for me anyway.

my house on buttermilk lane looks especially terrific tonight, solid and dependable. security lights come on when we are sixty feet from the front door, as though extending an arm of support, ushering the adventurers home.

"whew!" i say as we get out of the car.

"and i agree." harriet says. she is shaking, and her face is pale. rain continues to bombard us, soaking our clothing again in the quick dash from the car to the house. we race indoors, and whether i am more relieved to be out of the rain, or to be away from weaver morgan's house, i can't say.

"harriet, what was that looking at us in weaver's house?"

"i honestly don't know, love, maybe it was just the excitement of the night, perhaps it was nothing at all." she pauses. "i hope it was nothing." neither of us really want to think about it. in our hearts, we know what we saw, and know it was real. we sit in a loveseat in the den, a moment of intimate calm after the chaos of the evening. harriet starts to look at the old picture, and i head for the kitchen to get our glasses and the wine.

"strawberry hill for the a-team." i smile as i pour.

"thanks, love," she says, picking up her glass. "lovely crystal." her fingernail pings the glass. "and not bad wine, for a bone cleaner." she smiles as she takes her first sip.

"it unclogs my plumbing as well." we laugh.

"carlee, do you know much about this weaver morgan?"

"quite a bit, i read a lot about him when i worked for the library, and i wrote a little about him for 'southern living'. it was a very strange story."

"i can believe it. these people are strange looking, interesting but strange."

"when weaver morgan was finally tried, he claimed that he had lost his power of speech and wouldn't speak a word. he couldn't write, and the jury was so prejudiced that the trial only lasted one day. he was hung at maceo in 1934, second day of may."

"was it a public hanging?"

"yes, they all were back then." i answer.

"weird." she says.

"gosh harriet, maybe we should have followed jim bob and josie to the cat fish hole instead of going to morgan's. i'm sorry i got you into this. it isn't nice."

"nonsense girl, what would i tell my friends back home when they ask me how halloween is in the u.s?: that my friend and i spent it like charlie brown, waiting for the great catfish?" we chuckle and reminisce about charlie brown for a minute. harriet tells me she is a big fan of lucy, which somehow doesn't surprise me. the phone rings.

"would you get that harriet, i have to pee."

"hello?" i hear her say into the mouthpiece as i rush to the bathroom. "oh, hello, general mccord, it's me, harriet."

harriet proceeds to get an ear bashing from the general. later, she tries to mimic him, and it is really cute to hear her trying to speak like a gruff american with her little english accent. 'where in the world have you girls been, it's after one am.?' she drawls, sounding more like the duchess of york than the general. he tells her that he's been working at the department of justice, looking at anthrax slides to see if they are mutated, or just plain old anthrax bacilli.

as i return from the bathroom, she hands the phone over. "your dad." she says, smiling at me. then it is my turn for the general's wrath, as he castigates me for being out until one in the morning. i make my apologies, and he calms down. the reason for his call is to remind us of our lunch date the next day with him and mikey. as if i would forget: sheep meat heaven at the glorious moonlite.

we say goodnight and i hang up. "fathers," i say, rolling my eyes, and we smile knowingly.

"oops, last of the wine." harriet says.

"i have another, better vintage i think."

"last month?"

"not that old." i smile. "if i knew what sloes were harriet, i'd look for them and make us some gin."

"what if i send you some love, already made?"

"sounds great." i jump up and reach for the car keys. "but better get back to business, i guess." harriet and i head back outside to the car. it has stopped raining, at least, but an eery gloom still sits over the yard. when i open the trunk, the smell almost knocks us down.

"god, we'll have to clean it up." i say, and harriet, holding her nose, agrees. grabbing an end each, we drag the awful thing into the house, staggering and panting with the strain.

"quick, to the bathroom." i say. we put the thing, maggots and all, in the tub and i turn on the hot water.

"don't ever send me any bathtub gin, carlee."

"don't worry harriet." i run to the kitchen and grab a bottle of dish washing detergent. i squirt half a bottle on the bone, the viscous green liquid sitting uneasily on the off-white, rotting flesh, as though it has just oozed out of it.

"yeuch, it gives me the creeps. do you think it will clean up, carlee?"

"i'm just wondering if we can ever get the smell out of here," i answer. "and the maggots." i fetch a pair of latex gloves, the sort surgeons use, and try the best i can to clean up the hideous lump of meat. i try to rub it clean, but it begins to disintegrate and strands of flesh start to come away in my grip, shredding like lightly fried chicken. i try again, more gently, stroking it like i would a cat, and gradually begin to clear away the muck and grime and maggots, watching them float and spiral down the bathtub, into the sewers where they belong. it still looks horrific, but at least now it's clean horrific, i tell harriet, smiling. harriet has been standing back while i do all this, holding her nose and giving me vocal, if distinctly nasal encouragement. i wipe myself clean and scrub my hands furiously.

half an hour later, the two of us sit on the love seat in our night clothes, our feet upon the coffee table, the bone between us.

"well, now that it's scrubbed up i, for one, like it." harriet says, smiling. "it is pretty neat, what, 16 inches or more?"

"more like 20." she says. i refill our glasses. "will we win a prize for our bone, carlee?"

"we damn well should, after what we went through to get it."

"i'll drink to that." she says.