"You know how it is folks, the Wolfman plays the best records in the business and then he eats 'em, and I'm about to eat this one right here, Shop Around by Smokey Robinson and the Miracles on XERB 1090."

The trademark howl of Wolfman Jack buzzes through the wireless speaker like horseflies against the windowpane on a summer's day. The kitchen smells of apple pie and peach cobbler and I wrap myself up in the scent of sweet fruit and pastry as I dance about, shaking my hips in time to the beat. Flour dusts my arms right up to the elbows and my sunshine-yellow apron has streaks of powdery white down the front. I'm pretty sure it's even in my hair now, but I don't care as I bury my hands into the bowl, rubbing the flour and butter into breadcrumbs between my fingers.

I'm still dancing, still singing, still kneading the dough on the counter top, when Rheemus walks in. He stops in the doorway, staring, holding the towel in his hands that he uses to wipe off the grease and oil from the garage and I smile at him, a smile that slowly freezes into a corpse grin when I realize he's not smiling back. I can't work out whether he's ticked off about something, all I know is that he never looks at me like this. Never.

"Something wrong, darlin'?"

His eyes widen slightly, his mouth dropping open as if he doesn't quite know what to say. "What in the blue blazes are you doing, Kathleen-Anne?" he finally says.

I laugh, but it sounds forced and I'm instantly riled that he's invaded my space and darkened my mood. The spacious kitchen feels small with him in here and I don't like the way he's just gawping at me. "Well what does it look like, you great knucklehead? I'm baking."

"I can see that," he says. "Is the church having another bake-sale? I thought they had one just last month."

"What are you talking about?" I turn back to the pastry and begin to pummel it, which just riles me even more because I know I'm overworking the dough now and it's going to be ruined. "This is for us, I figured I'd make us some pie and cobbler. I know how much you love it too."

"That I do, but I don't love it this much. How the heck do ya think we're going to get through all this?"

I slam my floured fist onto the formica, sending clouds of white whirling up into the air. "Darn it, Rheemus, I was just trying..."

About fit to burst, I turn on him angrily, but when I follow his gaze, I see it.

I see just what he is gawping at so much.

The formica, the kitchen table, every available space is crammed full of so many pies and cobblers that you can barely see the worktops beneath. I didn't even realize I owned this many pie tins and cobbler pans and where I've run out, I've improvised and used whatever dish I could find. Sticky apple and peach runs down the sides in an oogie mess. Floured fingerprints pattern every surface. And I stare about, just as Rheemus is, because I don't remember making so many. I couldn't have made so many. All I remember was that I was hungry, really truly hungry and hankered bad for something sweet and so I'd started baking.

"Have you even tended to the baby today?"

Hot tears of shame sting my eyes. "Of course I've tended to the darn baby, what in the heck do you take me for?"

But all at once, I wonder if I did. I wonder if I'd forgotten all about her, just as I'd forgot about all the baking I'd done. Panic twists in my gut and my head pounds as if those horseflies have got inside my skull and are buzzing furiously behind my eyes, slamming their bulbous bodies against the sockets. Wait. No, I had fed her. I'd changed her diapers. I'd cooed over her in the bassinet. I'd sang her a lullaby. I remember doing all that because it had felt good, maybe even the first good day I'd had since she'd been born. So why the Hell can't I remember making the pies?

I rub my aching head, smearing dough on my skin, which only makes me feel more pathetic in front of Rheemus.

"I... I think I'd better go lie down for a while."

And with that, I run from the room, pushing past Rheemus who tries to grab at my hand but I snatch it out of his reach. I don't want him to touch me. I just want to be alone, but when I finally get my wish, throwing myself down onto the bed, screwing my eyes tight shut and burying my face into the pillows, my stomach twinges with pain and grumbles angrily, refusing to leave me be. All that baking, all them pies, and I'd not wanted to eat a darn thing and now I'm still so hungry.

Brenda gurgles happily in the bassinet and my eyes snap open.

***

The generous piece of cobbler sits in the dish in the front of me, steam rising steadily from the bowl and the sweet scent of stewed peaches fills my nostrils, making me feel a touch nauseous.

Rheemus has cleared the kitchen, having taken most of the dishes to neighbors' houses, offering baked gifts by way of thanking them all for the well-wishes, flowers and balloons they sent us when we brought Brenda home from the hospital. He's scrubbed the kitchen clean and washed all the pots and pans, apart from the ones scarred with stubborn boiled fruit juice which sticks to them like superglue. Instead he's filled those with hot, soapy water and has left them soaking near the basin and I can't look at them as I sit at the kitchen table, because looking at them just makes me feel stupid and confused.

"Kath?"

I poke at a piece of peach with my spoon, prodding at it like it's some dissected creature from a school laboratory experiment.

"Kathy?"

Looking up, I see that Rheemus is staring at me again, only this time his brow is furrowed and his eyes are brimming with concern. For a split second, I'm so angry, so tired of him always just looking at me, that I wonder what it would be like to rip those eyes from their sockets and squeeze them in my fists until they pop. Alarm explodes in my chest and I pull my hands into my lap, clasping them together, ashamed and disgusted that I could even dare to think such a terrible thing.

