The War of the Roses

32

Ann heard the crashing sound just as the cab had pulled away from the curb. She stood rooted to the sidewalk, watching a cloud of dust float out from the open entrance door. Her legs would not propel her forward.

She saw the children standing in the dust cloud, looking at the house. Dust had begun to settle on their faces and their hair. They looked like apparitions. She called their names. They turned toward her, their eyes glazed with terror. Tears were running in rivulets down their dusty cheeks. Then they turned away and suddenly started to move toward the open door.

‘Don’t,’ Ann shouted, finding strength. She ran toward them.

‘They’re in there,’ Josh shouted, moving forward with Eve. She reached them quickly and, flinging herself in their path, held them firmly. From inside the house emanated the continuing clatter of falling objects.

She held the children in a great embrace, hearing their sobs of hysteria. Finally the sounds from the house abated. Turning, Ann looked through the doorway. It was cluttered with debris.

‘Let me,’ she said gently, moving forward. But the children followed and she hadn’t the will to stop them. Standing in the doorway, she observed the destruction. It was ghastly. The roof had collapsed and the interior walls had buckled. Near the door, the long clock lay on its side, its face of Roman time smashed. Shards of crystal from the chandelier covered every surface. More clouds of dust had risen.

She moved into the interior, her eyes smarting as she searched in the debris. Behind her, she could hear the hesitant footsteps of the children and their sobs.

‘Mommy, Daddy,’ Eve cried. ‘Why did they do this?’

Ann shook her head. Then, suddenly, she saw them. Oliver and Barbara, encased in a shroud of white dust, their faces paralyzed in a mask of death. Under the rubble, they appeared to be embracing, their lifeless eyes locked together in an eternal stare. She gasped and turned away. It was a long moment before she became conscious again of the children moving behind her.

They were poking around in the rubble, Josh on his knees, Eve moving the debris with the toe of her shoe. Clutched in her left hand was an object, a familiar statue, its black head remarkably shiny and clean. The buffed figure of Molineaux was, miraculously, intact, poised as always in its eternal pugilistic pose.

Josh stood up, looking oddly victorious. He rubbed the companion figure against his shirt and blew the dust away. Ann’s eyes focused on the perfectly intact figure. She saw Eve’s hand reach out, her fingers wrapping themselves around Cribb’s torso.

For a frozen moment the children held the figure with equal strength, then Josh grasped the Molineaux at its base.

‘It’s mine,’ Josh cried. ‘Mine,’ Eve screamed.

With a snapping sound, like the crack of a pistol shot the two figures seemed to explode. Ann watched as the children, with a glazed, stunned look, studied the shattered bits of plaster in their palms.

Ann turned away, heading toward the entrance. The speed of her steps agitated the dust around her ankles.