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sideways, trying to get away. “Christmas shopping. There was a big sale at—”
    â€œLiar!” Clutching a fistful of her sweater, he yanked her up and slammed her against the wall again.
    She covered her face with her hands. “Harley, what’s the matter with you? Stop. Please stop.”
    â€œWho is he?” He smashed a fist into her ribs.
    â€œHarley—”
    â€œWho?” He hit her again. And again.
    â€œHarley—” she whimpered.
    â€œWho?”
    He pried her hands from her face and hit her in the mouth. “Who?”
    She cried. Her face was smeared with snot and tears and blood.
    â€œWho?”
    She struggled to get away.
    He kept hitting, feeling the satisfaction of her fear and relishing the sound as his fists connected with her flesh. “Who?”
    â€œTim Holiday,” she whispered.

5
    Caley woke to total darkness, gasping for breath. Confusion reigned as she groped through a mind so deprived of oxygen it wouldn’t come through with data. She switched on the bedside lamp and immediately squeezed her eyes shut against the stabbing pain, leaving ghost images on her retinas. Her nasal passages were totally clogged, forcing her to breathe through her mouth, which was so dry her tongue stuck to her teeth. She felt run over by a truck. What time was it anyway? She squinted at the glowing red numbers on the radio. Six o’clock?
    She’d slept all afternoon. No wonder she felt like road kill. Longest afternoon nap she’d had since God made her a mother. Come to think of it, maybe it wasn’t God. She seemed to remember blond curls and hot breath and eager hands. It wasn’t like Mat to manage a stay with the kids this long. One two-hour stint was usually his limit. Stumbling to the kitchen, she flicked on the light and grabbed a glass from the cabinet. She filled it with water and gulped, experimented with her tongue by running it across the inside of her upper teeth and then the outside. Ah, it slipped along as it should.
    What had she been eating that left this taste residue? Refrigerator surprise? She drank another glass of water, then crept into the living room and gently lowered herself to the sofa. Too roughly and she might lose some valuable part of herself. Like her head.
    Even though scratched like a road map, the hardwood floor, stained dark, showed every speck of dust, smear of mud, and crumb of whatever the kids had been eating. Dust curls huddled in corners and under the chairs, two wing chairs with frayed brown-and-yellow fabric. They were as shabby as was the Victorian sofa she sat on. Ragged lace curtains hung over windows smeared with sticky fingerprints. The walls had once been painted white, but she’d never gotten around to repainting. Or to adorning them with anything. Maybe she should put up a couple of those ghastly old paintings in the basement. If she cleaned them a little, maybe they wouldn’t look too bad. The Christmas tree in the corner brought cheer to the room, colored lights and a lot of the ornaments made by the children, some saved from years back. She wrapped the sofa quilt around her shoulders and waited for Mat to bring back the kids.
    Each child had a separate room, but the Littles left papers and crayons and games and puzzles and electronic games and tanks and dolls and action figures and books littered over the living room floor. It looked what’s called lived in. Or what Mat called a mess and why don’t you clean it up.
    Beginning to worry beyond limits, she went to the kitchen and picked up the phone, then couldn’t remember the number. Finally it floated through the sludge in her mind and she called her mother-in-law. While she counted rings, she realized the house was pleasantly warm, no longer an inferno and no longer freezing. Good ol’ Tim had come through just like he said he would. After eighteen rings, just as she was on the verge of hanging up, the call was