Behind the Bonehouse by Sally Wright Page B

up! You don’t know what I’ve had to put up with, with Alan Munro, and the—”
    â€œOh, I knew there’d be an excuse!”
    â€œEasy for you!
Your
father didn’t—”
    â€œWalk out. And my mother didn’t clean houses like yours, or die when I was sixteen.
None
of that justifies what it is you’ve done!” Jane stalked out through the archway into the front hall, then turned left past the stairs and rushed on into the kitchen.
    Carl heard the back door slam and gardening tools getting thrown in the wheelbarrow she’d left by the back door. He heard it thumping across the flagstones toward the garage—just as Cassandra sprinted into the living room from the front hall.
    She rubbed against Carl’s ankles, till he picked her up and stroked her throat as he stared across the street at Elinor Nevilleson, pretending to dead-head a rose bush while she watched Harrison’s car turn toward the light at Main Street.
    Carl said, “Bitch!” before he kissed Cassandra’s forehead and carried her across the hall to the study.
    He still held her while he dialed the phone and waited. “Terry, it’s Carl. … Oh, not bad. Though I’m actually calling on a matter of conscience. … No, you heard me. I’ve decided to leave Equine Pharmaceuticals. I can’t go into it in any detail, but there’re practices being condoned there that I can’t stomach. … I’ve also decided that it’s my duty to tell you that you ought to investigate Equine’s taxes. Bob Harrison’s not doing business on the up-and-up. … I assume IRS auditors still get to keep a percentage of the unpaid taxes you uncover? … Good. So how soon can you start? … Well, even if you can’t for a couple of months, it’ll be worth your while when you do. … Okay. Sure. You wantta tee off at eight? … Good. Believe me, you won’t regret looking at Harrison’s books.”
    Carl smiled when he put down the receiver, as Cassandra jumped to the floor.
    Butch Morgan was leaning back in a worn green velvet chair, his feet on the matching footstool, the sound off on the baseball game on the TV across the room, a beer cupped in his left hand, his wife on the phone in his right.
    â€œCome on, Frannie. You know you don’t want a divorce. You know you don’t. You know how good we can be. ’Member before the babies were born when we’d go out to the river and take a … Okay, so you’ve filed, but you can stop it if you want. I can make you happy, honey, you know I can. … Yeah, I’m drinkin’ a beer. One, that’s all. I can quit whenever I want. … No! Why would I want to talk about Korea with some stooge in a white coat who’s never fired a shot? I wantta forget Korea, okay? And bring you and the girls back home. …
    â€œAnyway, I’m fixin’ to pick ’em up tomorrow mornin’ about nine. I thought we could go see the Clark Museum there in Louavull, and take a picnic lunch. ’Course, one day I’d like to take ’em to see Harrodsburg and show ’em where I grew up, but there won’t be time tomorrow if we …
    â€œWhat d’ya mean? Why don’t they want me to pick ’em up? … I don’t. Not every time. … Well, are you helpin’ ’em to want to, or are you criticizing me behind my back, so that … Then I’ll just come up there tomorrow mornin’, and we can all spend the day and go out to supper. … I finished fixing up the kitchen. Tiling the floor, that’s done, and I … I gotta go, Frannie. Somebody’s at the door.”
    Garner Honeycutt and Bob Harrison had told Butch everything they’d told Carl, and he’d listened to them and the tape, sitting in the big green chair in the family room he’d added on at the back with a slider out to a side porch. He was holding a cup of