Follow the Stars Home

“You think? I think I’m more Hendrix myself. When my string snapped, I damn near … what’s that?”

“That noise?” Amy asked, thinking fast. The puppy was slurping away.

“Did that dog get out?” Buddy asked.

“No,” Amy said immediately, pushing the puppy inside his cage, blocking the door with her outstretched arms. “I let him out, it’s my fault, I just wanted –”

With one motion Buddy lifted Amy away from the cage and tossed her onto the sofa. Reaching in, he grabbed the dog by the scruff of his neck. Amy’s eyes were open wide. She watched the terrified puppy dangle from Buddy’s hand like a ham on a hook.

“What did I tell you?” Buddy asked, and Amy didn’t know whether he was talking to her or to the dog.

“It’s my fault,” Amy said again. Her voice sounded funny, like the sandpaper she sometimes used in art class.

“I don’t care about fault,” Buddy said softly. “What I care about is obedience.”

“Don’t hurt him,” Amy said.

“What good is a guard dog that won’t obey? You teach them young, or you have to shoot them later.”

“Don’t hurt him though,” Amy said.

Without another word Buddy kicked the dog with his pointy cowboy boot. The dog yelped in pain, and Buddy kicked him again. “For your own good,” Buddy said, holding him down. “For your own stupid good.”

Amy started to sob. The little dog couldn’t get away. He struggled and squirmed, yelping loudly. Buddy kicked him over and over, and when he was done, he hurled the dog into his cage. Picking up a rolled-up newspaper, he smacked the palm of his open hand.

“Got it now?” he asked. He never hit Amy, but she had the definite feeling he was threatening her then. “Are we clear who’s master around here?”

In the bedroom, blankets rustled. Amy’s stomach ached. She didn’t know what she wanted more, for her mother to rescue the dog or for her to stay out of the way.

“C’mere,” Buddy said.

Amy refused to look, afraid he was talking to her.

“Come here,” Buddy said, and the cage door rattled. He was reaching in, pulling the dog out again. He was petting the dog, whispering to him, scratching him behind the ears. The dog whimpered, trying to get away.

“I’ll break you, boy,” Buddy said. “If that’s what it’ll take, that’s what I’ll do.”

“Don’t break him,” Amy whispered.

“What?” he asked.

Amy shut her mouth. She didn’t want Buddy to hear her. She knew from experience it made him mad when people intervened – like Amy would do with her mother.

The puppy pulled to get away, crying almost like a human child. Amy’s body ached, straining to get over there and help him, but she was glad the dog had fight left in him. It would be worse if he licked Buddy’s hand the way he wanted the puppy to. Amy knew she had to be very quiet so Buddy would leave the room. If she made herself invisible, this would stop sooner.

“I said, what?” he asked softly.

But Amy slipped away in her mind, turned herself into a babbling brook. She was tumbling over mossy ledges, through shady glens and sylvan glades. Herons were nesting on her banks, and spiders spun glassy webs across her clear water. She was flowing downhill, toward the sea, where her father had fished. She was on her way when the phone rang.

“Hello?” Buddy said.

Amy watched him. He was ramrod-straight, the king of his castle, when he picked up the receiver. Beating the puppy must have given him confidence, because he sounded very sure of himself. But as he listened to the voice at the other end, Amy watched him wilt before her very eyes. His spine gave out, and he drooped like a tulip stem.

“Yes, she’s right here,” he said. “I’ll get her.”

“For Mom?” Amy asked.

“For you,” he said, covering the receiver. He seemed about to admonish her, to tell her he was expecting a call, or remind her to keep family matters private. His thin lips opened and closed a couple times, but he just handed her the phone.

“Hello?” Amy asked.

“Is this Amy Brooks?” came the deep voice, and she recognized it right away. Relief spread through her like a heat wave, tears cresting in her eyes.

“Hi, Dr. McIntosh,” she said.

“What are you doing next Saturday?” he asked.

Four (#ulink_adf2bf68-e03e-5dba-b80b-df6d9a94b791)

On Saturday morning Dianne was wallpapering the parlor wall of a small Victorian. The blue and white paper was English, a pattern of tiny white peonies. Dianne worked from the interior out. She would do the inside work first, making sure every detail was perfect, then nail the house together.

“Your grandmother would like this paper,” she said to Julia. “Peonies are her favorite flower.”

Julia sat close by, propped up in her chair. Every window was open, and a warm wind blew off the marsh. Stella crouched on the sill, inside the screen, watching life in the yard. Julia was very quiet today, enjoying the breeze in her hair. Everyone got spring fever in their own way. Dianne felt April moving toward May.

A car door closed, and the cat instantly slid out of sight. Born in the wild, Stella was intensely shy. Dianne craned her neck, but she couldn’t see the driveway from the window. Washing wallpaper paste off her hands, she went to the door.

“Oh, my God,” she said, feeling her stomach lurch as she saw Alan getting out of the car. Dianne thought of Julia’s test results, wondered whether he had come by to break some bad news in person. But then she saw the young girl, and she relaxed a little. He wouldn’t have brought someone with him if that were the case. Dianne’s hands were trembling as she dried them with an old rag, and she watched them come toward the studio.

Alan shielded his eyes, looking around. The marsh was bathed in sunlight, a hundred shades of green. Cattails rustled, and red-winged blackbirds darted in and out. Long Island Sound sparkled beyond. The Robbinses had the last house on Gull Point, ten blocks and a world away from Amy’s.

“You know these people?” Amy asked, standing beside him with wide eyes.

“I do.”

“They’re witches,” she said. “All the kids say so.”

“What kids?”

“In my neighborhood.”

“What do they say?”

“That the ladies cast spells and turn kids into monsters and trolls. Then they keep them prisoner.” Amy was staring at the house. It was a tidy Cape, its white cedar shingles weathered to silver. The blue shutters had cut-out sea horses; the white window trim gleamed. Window boxes were filled with purple and yellow pansies.

“Well …” Alan said.

“Is it true?” Amy asked, standing so close, her shoulder bumped his jacket.