Mrs. Kimble by Jennifer Haigh Page A

down. She was so angry with Loomis that she forgot she didn’t have the flu at all, that she’d made the whole thing up.
    Finally the ringing stopped. Birdie sat up and fumbled beneath the bed for her slippers, then gave up and walked barefoot across the carpet, noticing a splotch of purple where she’d spilled some wine that morning. She found a sweater on the floor and buttoned it over her nightgown. Then she heard a deeper ringing, the two tenor notes of the doorbell.
    She froze. It was probably nothing. The day before she’d hidden in the bedroom closet; when she emerged, she saw two little girls descend her front steps and ring the Gleasons’ bell next door. She recognized their green hats and knee socks: Girl Scouts selling cookies.
    She tiptoed into the children’s room and peered out from behind the curtain. The county woman stood on the doorstep talking to a man in a suit. Birdie sank to the floor, hand over her mouth. She could barely hear their voices over the pounding of her heart.
    “It’s three o’clock,” said the woman. “Where could she be?”
    “The boy was in school today,” said the man. “I called and checked. Maybe she went to meet him at the school bus.”
    The floorboards creaked.
    “Something is very wrong,” said the woman. “I’ve been trying to call her all week. I’m scared to death for those children.”
    Birdie looked at the clock. The children would be back any minute. She pictured them climbing the hill, Charlie with a bottle of wine in his hand. Please, she thought. No.
    The seconds ticked off. Charlie’s alarm clock was shaped like a football. Each morning a voice inside it shouted “Hike!” getting him up for school.
    Finally the man spoke. “We can’t wait around all day. We’ll have to come back.”
    There was a creaking of floorboards, a shuffling of shoes. The county woman’s high heels descended the porch stairs. A car started at the curb, then pulled away.
    A moment later Birdie heard footsteps on the back porch. The screen door opened.
    “Mummy!” Jody cried.
    Birdie rushed into the kitchen, her legs shaky with relief. She scooped Jody into her arms.
    “You aren’t mad, are you?” said Charlie.
    Birdie leaned against the refrigerator, grateful for its support. “Why, button?” she said. “Why would I be mad?”
    “You said to come in the front.” His brow wrinkled, a mannerism of his father’s.
    “It’s all right,” said Birdie. “Just this once.” She reached into the paper sack Charlie had set on the counter.
    “I didn’t get milk,” he said. “I ran out of money.”
    “That’s fine,” said Birdie. She took the wine bottle out of the sack. “Mama’s going to take a bath.”
     
    A CORK POPPED ; water rushed into the tub. Through the thin floors Charlie heard the water pump in the basement, ticking like a bomb. He sat in the living room looking at the phone. Brian Norton, who’d gone that summer, said Luray Caverns were as old as the dinosaurs. The caverns tunneled deep into a mountain; youcould get lost in them and never find your way out. Inside the caverns were fossils, pools of water, ancient bones. Brian Norton hadn’t seen any bats hanging upside down, but Charlie thought there must be, if you knew where to look.
    The water stopped. Charlie went to the bathroom door. It was open a crack. His sister sat on the floor with crayons and a coloring book; his mother lay in the water with her eyes closed, the bottle of wine balanced on the edge of the tub. He went back to the living room. When the phone rang he held his breath, waiting for his mother’s voice; but it did not come.
    Heart racing, he picked up the phone. “Hello?” he said. He had not answered the phone in a long time; it made him nervous. Please, he thought. Luray Caverns.
    “Hello?” said a lady’s voice. “Charlie, is that you? This is Grandma Helen.”
    “Oh,” said Charlie. “Hi, Grandma.”
    “Hi, honey.” Her voice shook. “Let me talk to your