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Show page 175 "We'll fix Moonshine Annie if she comes out," said one. "We'll fix her good," said the other. Annie was hugging the wall near Holder's door, cursing the tripping things, the unbalance. She peeped into his room. "My, my, he's healthy, just like my Billy. Ben boy, you're just like my Billy." She eased into his room, forward two steps, backward one, tucked around him the single sheet. She staggered from the room without waking him, returned to the dining table and the empty gin bottle. She fell into her chair, limp from drink and memory. Her ancient dress was open at the neck and sides. Her face was fuzzy and blotched, like the worn pattern of the psuedo-oriental rug at her feet. The empty bottle sat among dirty dishes, sweating in the light. The man on the label cried with the condensation. To rid herself of this sad image she took the bottle to the kitchen and stuffed it in the garbage pail on top of the teddy bear. She peered out the window, was in time to see Hawkins and Shumack swing over Martha Shelton's fence, into the melon patch. Annie's head snapped forward, stretching a brittle vertebrae, while a low and fanciful cloud kissed the moon for the space of a dozen seconds and passed on. Annie flung herself to her rear door, in a thousandth of a second saw the boys inching forward. Annie hurried out, to the connecting gate, fumble-fingeredly opened it and spilled into the garden like a living scarecrow. The boys were caught in a fast, whirling, fraying center of terror. Hawkins fled, stepping on one of the melons, bursting it open, laying its heart bare to the tearful moon. Shumack |
