The Lesson of Her Death

Cruise, which may or may not have been an accident.
    It isn’t until nearly nine that Waylon Sinks, juggling a thirty-two-ounce bottle of Budweiser and a Browning 16-gauge, forgets to put the safety on as he goes over a fence and kills himself unpleasantly. The New Lebanon Sheriff’s Department, as well as the county sheriff’s dispatcher and 911 for most of Harrison County, have been taking dozens of calls. Mostly they are sightings of the Moon Killer, who is sometimes spotted carrying a long knife, sometimes a rope. Usually he’s standing in backyards and looking in windows though sometimes he is climbing walls or scampering over roofs. There isn’t much the deputies can do. Officers make their rounds, and under their spotlights the offending shadows vanish completely.
    The moonlight beats down on the town of New Lebanon.
    It beats down so hard you can nearly hear a buzz like a high-watt bulb or like the humming of blood in your ears when you hold your breath in fear. The moonlight beats down and throughout the town you can see uneasy faces in windows and you can hear dogs howling—though what they bay at isn’t the white eye of the moon but the incessant forms of the prowling vigilantes, bleached yet black in the eerie wash of illumination.

    Corde arrived home at eight-thirty. He sent Tom the deputy back to his uneasy wife and children. Diane and Jamie were at a wrestling match at the high school, where Corde himself oh-so wanted to be. He walked into the house, half wondering if he should have tipped Tom something; the cheerful young man had been more a baby-sitter than a guard these past few days.
    Corde pulled off his muddy shoes and hugged Sarah. He washed his hands and face in the kitchen sink then poured a Diet Coke for her and a seltzer for himself. Only the Warner Brothers glasses were clean and he kept the Road Runner glass for himself. He handed Sarah Porky Pig.
    They got to work.
    She was particularly edgy tonight. The study session went badly from the start. She panicked often and began talking nonsense, joking and giddy. This put Corde in a bad mood because Diane had told him that Mrs. Beiderson was making special arrangements for Sarah’s tests and he thought the silliness measured up to ingratitude.
    They were in the living room, on the couch, surrounded by a mass of papers. Sarah looked so small and overwhelmed by the mess that Corde picked up the papers and organized them into a single stack. They were Sarah’s attempts at the practice spelling test. So far, twelve tries, her best score had been twenty-two out of fifty. Thirty-three was passing.
    Corde had that day written a check to Dr. Parker for $880, which was exactly twice what it cost him to insulate the entire attic.
    “Let’s try again,” he said.
    “Daddy, I don’t want to take the test. Please! I don’t feel good.”
    “Honey, we’ve got to work on a few more words. We’re only up to the M’s.”
    “I’m tired.”
    Tired was the one thing his souped-up little daughter was not. At battle stations again, they sat with the spelling list between them.
    “Okay, the M words.” He joked, “The M for ‘mouthful’ words.”
    “I don’t want to take the damn test,” Sarah said sullenly.
    “Don’t cuss.”
    “It’s a shitty test! I don’t want—”
    “Young lady, don’t you use that word again.”
    “—to take it! I hate Dr. Parker.”
    “Just the M words.”
    “I’m tired,” she whined.
    “Sarah. Spell ‘marble.’”
    Eyes squinting, lip between teeth, back erect. She said, “M-A-R-B-L-E.”
    “Very good, honey. Wonderful.” Corde was impressed.
    “Marble” went on the plus side, joined by “make,” “mark,” “miss” and “milk.” Sarah wasn’t as lucky with “middle,” “missile,” “makeshift,” “messenger,” “melon” and “mixer.” Dr. Parker hadn’t suggested it but Corde took to drawing pictures of the objects next to the words. This seemed clever but didn’t help.
    Sarah’s mood was getting progressively worse. Her leg bounced. Her tiny fingers wound together frantically.
    “Now spell ‘mother.’”
    Sarah started to cry.
    Corde was sweating. He’d been through this so many times and her defeats were always his. He wanted to shake her. He wanted to grab her by the shoulders and point her at Jamie and say,
“You’ve got the same blood. There’s no difference between you. Can’t you understand that? Just work hard! Work hard! Why won’t you do that?”
He