“He was your husband, girl,” Jones said.

“Sometimes.”

Mrs. Jones had begun to shriek and run about the house like a chicken being pursued by a fox. She came to one wall, hit it with her palms, turned, ran to the other side, repeated the process.

“I didn’t want to kill him and I didn’t mean to. But I thought he might kill me.”

“My own daughter-in-law. What have we done to you?”

“It’s what your son done to me,” Sunset said. But thought: I still remember your hand patting my bottom more than once when no one was looking.

“He was the constable,” Jones said.

“Ain’t no more,” Sunset said. “Ain’t nothing no more.”

Jones pulled up a chair and sat down. It was as if a great sack filled with potatoes had been tossed onto the chair. He seemed to droop over the sides and shift all over.

Mrs. Jones had finally collapsed to the floor and was pulling her hair. “Pete. Pete. Pete,” she said, as if he might answer. “Goddamn you, Sunset,” Jones said. “A man’s got urges.”

“Where’s Karen?” Sunset asked.

Mrs. Jones wailed and Mr. Jones sat in his chair. Neither responded. Sunset got up, put on her shoe, sat back down.

After a while, Mr. Jones said, “You know for sure he’s dead?”

“He’s dead, all right.”

“Might still be alive.”

“Not unless he’s been resurrected.”

Mrs. Jones let out another screech. This one shook the glass in the windows. She had begun to roll around on the floor.

“Where is he?” Mr. Jones asked.

“At what’s left of our house with his pants down and his ass in the air.”