Promises to Keep - Ann Tatlock [96]
“But . . .”
“If you need help finding a book, ask a librarian. That’s what they’re there for.”
“But you said yourself he’s a nice guy.”
“Yes, but not everyone is, so just be careful in the future.” The two lines between his brows ran deep as he gave me a look of concern.
“Don’t worry, Mr. Monroe,” I assured him. “I’ll be careful. But I was lucky this time, right, to meet somebody nice like Mr. Knutson? I mean, he wouldn’t hurt me, would he?”
Lyle Monroe gazed at me sternly another moment before sniffing out a small laugh. “No, Roz, I’m sure Mr. Knutson wouldn’t hurt you. But I’m glad to hear you say you’ll be careful. Now – ” he lifted his chin and breathed deeply – “something smells good, doesn’t it? What do you say we go see what the ladies have cooked up for supper?”
chapter
41
Sitting on my bed, leaning back against the headboard, I held Wally’s book in my hands, the one he gave me the night he ran away. I wished he were there now, sitting at his desk in the next room, his finger scrolling over the pages of On the Road as though he were carefully studying every line.
I wanted Wally back, but I didn’t want him to be the Wally he was right before he went away. No, I had to go back farther, back several years, back to the days before . . .
But that was the hard part. I shut my eyes and squeezed the book tightly with both hands. I wanted to go all the way back to my earliest memories, when life was quieter and Wally and I were friends. But I couldn’t rewind the years without seeing the bad parts too. I couldn’t look backward without bumping up against that one event in particular, the thing that happened when Wally finally got big enough to fight back.
Valerie was about a year old. A series of colds and ear infections had kept her crying day and night for weeks. We were tired, all of us, a weariness made worse by the humid heat of the summer evening. All the windows in the house were thrown open and fans blew relentlessly in nearly every room, but nothing gave us much relief from the heat. Between the weather and Valerie’s cries, we were all on edge.
Mom went to Valerie’s day crib, the one set up in the den just off the kitchen. Before she could reach into the crib, Daddy was there, yelling, grabbing Mom’s wrists, telling her to leave Valerie alone, to let her cry it out so she would sleep from exhaustion. Mom pulled away and they began to argue, hurling harsh and ugly words at each other. I crouched in the kitchen watching, clutching my doll, fighting back tears. I was afraid for Mom, afraid of what Daddy might do. Usually I didn’t see the fights, only the aftermath: Mom’s black eye, her bloodied lip.
Daddy raised a fist and I screamed, my own fist pressed hard against my mouth. Turning to flee, I unlocked my knees and started to rise, but even before I was fully upright, I heard Wally’s bare feet slapping against the kitchen floor. He sprinted past me and into the den, head-butting Daddy in the gut like a linebacker making a tackle. He knocked Daddy off his feet and dove on top of him. Pinning him down, Wally began slamming his fists into Daddy’s face over and over again. Finally Daddy was able to throw Wally off, but the fight went on, the two of them swinging and punching until they were both dripping huge drops of sweat and blood. Mom screamed and pleaded with them to stop, but they ignored her, leaping at each other like wild animals, prompted by a rage so thick it hung in the air. I put my hands over my ears, but I couldn’t drown out the sounds: Valerie’s wails, Mom’s cries, the smack of flesh against flesh, the crash of bodies against furniture.
I cried and prayed to God, asking him to save my brother, as I was sure Daddy would kill him. Wally was tall, but he wasn’t muscular like Daddy. When Daddy pushed Wally up against the wall, both hands around his throat, Mom reached for the phone. Her hands shook so hard she could scarcely