Promises to Keep - Ann Tatlock [108]
I waited another twenty minutes. And then quietly . . . very quietly . . . I tiptoed downstairs and unlocked the kitchen door.
As I slipped back under the covers, I looked at the lighted dial of the clock by my bed. Almost midnight. Almost February 29, the day that comes once every four years, the lucky day that would change my life and make everything right again. I was so excited I laughed, but just as quickly I put a hand to my mouth to stifle the giggles. I didn’t want to wake up Mom or Tillie. Taking one last glance at the clock, I shut my eyes. Soon, in spite of my nervous excitement, I fell into a deep sleep.
I don’t know exactly what kind of noise woke me. I’m not sure whether it even was a noise or whether it was just some kind of knowing. A knowing that Daddy was in the house, and yet a knowing too that things were not right.
My eyes flew open, and I rolled toward the clock. Almost three now. I lay in silence and listened. The house creaked. A car rolled by in the street outside my window. A dog barked loudly. Louder still was my own rhythmic breathing, fast and shallow. Where was Daddy and what was he doing? Was he leaving the ruby ring on the table right now? Why was fear unraveling in my chest and twining itself around my heart?
Then I heard it. Unmistakable. A kitchen chair bumping up against the table. Daddy was down there, stumbling about in the dark. If he wasn’t careful, he’d wake everyone up and ruin the surprise. I crossed my fingers and willed him to finish and go away before he was found out.
But he didn’t go away. From the kitchen his footfalls moved over to the hardwood floor in the hallway. His steps were loud and unsteady, just like on the nights he had come home drunk.
Just like on the nights he had come home drunk.
I sat straight up in bed and listened. He was climbing up the stairs, his footsteps muted now on the carpeting but still distinct. He was coming up, and that wasn’t part of the plan.
My heart rate sped up, and my head felt light. I laced my fingers together and squeezed until my knuckles ached.
But it’s just Daddy, I thought. It’s Daddy. He won’t hurt you. It’ll be all right.
The padded pounding of his feet came closer, and I knew he had almost reached the landing. I sank down and pulled the covers up to my nose so that only my eyes peered out. In the next moment Daddy was framed in my doorway, a dark silhouette in a darkened hall. But only briefly. He was only passing by. He moved down the hall toward the master bedroom. Mom’s room, where Valerie slept too. Could Mom hear him coming? Did she think it was just Tillie returning from a trip to the kitchen for a midnight snack?
I pushed back the covers, held my breath, willed my frozen muscles to move. Quietly I tiptoed across the room. Even before I reached the door, I smelled the all too familiar reek of alcohol that had filled our house in Minnesota, the pungent sickening scent that was caught in the curtains, ground into the rugs, mixed into the very paint on the walls. Tonight it followed Daddy like a wake.
At the door I held my breath and peered out into the hall. Daddy had almost reached the master bedroom, where Mom and Valerie slept.
I blinked and gasped as the light in the hall came on. In the same moment Daddy whirled around, faltered, steadied himself. I saw the gun in his hand. A look of surprise lay across his face like a mask, his eyes fixed on the figure before him. Tillie, ghostlike in her white cotton gown, was bearing down on him, the baseball bat held up over her head with both hands.
I screamed. The gun exploded. Tillie stiffened, stumbled, put a hand to her chest. The tip of the bat hit the floor, and Tillie leaned on it like a cane. The light came on in the bedroom behind Daddy, and the room grew loud with