Promises to Keep - Ann Tatlock [90]
I stopped and slowly turned around. In the next moment I found myself staring into the eyes of the man at the table, the startled and puzzled eyes of Alan Anthony, my daddy.
The glass of water in his hand came crashing down against the tabletop. For a second I thought it might have shattered into a million pieces, but when he took his hand away, the glass was still intact. Daddy ran trembling fingers through his hair and swore quietly. “What are you doing here?” he asked.
“I-I . . .”
“Is your mother here?” He looked back over his shoulder in search of her.
I shook my head.
“Who are you here with?”
My tongue was thick with fear, my mouth dry. “Just Tillie,” I whispered.
“Who?”
“Tillie. The lady that helps take care of us.”
He glanced again toward the entrance to the kitchen, then back at me. “Why are you here?”
I lifted the pie an inch or so, as though that explained everything. “I’m putting this in the fridge.”
An oath from Daddy let me know I’d given him the wrong answer. He stood and grabbed my arm. I thought I might drop the pie, so I tightened my grip on the rim of the aluminum pan.
“Tell me what you’re doing in this house,” Daddy demanded.
His wild eyes terrified me. “I’m just . . . I’m just . . .” I started to cry. “You’re hurting my arm!”
He glared at me, his breathing quick and shallow. Then, as though something passed over him, his eyes calmed and he loosened his grip. “I’m sorry, Roz. Here, give me the pie.”
He took it to the refrigerator and moved around a few milk bottles and other containers to make a place for it. After shutting the door and giving me another long look, he sat back down and pulled me to him. “Listen, Roz, stop crying, all right?” He wiped my eyes with the paper napkin, used and crumpled, beside his plate. Putting both hands on my shoulders, he said evenly, “I need you to tell me what you’re doing here.”
I took a deep breath, trying to steady myself. “I’m just . . . I’m just . . .”
“Just what, Roz?”
“Tillie and I just brought some stuff to her son. That’s all.”
“Her son?”
I nodded. “He lives here now. He just moved in yesterday.”
Daddy’s eyes narrowed slightly. “What’s his name?”
“Mr. Monroe.”
“What’s his first name?”
“Lyle.”
“Lyle Monroe,” Daddy repeated. His eyes moved to the side as his thoughts pulled him away from me.
I waited for several long seconds before asking quietly, “Daddy, is this where you live?”
He came back to me then but didn’t answer. Somebody stepped into the kitchen and Daddy stiffened. He picked up his fork and stabbed at a piece of meat on the plate in front of him.
“Good evening, Mr. Knutson,” the man said. He spoke with his back to us as he poured a cup of coffee from the percolator on the stove.
“Evening, Mr. Wainwright,” Daddy said.
I looked at Daddy for direction; he was nodding toward the door, sending me away with his eyes. I took one step but stopped when Mr. Wainwright said, “You have a visitor tonight?”
Daddy chewed slowly, then took a long drink of water. “Naw,” he said finally, pretending to laugh. “If you mean the kid – she belongs to someone else.” To me, he said, “I’ll make sure no one eats the pie you brought for Mr. Monroe.”
My eyes darted from Daddy to Mr. Wainwright and back to Daddy again. “Thank you,” I whispered.
Daddy nodded and went back to eating. Mr. Wainwright smiled at me as he stirred sugar into his coffee.
“Mr. Monroe,” Mr. Wainwright said thoughtfully, the spoon scraping circles