Under the Dome

Henrietta Clavard's ass might only have been bruised instead of broken, but it still hurt like a sonofabitch—at eighty-four, she'd found, everything that went wrong with you hurt like a sonofabitch—and at first she thought it was her ass that woke her at first light on that Thursday morning. But the Tylenol she'd taken at three a.m. still seemed to be holding. Plus, she'd found her late husband's fanny-ring (John Clavard had suffered hemorrhoids), and that helped considerably. No, it was something else, and shortly after awakening, she realized what it was. The Freemans' Irish setter, Buddy, was howling. Buddy never howled. He was the most polite dog on Battle Street, a short lane just beyond Catherine Russell Drive. Also, the Freemans' generator had stopped. Henrietta thought that might have actually been what woke her up, not the dog. Certainly it had put her to sleep last night. It wasn't one of those rackety ones, blowing blue exhaust smoke into the air; the Freemans' generator gave off a low, sleek purr that was actually quite soothing. Henrietta supposed it was expensive, but the Freemans could afford it. Will owned the Toyota franchise Big Jim Rennie had once coveted, and although these were hard times for most car dealers, Will had always seemed the exception to the rule. Just last year, he and Lois had put a very nice and tasteful addition on the house.

But that howling.The dog sounded hurt. A hurt pet was the sort of thing nice people like the Freemans saw to immediately… so why weren't they?

Henrietta got out of bed (wincing a little as her butt came out of the comforting hole in the foam doughnut) and went to the window. She could see the Freemans'split-level perfectly well, although the light was gray and listless instead of sharp and clear, as it usually was on mornings in late October. From the window she could hear Buddy even better, but she couldn't see anyone moving around over there. The house was entirely dark, not so much as a Coleman lantern glowing in a single window. She would have thought they'd gone somewhere, but both cars were parked in the driveway. And where was there to go, anyway?

Buddy continued to howl.

Henrietta got on her housecoat and slippers and went outside. As she was standing on the sidewalk, a car pulled up. It was Douglas Twitchell, no doubt on his way to the hospital. He looked puffy-eyed and was clutching a takeout cup of coffee with the Sweetbriar Rose logo on the side as he got out of his car.

'You all right, Mrs Clavard?'

'Yes, but something's wrong at the Freemans'. Hear that?'

'Yeah.'

'Then so must they. Their cars are there, so why don't they stop it?'

'I'll take a look.'Twitch took a sip of his coffee, then set it down on the hood of his car. 'You stay here.'

'Nonsense,' said Henrietta Clavard.

They walked down twenty yards or so of sidewalk, then up the Freemans' driveway. The dog howled and howled. The sound of it made Henrietta's skin cold in spite of the morning's limp warmth.

'The air's very bad,' she said. 'It smells like Rumford used to when I was just married and all the paper mills were still running. This can't be good for people.'

Twitch grunted and rang the Freemans' bell. When that brought no response, he first knocked on the door and then hammered.

'See if it's unlocked,' Henrietta said.

'I don't know if I should, Mrs—'

'Oh, bosh.' She pushed past him and tried the knob. It turned. She opened the door. The house beyond it was silent and full of deep early morning shadows. 'Will?' she called. 'Lois? Are you here?'

No one answered but more howls.

'The dog's out back,' Twitch said.

It would have been quicker to cut straight through, but neither of them liked to do that, so they walked up the driveway and along the breezeway between the house and the garage where Will stored not his cars but his toys: two snowmobiles, an ATV, a Yamaha dirt-bike and a bloated Honda Gold Wing.

There was a high privacy fence around the Freeman backyard. The gate was beyond the breezeway. Twitch pulled the gate open, and was immediately hit by seventy pounds of frantic Irish setter. He shouted in surprise and raised his hands, but the dog didn't want to bite him; Buddy was in full please-rescue-me mode. He put his paws on the front of Twitch's last clean tunic, smearing it with dirt, and began to slobber all over his face.

'Stop it!'Twitch shouted. He pushed Buddy, who went down but popped right back up, laying fresh tracks on Twitch's tunic and swabbing his cheeks with a long pink tongue.

'Buddy, down!' Henrietta commanded, and Buddy shrank onto his haunches at once, whining and rolling his eyes between them. A puddle of urine began to spread out beneath him.

'Mrs Clavard, this is not good.'

'No,' Henrietta agreed.

'Maybe you better stay with the d—'

Henrietta once more said bosh and marched into the Freemans' backyard, leaving Twitch to catch up with her. Buddy slunk along behind them, head down and tail tucked, whining disconsolately.