Three weeks passed. Nearly a lifetime. Night came with a tempest. Such a torrent the houseboat listed. Heeled like a yacht. Thunder in the hills and the slough dancing under the hard rain. A long night. No sleep to be had. Rigby stooped at the woodstove, stoked the fire. A shawl donned over his skeleton shoulders, naked save for a pair of women’s panties he had rescued from a trash can. He had cut all of his hair, taken to wearing one of the dolls’ wigs. A kind of hacked bob he’d done himself by taking handfuls of the fake hair and slashing it with a dull knife. Rouged lips, jade eyeshadow. Stood back from the fire and spun the shawl from his shoulders like a matador. Lifted a dress laid out on the mattress and held it up to his skin. He flattened the skirt. Shifted side to side in a clumsy sashay. Began to dance. The painted wooden faces watched him with adoration.
He put on Mary Belle’s favorite dress. He danced to the music that came through the tiny radio, twirling the dolls in turn. The boat reeled and he danced, danced. The rain drumming on the roof and he danced. How he loved them, he would never let them go. The rain lashing, and Rigby dancing, dancing.