She finally stopped yanking on his arm when they stood at the corner of the back yard, behind the garage and right below the eight-foot slump-stone fence that separated their yard from their neighbor’s.
“I can’t believe that. I don’t believe that. You just accused your own children of killing their pet!”
“Let go of my arm.” Every word slow, carefully enunciated. “Now.”
“I don’t know what you’re thinking, but let me tell you…”
Craaack!
With his free hand Willard swung furiously and struck Catherine sharply, viciously across the face. For a moment she froze, not even breathing, uncomprehending, unbelieving.
“Let…go…of…my…arm.” Not a syllable had changed tone or pitch.
She dropped her hand. Without a word, she spun on her heels and strode into the house, slamming the door behind her. Willard heard the lock click.
Stunned, he crumpled against the garage wall.
What had he done?
He had never struck Catherine, never struck any of the children. Certainly not in anger.
Certainly not in the rage of fury that had overwhelmed him while talking with the children.
His head throbbed.
And his hand hurt, stung, burned like he had thrust it into an open flame.
He slumped to the ground.
What was happening to him? To them?
The house.
Everything had begun to go to hell when they bought this damned house, with its shattered foundation and its disintegrating slab and its web-work of cracks crisscrossing every damned wall in the place.
And now it was shattering him.
Him and his marriage.
Catherine would never talk to him again. Would never love him again.