Protector - Laurel Dewey [21]
She’s in the same kitchen with the same furniture, except she’s fourteen years old. She’s seated at the kitchen table under the piercing overhead lamp she half-jokingly referred to as “the third degree bulb.” Her brother, nine years old, is seated next to her. Her father sits across from her. The Polaroid photos of the roach-covered bodies are strewn across the table. It’s February and there’s an icy chill in the air. Pellets of hail mixed with snow bounce off the kitchen window in a steady rat-a-tat-tat. Jane is serving her father and Mike dinner, doling out macaroni and cheese onto mustard yellow plates. Her father’s cigarette dangles precariously from his lips, heavy ash hanging from the tip. He examines the crime photos as Mike grimaces at the gruesome images.
“I don’t feel good,” Mike says with a soft whine.
“What the hell’s wrong with you?” Dale says, eyes still examining the Polaroids.
“My tummy hurts,” Mike says, sitting back in his chair.
“There’s nothing wrong with you!” Dale says brusquely. “Eat your food!”
“Come on, Mike,” Jane quickly interject. “It’s okay. Take a little bite.”
“Noooo,” Mike replies.
Dale smacks Mike’s head. “Stop whining and eat your goddamn dinner!” Mike reacts with a muffled cry. “Did you hear me?” Dale screams as he leans over to Mike, inches from his face. “Shut up! You understand? You understand me?”
Mike sinks down into his chair and cries out, “Don’t. Don’t . . .”
Dale stands up and his chair skims across the floor. Jane bolts out of her seat.
“Goddamnit, you weak little fuck!” Dale yells. “You want something to cry about?” Dale grabs Mike by the back of his shirt and yanks him out of his chair.
“Janie!” Mike screams, trying to reach out to her. “Janie!”
Dale gives Mike a hard slap across the face, sending his son onto the floor. “I said shut up! You understand?!”
Mike screams as he rolls into a fetal position and covers his ears. “Janie!”
“Janie?” Mike’s voice shook Jane out of her daze. “You okay?”
It took Jane a second to put herself back into the moment. “Sure,” she said, quickly gathering up the fallen photos from the kitchen floor.
“Here, I’ll help,” Mike offered.
“No!” Jane barked. “I’ll do it.”
Mike stood in the doorway, wedging his body against the frame. “Sorry I’m late. Traffic, you know?”
“Right. Traffic,” Jane said as she slid the last Polaroid off the floor and buried the bundle in the box.
Mike looked around the room with an uneasy stare. His thick shock of blond hair fell over his eyes. With a nervous jerk, he flicked his head backward, forcing his hair in place. Although Mike was thirty, he still had that doe-eyed, innocent look, with a tinge of adolescent awkwardness. Even his body, with its soft muscular tone, seemed underdeveloped. “It feels weird in here. I mean, like, him not being here, you know?”
Jane slammed the lid onto the cardboard box. “He might be horizontal in a hospital bed right now. But take my word for it, the bastard’s still here.”
“You bring the Corona?” Mike asked, keeping his priorities straight.
“Have I ever let you down?” Jane said, pointing to the six-pack.
Mike broke into a wide, toothy grin. “I can always count on you.” He crossed in front of the television. “Hey, Janie, look! Chris is on TV.”
Jane let out a long sigh. “Oh, God. Turn off the asshole.”
Mike was drawn into Chris’ commentary. He was standing outside a home, a mass of microphones in front of him, addressing the media. “Hey, Janie. You know anything about that double