antibiotics. She adds gently, This will be
over soon.
O.K., the father says. Because he who
says yes to “A” must also say yes to “B.”
- Years later, the mother takes the
daughter’s name. Call me Gretyl, she
tells her friends—other mothers who
teach catechism. Oh, they say, why?
Wasn’t that your daughter’s name?
Yes, the mother admits, but there’s
no reason it can’t be mine. It’s more
fun, it suits me. Please call me Gretyl.
And they do.
Hey, the father says that afternoon.
Feeling better?
She whispers, No.
He pauses. Want to play Happy
Days? It’s his favorite board game. It
allows players to party with the Fonz,
drag-race, collect allowances, and go
on dates.
No thanks, she says.
All right. Don’t say I didn’t offer.
He’s fixing cars when gunshots
sound.
He calls the police, complains, goes
back to the garage. He needs carbure-
tor parts from England. Once he gets
them, the rest’ll be cake.- In the small hours, Gretyl con-
vulses. She realizes that the cat’s dead.
Too many nights below freezing, coy-
otes. She misses her sisters. She real-
izes that she’ll die. She tells herself
that, in her sleep, she must find a solu-
tion. But she’s like a worm squirm-
ing on asphalt; she cannot find a
way out or in. She’s not religious, but
she prays. Please God, if there is a
God, help, please. The room’s dark.
Her parents turned the heat down.
From the couch-bed, she peers out
the window. Winter constellations
have spun into view. Right of Venus,
Orion lunges. His long sword hangs
from his belt. She breathes shallowly.
Her hands fold on her chest. Some-
thing pokes her. She reaches inside
her bra and pulls out the orange whis-
tle. Pops it in her mouth. She has no
idea why she has this whistle, or whom
it’s from. Breathing causes pain, but
she blows three long calls. The sound
is deafening.
Silence fills the night. No wind. No
distant horns. They’re far from urban
life, on this mountain.
Her father clomps downstairs.
He’s in his robe. He’s red-faced.
Jesus Christ, he says. What’s that noise?
A whistle, she says. I blew it.
Well, cut it out, he says. Your mother
and I are sleeping.
Sorry, she says.
Her father thumps back upstairs.
Her heart beats rapidly. All around is
deep silence.T
he father says, Wanna come to
church?
Hans, the mother says. Let her rest.
Just offering!
To the girl he says, We’ll bring home
the funnies. Maybe a doughnut!
A shadow passes outside the win-
dow.
The mother says, I’m locking the
doors. The Gilroys lost their stereo,
their jewelry, and all their Walkmans.
No matter what, don’t let anyone in!
The girl can’t think well. She’s se-
verely dehydrated. She hears the car
roar down the driveway.
There’s movement outside. Foot-
steps.
Something rap-rap-raps at the win-
dow. She’s terrified. Outside stands a
man with spiky black hair and a beard.
He has the blackest eyes she’s seen, a
big nose, olive skin. Dried blood cov-
ers his neck. With bloody gloves, he
holds up Mihos for her to see—
shrunken, skinny. The man points
demonically. He shouts, but she can-
not understand anything except Cat!
Cat!
He’s saying, she thinks, that he’ll
kill her cat.
Hot pee soaks her pants.
The man disappears.
The front doorknob jerks wildly.
Then the side door’s. Gretyl hears low,
quiet scraping. A door opens. Boots
smack the wood floors and nails clack
them.
A huge hairless brown dog bounds
in. Licks her.