The Lesson of Her Death

he
doing
this?” Diane’s voice broke in frustration.
    “I don’t know, honey.”
    “How does he get past the deputy?”
    “I think he might’ve left that note the same time he left the other one. He’s probably long gone by now.”
    “Might’ve
…
probably
… Doesn’t anybody
know
anything about this man?”
    Corde kneaded the key absently.
No, we don’t. We don’t know a damn thing at all.
    After a moment he said, “I’ll talk to Tom tomorrow. Have him make trips around the house and into the woods.”
    Corde set the gun in the corner. “I didn’t chamber a round. You’ll have to pump it once. The safety’s off. Just pump and pull. You know how to do it. Aim low.” He handed her the key and she stood up and put it in her purse. She seemed calmer now, seeing the gun, having some control.
    “Wait a minute,” Corde said. He took the key out of her bag and walked into their bedroom. He returned a moment later with a thick golden necklace. He slipped the key over the end and then clasped it behind her neck. He kissed her on the forehead.
    She said, “This’s the chain you gave me when you gave me your class ring.”
    “Figured that was the right length to let everybody know to keep their hands off.” The key rested at the shadow of her cleavage.
    She smiled and hugged him and cried some more.
    Corde said, “It’s plate, you know. The chain.”
    “Isn’t a girl alive can’t recognize plate from solid. But it was the ring I was most interested in.”
    Corde held her face. “We’re going to get through this just fine. Nothing’s going to happen to you or the kids. He’s just doing this to rattle me. I promise.”
    Diane dried her eyes and walked toward the bedroom. She said, “God give me strength.”
    At first no one in town paid much attention; it was mostly little things. Like when the
Register
came out, more people than usual bought it. And what they turned to first was the almanac page, which showed the phases of the moon for the next thirty days.
    Sales of shotgun shells and rifle ammunition wererunning twice what they usually did this time of year (being nowhere close to season yet). The sporting goods section of Sears, which normally sold tons of Ted Williams baseball gear this month, was doing most of its dollar volume in low-cost .22s, .30-’06s, and even Crossman CO2 air pistols.
    Business at the quad and HoJo’s and Baskin-Robbins fell to nothing as parents refused to let their daughters go on dates after dark. Exam grades at Auden went up as students who would normally be outside groping under clothing or pledging fidelity over the long summer months stayed home and broke the spines of books. A number of students were taking incompletes and returning home three weeks early.
    A lot of town dogs were kept hungry.
    Corde’s awkwardly phrased press statement, meant to reassure the people of New Lebanon, in short, had no effect on the hysteria.
    Bob Siebert came home late to his trailer on Route 302. He opened the door and in the dark kitchen found himself staring at his five-year-old son, who was aiming Siebert’s Ruger .225 deer rifle more or less at his father’s heart. Standing silhouetted in the moonlight, afraid to speak, Siebert froze. It was only after the short click of the firing pin that he began to breathe again. He lifted the gun away, laughing madly and thanking the Lord that his son had not known how to chamber a round. His smile faded when he opened the rifle’s bolt and the misfired shell spiraled out. Siebert’s legs went slack, his pants went wet and he dropped sobbing to the floor. The boy said, “I thought you was the Moon Man, Daddy.”
    And on Tuesday, one day before the full moon, the first graffiti went up.
    No one saw who’d done it and in fact hardly anyone recognized the drawings at first. Clara and Harry Botwell were returning home in their 1976 Buick Electra from the Shrimp ’n’ Salad Night at the Wrangler, Clara driving, being the less impaired. Harry pointed to the wall of the First Bank of New Lebanon and said, look,somebody had painted a big gumdrop on the side of the bank, and Clara studied the wall and asked, why was it on its side and anyway why would anybody paint a gumdrop?
    “Sweet Mary,” she said, “that’s no gumdrop, it’s a half-moon.” In panic she gunned the big engine and shot through a red light, broadsiding a Celica. The couple escaped unhurt, though the driver of the Toyota went to Memorial with a broken