Liam sighed. “Okay. ”
Stephen patted him on the shoulder, then turned and left.
Liam took a deep breath. “Come on, kids. It’s time to go home. We’ll come back in the morning. ”
Jacey stood up. “Home?” She looked terrified. Liam knew that she didn’t want to walk into that house, either.
Mark glanced at her, then at Liam. “A bunch of us were going to go to the haunted house. Maybe … maybe you want to come?”
Jacey shook her head. “No, I need to stay—”
“Go, Jace,” Liam said softly. “Just take your beeper. I’ll call you if anything happens. ”
She moved toward him. “No, Dad—”
He pulled her into his arms and held her tightly, whispering, “Go, Jace. Think of something else for an hour or two. We can’t help her this way. ”
She drew back. He could see the war going on within her; she wanted to go and she wanted to stay. Finally she turned to M
ark. “Okay. Maybe just for a few minutes. ”
Mark came over, took Jacey’s hand in his, and led her out of the room.
“Daddy?” Bret said after she’d left. “I’m hungry. ”
“Jesus, Bretster, I’m sorry. Let’s go home. ”
Bret popped his thumb back in his mouth and got to his feet. He looked small and pathetic. For the first time, Liam noticed the clothes his son was wearing. Plaid flannel shirt, fake leather vest with a tin sheriff’s star pinned on the chest, crisp Wrangler jeans, and cowboy boots. A costume. The haunted house.
Shit.
It was almost nine-fifteen. For the last few hours, all over town, kids dressed as astronauts and aliens and princesses had been piling in and out of minivans. Their parents, already tired and headachy before it began, would crank the music up—mostly comfort rock and roll from their youth—and drive to the single housing development in Last Bend. In a town where your nearest neighbor was often half a mile away, trick-or-treating had to be carefully planned.
Liam glanced down at his son. He had a sudden flash of memory—Mike staying up late at night to finish the chaps that went with the costume. “You want to drive over to Angel Glen and go trick-or-treating?”
Bret’s cheeks bunched up as he sucked his thumb, then slowly he shook his head.
Liam understood. It was Mommy who always organized Halloween. “Okay, kiddo. Let’s go. ”
Together they walked outside, into the cold, crisp October night. The air smelled of dying leaves and rich, black earth.
They climbed into the car and drove home. The garage door, when it opened, cut a whining, scraping hole in their silent cocoon.
Liam took his son’s hand and led him into the house. They talked in fits and starts—about what, Liam couldn’t have said. He turned on the interior lights, all of them, until the house was awash in false brightness.
If only it weren’t so damned quiet.
Make Bret dinner.
There, focus on that.
The phone rang. Mumbling something to Bret, Liam stumbled into the kitchen and answered it.
“Hi, Liam. It’s Carol. I just heard … really sorry …”
And so it began.
Liam sagged against the log wall, hearing but not listening. He watched as Bret went into the living room and lay on the sofa. There was the hm-click of the television as it came on. The Rugrats. Screamingly loud. Bret stared dry-eyed at his least favorite cartoon, one that only last week he’d said was “for babies. ” He curled into a ball and sucked his thumb.