the critter played dead, he tore that thing to pieces. Not a pretty sight, not a’tall.”
Shelly fell forward and began to creep toward the lattice on shaking limbs. No sense in talking now; her mother had won…again.
She crawled over the dirt, every atom of her being cringing in revulsion, and trembled as she approached the gap in the lattice. Her mother stood ten feet away, one hand on her hip, one arm extended as Harley strained at the leash.
Squatting in the opening, Shelly swiped at her wet cheeks with grimy hands, then launched herself upward and ran for the front porch as if her feet were afire. When she reached the bottom step she heard the thrum of the pit bull’s pounding paws; by the time she passed the threshold the dog was on the porch and snapping at the screen door while her mother watched from the grass and…laughed.
Shelly ran into the bathroom, hiccupping as she washed her hands. She tried her best to clean up, but she couldn’t get the muddy streaks off the counter or the towels.
Maybe it was the mud that did it, or maybe Momma was past caring about anything but being mad. Without a word, she grabbed Shelly by the arm, pulled her through the living room and thrust her into the linen closet. At the bottom, beneath the shelf where they kept the good sheets, was a space just big enough for Shelly to sit with her knees bent up and her head bent low.
That space—and its darkness—were as terrifying as the dog. “Momma—”
“Hush, Shelly. Get in there.”
“Momma, no.” She knew she shouldn’t touch Momma with damp hands, muddy arms and dirty clothes, but in a desperate plea for mercy she threw herself onto her mother’s frame, shaping herself to the woman’s body, clinging like a shadow. “Momma, Momma, I don’t like the dark—”
“Don’t be a baby.” Her mother’s iron fingers pulled and pried while her feet pushed Shelly into the closet.
“Momma, no!”
“And stop that screamin’. The more you scream, the longer I’m leavin’ you in here.”
Because Momma did not issue idle threats, Shelly clamped her trembling lips, imprisoning the cries that scratched at her throat. She thrust out her hands in silent entreaty, but Momma pushed her firmly into a sitting position and closed the door.
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