And in that moment, he realized what the sounds they had been making in their private speech had been: They had been a reenactment, a grunting, squeaking playback of the day, the fateful day, the day he’d taken his knife and done his mischief with it.
He reached for the phone cable and plugged it back into the wall, but it was as though his hand were moving of its own accord, because his attention was focused elsewhere, on the three of them arrayed in a triangle, as they had been on the hillside, as they had been when they had chanted at him when the knife grip was sure in the palm of his hands.
The ritual—that’s what it was, it was a ritual—the ritual had the feel of something worn smooth with countless repetitions. He found himself rigid with shock, offended to his bones. This was what they did now, in the cave, with Davey sitting atop their mother, black and shriveled, this was how they behaved, running through this reenactment of his great shame, of the day Danny died?
No wonder Darrel had terrorized them out of their home. They were beyond odd and eccentric, they were—unfit. Unfit for polite company. For human society.
The phone in his hand rang. It was the woman.
“You know, I’m thinking that maybe I should come back in with a tape measure and measure up the sofa before I commit to it. It’s a lot of money, and to be honest, I just don’t know if I have room—”
“What if I measure it for you? I could measure it for you and call you back with the numbers.” The three brothers stared at him with identical glassy, alien stares.
“That’s okay. I can come in,” and he knew that she meant, I won’t ever come in again.
“What if I bring it by anyway? I could bring it by tomorrow night and you could see it and make up your mind. No obligation.”
“That’s very kind of you, but I’m afraid that I’ll be out tomorrow evening—”