Tucker’s Grove by Kevin J. Anderson Page B

panicked. Where is Mrs. Litch? Why is it taking her so long to answer the door? Angela ’ s legs tremble, unaccustomed to running.
    — Why, Angela! Malcolm, it ’ s Angela Tucker!
    — Help me! He ’ s so cruel, Mrs. Litch! He has fits! He hits me.
    — Come in, Angela. Come in. We ’ ll get yo u a glass of warm milk. You ’ re in a terrible state!
    She enters. The door closes. Safety. Safety? Clinton never cared for the Methodist minister personally, nor the church in ge n eral. Safety?
    — Tonight he slapped me, and I ran! He ’ ll know where I am! You hav e to hide me. You don ’ t know how he is! He thinks he ’ s seeing wolves again.
    — There, there, Angela… Malcolm, are you getting this poor girl some milk?
    The minister ’ s wife pats her on the back. Comfort.
    — You know what they say about your husband, don ’ t you, d ear? That he had a high fever when he was a boy? Made him wrong in the head. Uncontrollable.
    The minister hands her a glass of hot milk.
    — Wolves? he asks, then shakes his head.
    She sips the milk, burns her tongue, almost drops the glass. She is trembling. Mrs. Litch takes the milk away.
    — You ’ ve had a bad fright, Angela. You ’ ll stay with us here t o night. No question about it. I ’ ll get some blankets out right now. Don ’ t you worry. Everything will be all right.
    A pounding at the door. Loud shouts.
    — Angela! I k now you ’ re in there! Get away from those people and come back home where you belong! Now!
    Terror. She clutches her hands together, kneading them. Eyes wide. Her voice a high-pitched whisper.
    — Hide me! Please!
    Mrs. Litch rushes her to a small bedroom and cl oses the door. The pounding continues.
    — ANGELA!
    The door bursts open. Clinton Tucker storms in, glares at the minister and his wife. Death in his eyes.
    — I ’ ve come for my wife.
    Mrs. Litch drops the milk. Tucker looks around the room quickly. Nothing. Sees t he closed door, starts toward it, pounds on it.
    — Angela! You ’ d best come out! Now! Before I get angry!
    No answer. Pounds again. Tries to open it. Locked, from the i n side. Fury. Throws himself against the door. It cracks, splinters. He breaks in.
    The room is empty. The window is open. Curtains float moc k ingly in the breeze. The night is dark, and he can ’ t see her. He clenches and unclenches his hands for several moments until he speaks again.
    — I hope to hell the wolves got her.
     
    Some men have good cause to bury their boyhood memories.
    Young Clinton Tucker rode with his parents in the wagon, eyes drowsy after a hectic day — traveling for hours to reach neighboring Bartonville, then errand after errand, and now ma k ing ready for the long trip back. India n summer had come and gone, leaving the mornings covered with frost and filled with white breath. Dusk came on quick and cold, and the stars shone like ice chips.
    The wooden wheels of their wagon rattled on Bartonville ’ s main street, then grew muffled as t he horse trotted onto the dirt road toward the forest. The end of October lit the trees in flaming colors, but darkness made the forest seem thicker, like the wide-open mouth of a monster. The air hung thin and chilly upon them, ready to trace patterns of frost on the world. Clinton could see his white breath and pretended he was smoking a cigar, as Mr. Harrison the blacksmith did.
    His parents sat in a comfortable silence next to each other on the driver ’ s board. Clinton took the seat blanket and crawled ba ck into the wagon-bed. He huddled among the packages in the corner, trying to sleep. Overhead, the ominous branches passed by in the darkening forest. The rocking wagon along with the increasing warmth of his blanket lulled him to sleep. He smelled the mu s ty blanket, the wood and dust of the wagon, the cool dampness of the forest. Clinton lost his sense of time.
    Then he heard his father shout something. The horse made a loud, frightened noise. Clinton looked up to see glinting