Dagon by Fred Chappell

and red streaks on her face, he would make blood come.
    â€œYou just better not, buddy boy,” she said. “You better not even think about it. You just put that goddam thing down and come on back here. I sure would like to know what’s got into you. You’re the craziest damn thing I ever seen. Go on, I said, and put it down.”
    He hesitated no longer, put the handle on top of the shelf and came to the door.
    She was back in the living room, regarded him with cold amusement. “There ain’t nobody in the world would be afraid of you no more. You couldn’t hurt a cat, and you can just go on pretending all you want but all you can do is just make trouble, make a little mess here and there. That’s all. Nobody is going to take you serious.” Again she came to him and put her fingertips on his bare thin chest and pushed him lightly back­ward. “I guess the best way I can think of to keep you from making trouble is just to put you in bed and let you drink. I don’t guess you can bother anything there but yourself.” She pushed him again. “You go on and get in the bed. I’ll be there in a minute and baby you.”
    He went. He sat on the bed and stripped off his shoes and socks and pants, and then lay back wearily, wearing only his soiled underpants. He lay on his side and tried to go to sleep, but his nerves were acrawl with tiredness and un­released anger, and he didn’t want to close his eyes. He breathed hoarsely. Then she came in, carrying another of the endless jars of corn whiskey. “Here,” she said, “and if you spill this or make a mess it’s the last of it you’ll get to drink in this house, I can tell you. I got more things to do than keep putting up with you.” She set the jar on the floor by the side of the bed, and as she straightened she looked flat into his eyes. “I mean it,” she said. Then she left, closing the door firmly behind her.
    He waited a few moments, until his breathing had slowed. He tried not to think how much Mina had begun to frighten him. Why was she like that? He had done nothing to her, not re­ally. He leaned and took up the fruit jar. Gray and white, but slightly tinged with yellow, Sheila’s pert face looked at him through the whiskey. She was smiling: a fixed stiff smile. His hand shook; her face wavered. He was doing well, only a few large drops splashed on his belly. She was smiling. He turned the jar around and peeled the wet photograph off the side, where Mina had stuck it. She had taken it from his wallet. Now he wished he had hit her, that he had made the blood come. Sheila’s face was draped between his fingers, the paper all limp, wet. He felt that no one had ever been so ab­jectly miserable as he; and he let his head roll on his chest from side to side. The photograph wouldn’t come loose from his fingers; he shook his hand hard again and again. But he was still extremely careful. He didn’t spill any more of the liquor, he had to preserve himself somehow. Finally he wiped the photograph off on the quilts, as if it were a sort of filth which soiled his fingers. Then he leaned and set the jar down carefully, and then lay back, still, his arms along his sides. He began to moan, and it got louder and louder. It got louder, and it didn’t sound like a moan any more. He was moaning like a cow gone dry; moo upon moo, and he couldn’t stop it. He might have gone on for hours.
    But Mina came back in, came straight to him. “Hush up,” she said. “Hush up that goddam noise.” She slapped his face hard. “Just hush up now.” She slapped him again, harder this time, and he heard mixed with his own hollow fear a tinny ringing sound. He began to breathe more steadily, and the noise subsided to a moan. She slapped him once more, not so hard now, and turned away. “I’m goddam if you just wouldn’t drive anybody plumb wild with all