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right after work, didn’t you?”
    “I don’t have to answer to you.” His words were slurring together in spite of his best efforts. He made a move as if togo upstairs. His head was pounding now, and it was either find another bottle to take the edge off or go straight to bed.
    What she said next stopped him short. “Your father used to do that after a long day. Drinking whiskey at the schoolhouse.”
    “So what?”
    Ruth suddenly seemed agitated. She cocked her head to one side as if listening. Jeb got the uncomfortable feeling he used to get around crazy Annie when he was a kid, not really sure how to react to her and always wondering what she was going to do. Because with Annie, you could never be sure what was coming; she kept you off balance.
    Finally Ruth looked at him again, her eyes still holding that spark of life he recognized and was coming to hate. “What did you do with his things from the jail? Did you throw them away like I asked?”
    Jeb Taylor stood in the shadows just outside the kitchen, his head a mass of pain, and considered how to answer. The suitcase was still upstairs in his closet, hidden under the clothes, and though he knew he didn’t want to open it, he hadn’t been able to get himself to throw the thing away yet.
    He wasn’t really sure what finally made him lie. “Yeah. I threw ’em in the river, Gramma. Okay? I threw ’em in the river last night.”
    “Did you look at them?”
    “Just a bunch of clothes and some books.”
    “Come here.” When he came, reluctantly, she reached up and patted his neck with her gnarled old lady hands. The anger welled up within him and he had the sudden urge to strike her, slap that wrinkled, sagging face, push in her eyes with his thumbs, choke her throat. He held himself tightly together and closed his eyes. She gave a great sigh, and it was as if something left her all at once, like a flock of birds had taken wing. She patted his chest. “That’s good, Jeboriah.”
    Jeb nodded and went upstairs, leaving the crazy oldwoman in the kitchen. What was wrong with her, anyway? She’d really lost it this time. He’d come that close to hitting her. He balled his hands into fists, and slowly released them as the nails cut into his palms. The pain cut through his pounding head, clearing it. She would have to find her own dinner tonight. He wasn’t hungry anymore.
    He would throw away the suitcase tomorrow, he decided. No sense keeping it around, anyway. Or maybe he would keep it just to spite her.
    The upper floor of the house was dark and he stumbled into his bedroom, too tired to wash up. He fell into bed and was asleep almost instantly.
    He dreamed of circles floating in front of his face, rings of blazing light. At first he thought he was looking into the sun, but slowly the circle became clearer, until he could see the snakes wrapped around each other with their tails in their mouths.
       
    The Mercedes Jeb Taylor had almost hit in the parking lot of Johnny’s belonged to Pat Friedman, forty-eight years old, husband of Mrs. Julie Friedman and partner in the firm of Friedman and Soule located next to the bookstore on the square. Pat had also been the man who shouted in surprise as the big Chevy with the loud side pipes had spun out of the parking lot; he had been standing by the door to the bar as Jeb came stumbling out.
    Though it had been a warm day, there was a cold wind blowing tonight. Pat stood on the front steps and stared down the road in the direction of town. In the distance he could see a glow from the lights that dotted the walkways along the square. Across the street from Johnny’s he could see the dark windows of the town grocery and the single floodlight mounted on the corner of the roof, and behind him in the darkness he could hear the muffled voices of the falls, deep white water tumbling down the hole in the river. People came from a good distance around this time of yearto see the falls and the place where the river seemed