"You not going to eat that?" He jabs his spoon at my full bowl, while his is almost empty and he's on his second helping. "I thought you said you were hungry for sweet stuff?"

"I am," I say, but his eyes narrow and I correct myself instantly. "I mean, that is, I was. You know how I am, I spend all that time cooking or baking and then I barely have the stomach for it afterwards."

But I am hungry for something sweet, only it's not this I want. I don't even know what I want, but there's been an overload of saliva in my mouth all day, a yearning on my tongue that I can't explain. I feel like I should know what I'm hungry for, a nagging in my head, begging me to just remember what that might be, urging me to feed that awful, empty sensation in my gut.

A touch to my hand makes me flinch and I realize that I must have zoned out for a moment, because Rheemus is touching my hand, tenderly linking his fingers with mine and he's looking again, almost as if he's trying to get under my skin, searching for something. All at once I want to shrug him off again, push him away. The urge is so strong that I have to get a hold of myself, because this is Rheemus, my husband, and I know he means well. I know he would never hurt me.

But you could hurt him.

The thought comes at me so loud and so real, that it's like a voice whispering in my head. An actual voice that sounds like mine, but I know it isn't because I wouldn't hurt him. I could never hurt him. Beside me, in her basket, Brenda lets out a small, pitiful cry and my head jerks to look at her, because I'd almost forgot that she was even there. Frowning, I go to lean down and pick her up, but Rheemus grasps my wrist and shakes his head.

"Hey, let me deal with her. Why don't you go take a bath and have a nap? You look like you could do with a rest."

"But you tended to her earlier, you've been at work all day," I protest, but he squeezes my wrist reassuringly and shoots me a warm smile.

"And I've missed out on all the good stuff while I've been at the garage. Go on, get, will ya? Before I change my mind."

He grins and I'm overwhelmed by my love for him, which makes my previous urge to push him away seem even worse. How could I ever push this man away? I need him and something tells me that I'm going to need him now more than I ever did.

***

Brenda is crying again. But it's a distant, muffled cry, like it's coming from under water.

Still dazed from sleep, I slip out from under the bedspread and follow the sound of her cries through the darkened house. Pushing on the door of the den, I wait there for a moment, blinking at the flickering screen of the television set. Rheemus has turned the volume down low but I can still hear the shrill beep as the static fuzz fills the screen.

Rheemus himself is passed out in his armchair, head back, mouth open, snoring foghorn-loud and completely oblivious to Brenda's cries in the basket beside him. He always was a deep-sleeper. I watch the baby for a moment as she kicks out, wriggling. Padding across the floor, I reach down and pick her up. Brenda settles against my chest but my eyes are drawn back to the screen, where the snowy static is forming shapes, distorted unidentifiable shapes, and the beep has been replaced by a white noise that sounds like whispers. I blink again before leaving the room, hearing the dull click of the den door closing when I'm already halfway up the stairs.

Up in the bedroom, I change Brenda's diaper, clean her up and change her into a fresh suit before laying her in the bassinet. She cries as soon as I set her down, but it's like she's under water again, or maybe I am, because I can't hear her as she wails. I can just see her little mouth open wide, angry pink gums on show.

I can hear the whispering though.

The white noise from the television set has followed me upstairs, only now I can make it out more clearly as I hear my name whispered over and over again, cold breath brushing against my ear. I focus only on the voice and tune out everything else like it's all just static. The voice is hypnotic, alluring, yet repulsive, awful, like the touch of a thousand bugs crawling over my skin and I can't stop listening. I want to listen. I need to listen.

Somewhere inside, I'm vaguely aware that the lamp on the dresser is flickering, the bulb blinking on and off, on and off, on and off. Somewhere inside, I'm vaguely aware that Brenda is crying bad now. Somewhere inside, I know I should pick her up and hold her to my chest, but I'm frozen, my whole body rigid, my fingers gripping the edge of the bassinet like claws.

I remember then. Remember a room darker than this. I remember the whispering and the screeching and the things that slithered and crawled inside the cabinet. I remember the thing that slithered and crawled inside of me. I remember Mr. Faustus hissing and screaming, high-pitched, almost like a child's scream.

Blink. Whisper. Scream. Silence.

And I'm hungry. Hungry like I haven't eaten in weeks. A trickle of drool dribbles from the corner of my mouth and snakes down my chin as I look down and I do pick her up then, just as the door bursts open and Rheemus stumbles in, shaking off his slumber.

"Kath, what is it? Is everything okay?"

I press my nose gently against Brenda's soft downy hair and inhale her scent. She smells sweeter than peach cobbler. Sweeter than apple pie even. So beautifully sweet.

"Oh yes," I say, as I turn to face him, smiling as I cradle the baby in my arms. "Everything is just fine, darlin'. Everything is just perfect."