North American Lake Monsters by Nathan Ballingrud

the way down, leaving a bloody postage stamp on the white paint. Manger pieces toppled over the side and bounced off him.
    Someone behind him shrieked. Voices rose in a chorus, but it was all just background noise. Jeremy leaned over and hit him again and again, until several hands grabbed him from behind and heaved him backward, momentarily lifting him off his feet. He was grappled by a cluster of men, his arms twisted behind him and immobilized. The whole mass of them lurched about like some demented monster, as Jeremy tried to break free.
    The room had gone quiet. “Silver Bells” went on for another few seconds until someone rushed to the stereo and switched it off. All he could hear was his own heavy breathing.
    He resumed a measure of control over himself, though his blood still galloped through his head and his muscles still jerked with energy. “Okay,” he said. “Okay.”
    He found himself at the center of the crowd, most of them standing well back and staring agape. Someone was crouched beside Tim, who was sitting on the hearth, his face pale; his hands cupped beneath his bloody mouth. One eye was already swelling shut.
    Tara stood to one side, her face red with anger, or humiliation, or both. She marched forward and grabbed him forcibly by the bicep, and yanked him behind her. The men holding him let him go.
    “Should we call the police?” someone said.
    “Oh fuck you! ” Tara shouted.
    She propelled him through the front door and out into the cold air. She did not release him until they arrived at the truck. The night arced over them both, and the world was bespangled with Christmas-colored constellations. Tara sagged against the truck’s door, hiding her face against the window. He stood silently, trying to grasp for some feeling here, for some appropriate mode of behavior. Now that the adrenaline was fading, it was starting to dawn on him how bad this was.
    Tara stood up straight and said, without looking at him, “I have to go back inside for a minute. Wait here.”
    “Do you want me to go with you?”
    “Just wait here.”
    He did. She went up to the front door and rang the bell, and after a moment she was let inside. He stood there and let the cold work its way through his body, banking the last warm embers of the alcohol. After a while he got behind the wheel of the truck and waited. Soon, the front door opened again, and she came out. She walked briskly to the truck, her breath trailing behind her, and opened his door. “Move over,” she said. “I’m driving.”
    He didn’t protest. Moments later she started the engine and pulled onto the road. She drive them slowly out of the neighborhood, until the last big house receded into the darkness behind them, like a glittering piece of jewelry dropped into the ocean. She steered them onto the highway, and they eased onto the long stretch home.
    “He’s not going to call the police,” she said at last. “Small miracle.”
    He nodded. “I thought you wanted me to confront him,” he said, and regretted it immediately.
    She didn’t respond. He stole a glance at her: her face was unreadable. She drew in a deep breath. “Did you tell Mrs. Winn that we’re Jewish?”
    “. . . yeah.”
    “Why? Why would you do that?”
    He just shook his head and stared out the window. Lights streaked by, far away.
    Tara sobbed once, both hands still clutching the steering wheel. Her face was twisted in misery. “You have to get a hold of yourself,” she said. “I don’t know what’s happening to you. I don’t know what to do.”
    He leaned his head back and closed his eyes. He felt his guts turn to stone. He knew he had to say something, he had to try to explain himself here, or someday she would leave. Maybe someday soon. But the fear was too tight; it wouldn’t let him speak. It would barely let him breathe.

    When they get home Jeremy cannot bear the strained silence. After an hour of it he escapes in the truck, making a trip to the attic before he