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shared. I could see the tears gushing down his waxy-pale face.
    Put it on the dresser.
    He set the lamp down by the book I had been reading: Sinclair Lewiss Main Street. I never finished it; I could never bear to finish it. By the light of the lamp, I pointed out the splashes of blood on the floor, and the pool of it right beside the bed.
    More is running out of the quilt, he said. If Id known how much blood she had in her
    I shook the case free of my pillow and snugged it over the end of the quilt like a sock over a bleeding shin. Take her feet, I said. We need to do this part right now. And dont faint again, Henry, because I cant do it by myself.
    I wish it was a dream, he said, but he bent and got his arms around the bottom of the quilt. Do you think it might be a dream, Poppa?
    Well think it is, a year from now when its all behind us. Part of me actually believed this. Quickly, now. Before the pillow-case starts to drip. Or the rest of the quilt.
    We carried her down the hall, across the sitting room, and out through the front door like men carrying a piece of furniture wrapped in a movers rug. Once we were down the porch steps, I breathed a little easier; blood in the dooryard could easily be covered over.
    Henry was all right until we got around the corner of the cow barn and the old well came in view. It was ringed by wooden stakes so no one would by accident step on the wooden cap that covered it. Those sticks looked grim and horrible in the starlight, and at the sight of them, Henry uttered a strangled cry.
    Thats no grave for a mum muh He managed that much, and then fainted into the weedy scrub that grew behind the barn. Suddenly I was holding the dead weight of my murdered wife all by myself. I considered putting the grotesque bundle down-its wrappings now all askew and the slashed hand peeking out-long enough to revive him. I decided it would be more merciful to let him lie. I dragged her to the side of the well, put her down, and lifted up the wooden cap. As I leaned it against two of the stakes, the well exhaled into my face: a stench of stagnant water and rotting weeds. I fought with my gorge and lost. Holding onto two of the stakes to keep my balance, I bowed at the waist to vomit my supper and the little wine I had drunk. There was an echoing splash when it struck the murky water at the bottom. That splash, like thinking Ride em, Cowboy, has been within a hands reach of my memory for the last eight years. I will wake up in the middle of the night with the echo in my mind and feel the splinters of the stakes dig into my palms as I clutch them, holding on for dear life.
    I backed away from the well and tripped over the bundle that held Arlette. I fell down. The slashed hand was inches from my eyes. I tucked it back into the quilt and then patted it, as if comforting her. Henry was still lying in the weeds with his head pillowed on one arm. He looked like a child sleeping after a strenuous day during harvest-time. Overhead, the stars shone down in their thousands and tens of thousands. I could see the constellations-Orion, Cassiopeia, the Dippers-that my father had taught me. In the distance, the Cotteries dog Rex barked once and then was still. I remember thinking, This night will never end. And that was right. In all the important ways, it never has.
    I picked the bundle up in my arms, and it twitched.
    I froze, my breath held in spite of my thundering heart. Surely I didnt feel that, I thought. I waited for it to come again. Or perhaps for her hand to creep out of the quilt and try to grip my wrist with the slashed fingers.
    There was nothing. I had imagined it. Surely I had. And so I tupped her down the well. I saw the quilt unravel from the end not held by the pillow-case, and then came the splash. A much bigger one than my vomit had made, but there was also a squelchy thud. Id known the water down there wasnt deep, but had hoped it would be deep enough to cover her. That thud told me it wasnt.
    A high siren