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on her bottom lip. She thought of her mother, no doubt on the way to Mass at this very hour. “I’m not sure I’ve come back.”
    “Let’s just say ‘welcome.’ As in, anytime at all. Whatever you’re looking for, Mrs. Keenan—”
    He must have noticed my wedding ring, she thought. There was a balm in his voice, an unexpected patience.
    “If you ever need someone to talk to, someplace to go.”
    “Thank you, Father.” She felt strange calling him Father, after all these years away from priests. An old station wagon turned into the parking lot, the first to arrive for the next scheduled Mass.
    “You’re always welcome, Holly Keenan. Have a good run.”
    The bath had cooled, so she lifted her right foot and turned the hot water faucet with her toes till the warmth enveloped her. The morning seemed so long ago. Someone to talk to, he had said, and why else had she come? Someone to talk to about Jack. Someone other than Tim, who was nearly past any conversation about the boy, locked inside his misconceptions of how their son would outgrow his maladies and transform into a normal, fully functional child. She often wondered if Tim’s fantasies outstripped Jack’s delusions. No, she had not been able to talk about Jack with him in a long time. Many mornings she had jogged past the church without a thought.
    Of course, early on she had been tempted to go in, find help or solace or reconciliation, but Tim put more faith in doctors and neurologists, therapists and psychologists, brain specialists and herbalists to locate some remedy even as Holly knew none was to be had. In the beginning, when they first realized something was wrong with their son, she had longed for the comfort of the religion of her youth, its rites and ceremonies, but the plain fact was that Jack’s inability to connect with her, with anyone, had seemed such a cruel joke and prayer an empty promise. And that was when he was a little boy, but now, now, just tonight, he nearly had been too strong for her. Her face hurt. Her biceps still ached from the strain of trying to stop Jack from poking at his skull.
    She had left him downstairs, parrying with The Simpsons , knowing that he would not disturb her bath as long as the cartoon played. Besides, any minute Tim would be back from taking Nicholas home. She shut her eyes and imagined the priest, drifting, trying to relax for just a moment more.
    A loud noise, like a single knock at the door, interrupted her reverie, the sharp percussion of a large object striking a hard surface with considerable force. Holly sat upright in the tub, the water rolling off her shoulders and chest, and listened for a following sound, a reply to the first. Her son, perhaps, calling out in surprise or pain, but she could not hear a thing. “Jack!” she shouted. A few beats of silence passed as she waited for his answer, caught between her wish for just a few extra minutes alone versus her instinct to investigate. She could not pinpoint the source. Had something fallen downstairs, was he okay, or had the noise originated elsewhere, maybe Tim’s car door slamming? The old house creaked and shuddered in the wintertime, and every stray thud was made louder and more ominous in the emptiness of the season. Perhaps the wind had blown over the trash cans. It’s nothing, she told herself, and just as she slid back into the comfort of the water, another knock disquieted her. She pulled the plug from the drain and stood, dripping onto the bath rug, wrapped a thick towel around her torso, and swung open the bathroom door. Her feet left wet prints on the hallway floor.
    “Jack,” she called from the landing. The familiar swing-time tune from the cartoon’s ending credits filtered upstairs. He did not answer, so she went to the top of the stairs and called a third time. “Is everything all right down there?”
    “I’m okay, Mom.” An annoyed tone in his voice, but no fear or panic.
    Another thump sent vibrations through the house,