PROLOGUE
IN THE darkness of the hot summer night, Dawn lay curled like a baby in its motherâs womb as she listened to the frantic slap, slap, slap of the silk mothâs wings against the screen.
She couldnât see the moth, not from here in the back bedroom, but she knew it was outside the kitchen window, shredding its beautiful wings in a useless attempt to reach the light.
The silk moth had turned up at dusk, right after sheâd fed Tommy and put him to bed for the night.
âSleep tight, sweetheart,â sheâd whispered, and heâd given her his biggest, brightest three-year-old smile.
âAnâ donât let the bed bugs bite,â her son had replied, as he always did.
Dawn had kissed him, loving his sweet, baby scent. Tommy had rolled onto his belly and sheâd drawn a light blanket over his upraised rump. Her smile had faded as sheâd shut the door to his room and looked around the cabin, trying to see it through Harmanâs eyes. Did she miss anything when she dusted earlier? Had she put all Tommyâs toys away?
Sheâd paused beside the sofa, smoothed down the flowered chenille throw that covered the seat cushion where the spring had popped. Everything looked fine but what looked fine to her didnât necessarily look that way to her husband, especially on Friday nights when he cashed his paycheck at the Foodco and then stopped for drinks on the way home.
It didnât always happen that way. Once in a while, Harman just came straight home. Those times werenât perfect. He still liked things exactly as he liked them. âEverything in order,â he called it, âthe way a manâs entitled, in his own home.â But it was easier on nights when he didnât stop at the bar. Without liquor in him, he was still surly and heâd talk mean, too, but he wouldnâtâhe wouldnâtâ
Dawn blanked her mind to the rest.
The thing to do was keep busy, not notice that if Harman were heading directly for the cabin, heâd have been here an hour ago. She took a breath, glanced in the spotted oval mirror that hung over the table near the door. Did she look okay? Not too tired? Harman didnât like her to look tired. It was the babyâs fault, heâd say, when she yawned too much or her eyes didnât sparkle the way he liked. The baby was sapping her energy. Once sheâd made the mistake of saying no, no, it wasnât like that. The baby was the joy of her life.
âI am the joy of your life,â Harman had said coldly. âYou remember that, girl.â
She would. Yes, she would. Because it wasnât how heâd looked at her that had scared her, or how heâd sounded. It was the way heâd looked at Tommy afterward, as if their son was a trespasser in a world that had been perfect until heâd been born. It had never been perfect, not ever, not from the day after the wedding when sheâd thoughtlessly left her lipstick and comb on the bathroom sinkâ¦
Dawn spun away from the mirror, went into the kitchen, took a broom from the closet and stepped out onto the sagging porch. It would need sweeping. The tall oaks that surrounded the cabin were what made the mountain so handsome, but Harman didnât much care for seeing leaves and acorns on the porch.
âGot to be swept twice a day,â he said.
So Dawn swept it, twice a day. Sometimes more than that, just to be sure. And that night, as sheâd swept, sheâd seen the silk moth.
It wasnât the first one sheâd ever seen. Years ago, when she was a little girl, a moth just like it had come swooping in through the open trailer door. Her mother had screamed as if it was a creature straight out of hell, grabbed a rolled-up magazine and gone after it.
âKill it,â sheâd yelled, âkill it!â
Instead Dawn caught the moth and took it outside, feeling the delicate pink wings trembling with terror in her cupped hands. Sheâd set it free in the stand of scraggly trees between the trailer park and the highway.
âGo on,â sheâd whispered, âspread your pretty wings and fly far, far away.â
Her mother slapped her when she went back into the trailer, not very hard because she was already high on what she called her pain pills, but just enough to remind her that sheâd been disobedient.