Mohawk

flashlight. Out in the street the wind was swirling everything that wasn’t rooted; a lawn chair danced crazily up the hill, end over end. “I’m going up to the attic to change the fuse, Mother.”
    “Of course, dear,” her mother responded vaguely.
    “Did you hear me?”
    The old woman turned and stared at her blankly.
    “Where am I going?”
    Mrs. Grouse blinked.
    “To the attic. To change the fuse.”
    Mrs. Grouse smiled and went back to watching the street.
    At the attic stairway, Anne flipped the switch and, when the light didn’t come on, cursed her stupidity out loud. She followed the flashlight beam up the narrow stairs. Lightning illuminated the fusebox under the eave at the far end of the attic, next to the only window, which was banging madly. “Never touch this box,” her father had warned her when she was eight. He had discovered her one day going through the trunks in the attic that contained old clothes. “
Never
touch it.”
    She had waited for him to explain, of course.
    She was much older before he told her that merely touching the black box wouldn’t kill anyone, but insisted how important it was to be careful when changing the fuse.
    “But why’d you tell me that?” she wanted to know. Why let her think that death was close at hand, just up the stairs?
    “There are some things it’s wise to be scared of.”
    “Why?”
    “Because they hold the power to destroy us.”
    “But I hate being afraid,” she said. “I’ve had nightmares about the box.”
    “Nightmares never killed anybody,” he said flatly. “If you hadn’t had bad dreams about the box, you’d have had them about something else.”
    Below the box was a small, wrinkled paper bag thatcontained the fuses. Anne took one out—it felt cool, almost moist, between her thumb and forefinger. She opened the door to the fusebox and shined the flashlight on the double row of copper-pronged switches, each with its little plastic handle. The main fuse was splotched black across the paper.
    Anne disconnected the switch and tapped the fuse with her forefinger before unscrewing it. She knew that once the copper switch was open, the box was safe; but her fear was far too ingrained for knowledge to count against it. Outside, the storm was suddenly quiet. Anne fitted the new fuse into the vacant slot. The fuse turned almost too easily, and she double-checked to make sure that it was screwed tight. All that was left to do was to throw the switch. Again she shined the light into the box so she could see to be sure that she had the switch by its plastic handle. When she pushed it forward, there was a sizzling sound and the attic was suddenly broad daylight. The clap of thunder that followed instantly drowned Anne’s scream of rage and fear, and at the precise moment when what was inside her became part of the ambivalent night, she realized for the first time how very much she hated her father.

48
    “Please,” B.G. pleaded. From the next room issued the baby’s cry, as if she knew the storm was coming. In the wind, the trailer crunched and popped like an empty aluminum can.
    “I won’t be long. I promise.” Randall drew the curtain back to look out into the dark. When the old man was home, the lights up at the house were visible through the trees, but now Randall Younger saw nothing but blackness and the reflection of his own drawn face.
    “Tell me what you talked about,” she said, fixing him when he turned around, her eyes small and frightened.
    “What?”
    “I woke up. I heard the two of you out there.”
    “We discussed my grandfather, if you’ve got to know.”
    “I don’t believe you.”
    They faced each other angrily.
    Randall looked away first. “I’ll be back in a few hours.”
    “Don’t lie.”
    “Why should I leave you?”
    “Tell me what you talked about with him.” She fairly spit the last word.
    “My grandfather.”
    She looked away. The baby wailed louder in the next room. Randall consulted his watch. It was time, and hehad made up his mind. “Look,” he said, “if I were splitting, would I ask to borrow your car?”
    In this there was an ironic truth, and it calmed her down a little. The husband who had abandoned her was just the sort to steal the car. Randall would be more likely to leave one by way of apology. “Stay,” she begged one last time.
    “You have to give me tonight,” he said. “It’s a matter of business.”
    “With him.”
    “Yes. All right. Yes.”
    “I won’t tell