DOMINION by Bentley Little (interesting books to read .TXT) 📗

“But it’s a Friday,” Penelope said. “It’s not a school night.”

“You still have a lot of chores to do tomorrow. Besides, your other mothers will be wondering where we snuck off to.”

“Let them wonder, then.”

Her mother laughed. “You want me to tell that to Mother Margeaux?”

“No,” Penelope admitted.

“Come on, then.”

Reluctantly, Penelope stood. She followed her mother into the house.

10

He dreamed of high hills, white outcroppings of rock punctuating the dull green of late summer meadow grass. There were no houses or buildings in sight, no roads, only a thin, slightly worn dirt path which looked as though it had been formed by the continued passage of animal hooves. To the right, the path wound up the nearest hill toward the summit. To the left, it meandered toward a stand of trees in the flat bottom of a gently sloping valley.

He walked barefoot across the ground toward the path, rocky gravel beneath the grass digging deep into his heel and sole but not hurting.

The air was hot but not humid, dry and desertlike, the sky above a light pastel, bleached by the sun.

He felt good. His senses were heightened; he could see clearly for miles, he could hear the rickety click of insects moving in the grass, he could smell the heavy, warm, comforting odor of dirt and on top of that the lighter scent of growing weeds and grasses.

He realized that he was very tall.

He reached the path and turned toward the valley and the trees. The warm dirt felt smooth on his feet, and he began to walk faster, suddenly anxious to arrive at his destination. On his tongue he tasted the faint remembrance of grape, and for some reason that spurred his interest in hurrying.

Ahead he saw movement on the path, smelled the fetid odor of an unwashed animal. He reached the spot and stopped. On the path before him was a goat, a she-goat, breasts heavy with milk. He found that he was thirsty, and he lifted the animal until its multiple teats were above his face.

He took three in his mouth and began suckling. The warm, sweet milk slid smoothly down his thirsty throat.

When he was finished, he put the goat down, and he noticed for the first time that next to it, just off the edge of the path, was the body of its kid. Or what remained of its kid. The small goat had been killed, gutted, mutilated, and sharp wooden sticks protruded from the bloody wreckage of its torso. Its legs and head had been ripped off and tossed aside. Small segments of skin, tufts of bloody hair, hung from the low, sturdy stalks of grass.

He knew that this meant he was getting close to home, and it made him feel good.

He heard screams from the trees, screams of joy and pain, and, smiling, he began to run toward them.

Dion spent Saturday with his mom, the two of them unpacking the last of their belongings, making adjustments to what was supposed to have been the final rearrangement of the living room. The work was monotonous, but Dion enjoyed doing it. Particularly since his mom seemed to be having a good time. Instead of moaning and complaining, making a big show of how much she hated doing domestic labor the way she usually did, she put on some records—Beatles and Beach Boys, music they could both agree on—and sang along as she dusted and cleaned the items she unpacked. She had been home from work on time both Thursday and Friday, acting like Holly Housewife, cooking dinner, cleaning dishes, watching television, making a visible effort to gain his trust, and she was low-key and conscientious in both her work and her conversation today, clearly trying to show him that things really had changed. He was willing to give her the benefit of the doubt. It was obvious from the effort she was making that she’d meant what she’d said, that she really did want things to be different.

Everything was going to be okay.

On Sunday, the two of them spent the day exploring the Napa Valley. Life had been moving forward at such a hectic pace since they’d arrived, with school and work and unpacking, that they hadn’t really had much of a chance to see the area beyond their own small section of the city. Both of them figured it was about time they got to know their new home.

They hit all the tourist spots, following a map of the valley given to his mom by the Auto Club. They drove past Lake Berryessa and Mount St. Helena, went to the Bale Grist Mill, and paid to see Old Faithful and the Petrified Forest, lesser publicized cousins of the identically named natural wonders. The land was not spectacular, but it was beautiful in a quiet, subtle sort of way, the country roads winding between cultivated vineyards, skirting rolling hills and low, wooded mountains.

Although they drove as far as Sonoma to see Jack London’s house, they did not stop at any of the wineries. It would have been too awkward right now, too tense. Nothing would have or could have happened, but the mere fact that they were at a winery would have served as a reminder of things past, would have dredged up recent memories neither of them wanted to face. The subject of visiting a winery did not even come up between them.

While his mom drove, however, Dion looked on the map for Daneam Vineyards, hoping to see where Penelope’s family business was located.

Unfortunately, the winery was not listed. They passed several unnamed vineyards with both large and small complexes attached, any of which could have been the one owned by Penelope’s family, but though he carefully scrutinized each gate and signpost, Dion did not see Penelope’s last name written anywhere.

They returned home around five, travel-tired and sightseeing-worn, and while his mom took a hot bath, Dion drove to Taco Bell and bought a junk food feast