“He’s sick because of your ugly face,” Ned said.
“That’s why people didn’t vote for him too,” Victoria said.
“Get out,” Francis said. When he turned to open the door, Ned kicked him in the back. Francis tried to reach his kidney with both hands, which saved his fingers as Ned kicked him in the stomach.
“Oh, Ned,” Victoria said. “Oh, Ned.”
Ned grabbed Francis by the ears and held him close to the mirror over the dressing table.
“That’s why he’s sick!” Ned slammed his face into the mirror. “That’s why he’s sick!” Slam. “That’s why he’s sick!” Slam. The mirror was smeared with blood and mucus. Ned let him go and he sat on the floor. Victoria looked at him, her eyes wide, holding her lower lip between her teeth. They left him there. His face was wet with blood and spit. His eyes watered from the pain, but he did not cry.
28
Rain in Chicago drums through the night on the canopy over the open grave of Freddy Lounds.
Thunder jars Will Graham’s pounding head as he weaves from the table to a bed where dreams coil beneath the pillow.
The old house above St. Charles, shouldering the wind, repeats its long sigh over the hiss of rain against the windows and the bump of thunder.
The stairs are creaking in the dark. Mr. Dolarhyde is coming down them, his kimono whispering over the treads, his eyes wide with recent sleep.
His hair is wet and neatly combed. He has brushed his nails. He moves smoothly and slowly, carrying his concentration like a brimming cup.
Film beside his projector. Two subjects. Other reels are piled in the wastebasket for burning. Two left, chosen from the dozens of home movies he has copied at the plant and brought home to audition.
Comfortable in his reclining chair with a tray of cheese and fruit beside him, Dolarhyde settles in to watch.
The first film is a picnic from the Fourth of July weekend. A handsome family; three children, the father bull-necked, dipping into the pickle jar with his thick fingers. And the mother.
The best view of her is in the softball game with the neighbors’ children. Only about fifteen seconds of her; she takes a lead off second base, faces the pitcher and the plate, feet apart ready to dash either way, her breasts swaying beneath her pullover as she leans forward from the waist. An annoying interruption as a child swings a bat. The woman again, walking back to tag up. She puts one foot on the boat cushion they use for a base and stands hip-shot, the thigh muscle tightening in her locked leg.
Over and over Dolarhyde watches the frames of the woman. Foot on the base, pelvis tilts, thigh muscle tightens unde
r the cutoff jeans.
He freezes the last frame. The woman and her children. They are dirty and tired. They hug, and a dog wags among their legs.
A terrific crash of thunder clinks the cut crystal in Grandmother’s tall cabinet. Dolarhyde reaches for a pear.
The second film is in several segments. The title, The New House, is spelled out in pennies on a shirt cardboard above a broken piggy bank. It opens with Father pulling up the “For Sale” sign in the yard. He holds it up and faces the camera with an embarrassed grin. His pockets are turned out.
An unsteady long shot of Mother and three children on the front steps. It is a handsome house. A cut to the swimming pool. A child, sleek-headed and small, pads around to the diving board, leaving wet footprints on the tile. Heads bob in the water. A small dog paddles toward a daughter, his ears back, chin high, and the whites of his eyes showing.
Mother in the water holds to the ladder and looks up at the camera. Her curly black hair has the gloss of pelt, her bosom swelling, shining wet above her suit, her legs wavy below the surface, scissoring.
Night. A badly exposed shot across the pool to the lighted house, the lights reflected in the water.
Indoors and family fun. Boxes everywhere, and packing materials. An old trunk, not yet stored in the attic.
A small daughter is trying on Grandmother’s clothes. She has on a big garden-party hat. Father is on the sofa. He looks a little drunk. Now Father must have the camera. It is not quite level. Mother is at the mirror in the hat.
The children jostle around her, the boys laughing and plucking at the old finery. The girl watches her mother coolly, appraising herself in time to come.
A close-up. Mother turns and strikes a pose for the camera with an arch smile, her hand at the back of her neck. She is quite lovely. There is a cameo at her throat.
Dolarhyde freezes the frame. He backs up the film. Again and again she turns from the mirror and smiles.
Absently Dolarhyde picks up the film of the softball game and drops it in the wastebasket.