Spencerville

inched back toward the rocker and sat on the floor. She bent over and examined the chain, padlock, and eyebolt between her feet. She didn’t think she could lever the bolt out of the floorboards or snap the shackle open. But she could unscrew the threaded bolt from the floor. She put the tip of the poker through the shackle and moved the poker counterclockwise, using it as a lever to twist the padlock so that it also turned the eyebolt to which it was connected. The threads squeaked in the oak floorboards, and she stopped and listened, then repositioned the poker so as not to tangle the chain, then turned it again. After a few turns, she could feel with her fingers that the threaded bolt was rising out of the floorboard. She recalled that it was a three- or four-inch bolt, and when Cliff had put it in the oak floor, he’d said to her, “That’ ain’t comin’ out.”
Wrong, Cliff.
But it would take some time. She continued working the poker, and within a few minutes, the bolt was about two inches out of the floor, but it still held fast.
    She heard the bed squeak, then heard the floorboards squeak as his heavy body came down the hall.
    She quickly slid the poker under the hearth rug and got into the rocker, putting her bare foot over the padlock and eyebolt. She slumped to the side and feigned sleep, looking at him through a narrow slit in her left eye.
    The table lamp came on, but he didn’t say anything, just stood there in his boxer shorts and undershirt. His eyes darted around the room like an animal, she thought, trying to see what, if anything, was not as it should be. His eyes glanced down at her feet, but then they darted somewhere else. In many ways, she thought, he’d become like his dogs, and there were even times when she thought he had the super-sharp sense of smell and hearing of a dog, or the cunning of a wolf. His weakness, however, was overestimating his own intelligence and underestimating everyone else’s, especially women, especially hers.
    “Hey! Wake up!”
    She opened her eyes and sat up.
    “You comfortable, darlin’?”
    “No.”
    “You piss yourself yet?”
    “No… but I have to go—”
    “Good. Go right ahead.”
    “No.”
    “You will. Cold?”
    “Yes.”
    “I was thinkin’ about letting you come to bed.” He jiggled the keys that were on a chain around his neck. “You want to come to bed?”
    No, no, no.
She tried to look relieved and grateful. She said, “Yes, thank you. I have to go to the bathroom. I’m cold, Cliff, and hungry. And I think I’m starting my period. I need a sanitary napkin.” She added, “Please?”
    He thought about that awhile, and so did she. If he had an ounce of compassion left in him, she thought, he’d take pity on her and let her do what she asked of him. But she was betting that he had no pity whatsoever, and the word “please” was all he wanted to hear, and “nothing” was all he wanted to do for her.
    Baxter said, “Well, I’ll think about it. I’ll check on you later and see how cold, wet, and hungry you are.”
    “Please, Cliff—”
    He said, “Remember, ten strokes in the morning, and no breakfast. But maybe we can work something out. Think about that thing you never let me do to you.” He winked and reached for the light switch. Before he turned it off, she glanced at the mantel clock.
    Annie heard him walk away, heard the toilet flush, then heard the bed squeak again. She listened to the mantel clock ticking. For the last two nights, he’d set his alarm to go off at two-hour intervals, starting at one-thirty A.M. It was twelve forty-five, so she had time, unless, of course, he’d set it to go off at a different time tonight. She had no way of knowing, but she had to wait until she was sure he was asleep again.
    She let some time go by, about twenty minutes she figured, then thought she heard him snoring. She dropped down to the floor, took the poker from under the hearth rug, then began again.
    One of the dogs barked, but just once, then a wind rattled a windowpane, and a backdraft blew soot through the fire screen and the embers crackled. Every sound, every groan of the house, made her jump, and her heart was beating too fast.
    As she continued to unscrew the bolt, she allowed her self to picture herself free. She’d still have the chained leg manacles on, but she could walk. She knew where the keys to the Bronco were in the kitchen; all she had to do was take them, wrap the blanket around her, slide the glass