The Children by Ann Leary Page A

her.”

 
    EIGHT
    Riley’s barking woke me up from a very deep sleep. He was racing around the hall, broadcasting a sound that was somewhere between a canine bark and a human scream— a woof, woof WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOF, woof woof WOOOOOOOOOF. I had never heard him go off like that. My heart was racing. I jumped from my bed and peered out into the hall.
    Joan came running from her room and grabbed my arm.
    â€œThere’s somebody outside,” she whispered.
    â€œNo, it’s probably just a raccoon or something.”
    â€œI’m telling you, there’s somebody out there! I heard a car on the driveway. Wait. Shhhh. Listen. Somebody’s on the porch.” She was squeezing my arm hard.
    â€œI can’t hear anything above the dog.”
    â€œIf it were a raccoon, Riley would be outside. Listen to the way he’s barking; he’s terrified.”
    Joan was right. The dog often took off at night when he heard animals outside, but now he was racing from the door to the front windows and back to the door again, not daring to go out. His barking was shrill and hysterical.
    â€œShould we call nine one one?” I asked, my heart pounding.
    â€œWait, wait right there,” Joan said. She tiptoed back into her room and then, when she returned, she clutched me by the wrist and said, “Stay behind me. I have the hornet spray.”
    â€œWHAT?”
    â€œSHHHHHH! Just do what I say. When we get downstairs, run into the kitchen and get the phone. I’ll guard the door.”
    But I was behind Joan, clutching her nightgown. “Joan, no, no, come with me,” I said. “Come in the kitchen with me.”
    Together we descended the stairs until we stood at the very bottom, in the foyer. The dog was whining and circling our feet. I was clutching Joan’s wrist.
    â€œRiley is such a coward,” Joan whispered. “Why won’t he go out and attack?”
    â€œHe’s stupid,” I said. “Come on, let’s go in the kitchen.”
    â€œWait, I don’t hear anything now,” Joan said.
    We both stopped breathing.
    â€œIt was nothing,” Joan whispered after a moment. “A raccoon, nothing.”
    We started toward the kitchen, when suddenly the dog resumed his maniacal barking. The front door remained closed, but a cold gust of air burst from it. The dog door! Whatever it was had just pushed open the flap of the dog door.
    â€œStop!” Joan cried. “Stop, or my dog will attack!”
    We heard the thwap of the dog door and then a thud as somebody tumbled onto the floor. Joan wrenched her arm from my grip. Then she stood, legs planted square like a navy SEAL, turned her face to the side and, yelling, “CLOSE YOUR EYES, LOTTIE!” sent a long jet stream of hornet spray in the general direction of the intruder.
    After a brief silence came the scream.
    â€œI’ve called the police!” Joan said. “Get out! Get out!” And she sprayed again, this time holding the nozzle down until she heard the words “MOM! MOMMY.”
    It was Sally. It was my sister, Sally.
    There followed then a minor hysteria. I switched on the hall light and we saw Sally kneeling, with both hands over her face. She was coughing and crying. “WHY? Why?” she cried. “Why the fuck did you do this to me, Joan?”
    â€œOh, honey, oh my God, sweetie, I thought you were a killer. I thought you were breaking in.”
    â€œI can’t breathe. I can’t breathe!” Sally was rolling around on the floor now. She wore a black skirt and a white blouse—she must have come straight from a concert—and she was tugging the blouse from where it was tucked into the waistband of her skirt. She rubbed frantically at her eyes with the hem of her blouse.
    â€œOh God, oh, sweetie, I’m so sorry. I’m calling the ambulance,” said Joan.
    â€œNO!” Sally appeared to be hyperventilating. She was panting. “I