Riven - Jerry B. Jenkins [44]
By the time he reached a Chinese carryout place a few blocks from the borrowed home, Thomas realized he had allowed the glamour—yes, it seemed that way to him—of a new life, an ordered day, to outweigh all his misgivings. He realized he had been beaten down, wearied, wounded by all the shots he’d taken so recently. From being summarily dismissed by the folks in Foley, to the condescension of the search committee chair in Vidalia, to the tough discussions with Ravinia and then her blatant rebellion against all she had been taught . . . from the mess with the Pierces at Oldenburg, to even the kind but stabbing assessment of Jimmie Johnson, all the while worried about what was happening with Grace—well, he was just weary.
Inside Thomas felt stooped and old and depressed, yet as he waited for his order, he caught a glimpse of himself in the ornate mirror behind the counter. He stood ramrod straight, shoulders back, head high, and smiling. Genuinely, warmly smiling.
A young family with a noisy toddler amused him, and the girl at the cash register had a refreshing countenance. But Thomas knew his renewed vigor was from the Lord and that the prospect of the new job—despite its sobering environment—was making him his old self again.
Addison
It was clear when Brady stepped in the door that his mother was payday drunk. Trouble was, he never knew what kind of a drunk she’d be. Sometimes she was sullen and quiet and sad and just sat dozing or smoking as she watched TV. She might weep and complain about life and plead for someone to tell her they loved her. Brady was long past succumbing to that temptation.
It was the other times that bothered him, when she’d had just enough booze or little enough food—who knew what combination might set her off—to make her angry. Then no one could do anything right. Nothing pleased her.
For now she was sitting, but she was clearly out of it. And as the time came for Brady to head to the work site, he debated taking Peter with him. Of course Peter didn’t want to go, and he kept assuring Brady he would keep his distance and that, yes, he would escape if he had to.
But then, all the while Brady was on the forklift truck, improving his dexterity with the machine (and thus hopefully his elapsed time), he was listening and watching for his brother. Would Petey come running? And if he did, would he have eluded her in time? If he showed up with so much as a mark, Brady was prepared to make his mother pay. He didn’t even know what that meant. Would he beat her? threaten her with the old sawed-off his late father had stored somewhere in the back? Would he kill her?
He honestly didn’t know, but he had a feeling most people would be sympathetic to him if they knew he was protecting an eight-year-old boy. Part of Brady hoped it wouldn’t come to that. Another part of him hoped it would.
He had spent enough time on the machine that he should have been more accurate, but his state of mind caused him to break two car stops. For a few minutes he drove in anger and once had to hit the brake so hard to avoid hitting the metal building that he nearly pitched out of the seat.
Just as he was loading the last pallet under a black sky by the light of the security lamps in the company yard, he heard a noise and jerked to see if it was Peter. It wasn’t, but his action caused the load to shift, and one stop slid halfway off the pallet. It hung there, and Brady could feel the weight pulling on the truck.
He slowly lowered the forks, but it was clear the hanging stop would touch the ground before the flat bottom of the pallet. If he was careful, perhaps it would push itself back into position without breaking. When it was just inches from the ground, he toyed with the levers that controlled the hydraulics, but at the last instant he held one too long, and the hanging stop hit the ground and cracked, held together only by a thin strip