Children of the Earth Read Online Free Page A

ran out of things to say and Janie could escort her downstairs to the door, the naked worklights strung through the hallways yellowing their skin as they said goodbye.
    “So you’ll really come to church on Sunday?” Hilary asked for what seemed like the millionth time, clasping one of Janie’s cold hands in both of her warm ones.
    “Yeah.” Janie nodded thickly, knowing it was a lie. But if a promise would get Hilary off her back, then she was more than glad to make it. The vodka had worked, finally, and the world was sleepy and slippery around her, a snowglobe filled with static. “I’ll see you there.”
    “Great. I can’t wait!” Hilary kissed her cheek, and then she was gone, and Janie was blessedly alone again, her footsteps ghostly echoes in the huge, silent halls. She trudged upstairs, swaying, a little off-balance thanks to the booze, and tipped another shot into her mouth as she turned on the TV. A little girl’s face filled the screen, lips pink, eyes rimmed in fake lashes. One of those child beauty-pageant shows. Perfect. Janie loved those.
    Bella leapt onto her lap and snuggled into her, the dog’s cuddles one of the few honest pleasures still left in her life. Janie felt her head tip sideways and her mouth fall open, the booze and couch and the dog’s tiny patch of warmth pulling her eyelids shut into a heavy, troubled sleep.
    • • •
    An arrhythmic thumping jerked her awake. She didn’t know how long she’d been asleep, only that it was dark outside and her head was pounding, her mouth dry and scratchy from her lips all the way down to the sour slosh of old vodka in her stomach.
    The thumps grew louder, suddenly familiar. It was Doug, stumbling down the hall. So it was late, then. He always came home late, and often drunk—not that she had any right to judge. She held her breath, wondering if it would be one of those nights he wanted something from her or if he’d just pass by, heading to the large, lonely bed in the master bedroom they supposedly shared.
    Things had been different with Doug since that night, the night of Jeremiah’s funeral, when he left her sobbing in the dust by the bonfire. He’d apologized, of course: Doug was good at apologizing. He’d gotten down on his knees and said he was out of his mind with grief, so broken up about their baby that he didn’t know what he was doing. And she’d forgiven him, because she didn’t know how else to respond and because she loved him and wanted things to go back to the way they were.
    Not that they had. Now they were ghosts orbiting each other in the giant house, Doug finding as many excuses to leave as Janie did to stay. She didn’t know where he went. All she knew was that he came home drunk, sometimes wanting her body and other times wanting nothing more than bed.
    The footsteps stopped, and he appeared in the doorless doorway, weaving slightly on oversized feet, his big head blocking out the work lights from the hall. Disgust and desire welled up in her, battling for control as he lumbered toward her and lowered himself to the couch with a heavy grunt. Even as the whiskey on his breath repulsed her, she found herself arching out of the sleeping bag to meet his groping hand.
    He didn’t say a word as he unbuckled his belt and grasped her hand roughly, guiding her to him. She didn’t either, although her breath quickened and she felt herself lean toward him, anxious for even the quickest, sloppiest kiss, the most fleeting connection to what their life and their love had once been.
    Her cell phone jangled on the coffee table, startling them both. It was late, she knew—too late for anyone to call.
    “Mom?” Her voice was rusty with disuse. “What’s up?”
    She listened, her eyes widening, before hanging up and slipping the phone into her pocket.
    “What?” Doug fell back on the couch, staring woozily at the mournful sliver of moonlight outside the bay window as Janie chased her shadow around the room, looking for