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Just ahead, to the left of the front steps, she saw the faint shapes of rocks along the border of a garden. She hurried over and tugged one loose from the soil. She felt so good, squatting in her soaked clothes, that she was reluctant to stand up again. |
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But she pictured herself swinging the rock, smashing a face to bloody pulp. The image of that stirred Maureen to action. |
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She carried the rock back to the walkway, set it on the sodden black cardboard of the top box, and lifted all three pizzas. |
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Grinning, she climbed the steps. At the door, she shifted the load, bracing it up with her left hand, the edges of the boxes against her chest to keep them steady. Her right hand removed the rock and used a corner of it to ring the bell. 'Pizza!' she called. |
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She lowered the rock. She pressed it against her right buttock, out of sight. In her eagerness, she bobbed up and down on the balls of her feet. |
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'Pizza!' she shouted into the face of the teenager. The kid, a big muscular guy with brushed up hair and a garden of raw pimples on his chin, looked glad to see her. For half a second. |
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She swung the rock, aiming for his chin. |
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His arm shot up. Maureen's wrist struck it. Pain flashed up her arm. The rock flew from her numb fingers, missing him and clumping the door frame and bouncing off as the boxes of pizza hit the stoop. |
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She tried to duck, hoping to retrieve the rock, but |
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