Running with the Demon - Terry Brooks [89]
Then Cass came back on the line. “Time to say good night, Robert. We’ll see you at the park tomorrow.”
Robert sighed. “Okay. Tell Brianna I’m sorry.”
“I will.”
“Parents are a load sometimes.”
“Keep that in mind for when you’re one. I’ll have a talk with Nest, okay?”
“Okay.” Robert hesitated. “Tell her I went back out this evening to see how her tree was coming along. Tell her it looks worse than before. Maybe she should call someone.”
There was renewed shrieking. “Good-bye, Robert.”
The phone went dead.
Jared Scott came down from his room for a snack to find his mother and George Paulsen drinking beer in front of the television. The other kids were asleep, all of them crammed into a tiny pair of hot, airless bedrooms. Jared had been reading about Stanley and Livingstone, using a tiny night-light that his mother had given him for Christmas. He liked reading stories about exploring faraway places. He thought that this was something he would like to do one day, visit strange lands, see who lived there. He saw the light from the television as he made the bend in the stairs and knew his mother and George were still up, so he crept the rest of the way on cat’s paws and was turning in to the kitchen when George called to him. “Hey, kid, what are you doing?”
He turned back reluctantly, trying not to look at either of them. His mother had been dozing, a Bud Light gripped in her hand. She looked around in a daze at the sound of George’s voice. At thirty-two, she was slender still, but beginning to thicken about the waist. Her long dark hair was lank and uncombed, her skin pale, and her eyes dull and lifeless. She had been pretty once, but she looked old and worn-out now, even to Jared. She had five children, all of them by different men. Most of the fathers had long since moved on; Enid was only sure of two of them.
“Jared, why aren’t you asleep?” she asked, blinking doubtfully.
“I asked you a question,” George pressed him. He was a short, thickset man with dark features and a balding head. He worked part-time at a garage as a mechanic and there was always grease on his hands and clothing.
“I was getting something to eat,” Jared answered, keeping his tone of voice neutral. George had hit him several times just for sounding smart-mouthed. George liked hitting him.
“You get what you need, sweetie,” his mother said. “Let him be, George.”
George belched loudly. “That’s your trouble, Enid — you baby him.” Jared hurried into the kitchen, George’s voice trailing after him. “He needs a firm hand, don’t you see? My father would have beat me black and blue if I’d come down from my room after hours. Not to mention thinking about getting something else to eat. You ate your dinner at the table and that was it until breakfast.”
His voice was rough-edged and belligerent; it was the same voice he always used around Enid Scott and her children. Jared rummaged through the refrigerator for an apple, then headed back toward the stairs.
“Hey!” George’s voice stopped him cold. “Just hold on a minute. What do you have there?”
“An apple.” Jared held it up for him to see. “That all?” Jared nodded.
“I don’t want to catch you drinking any beer around here, kid. You want to do that with your friends, away from home, fine. But not here. You got that?”
Jared felt a flush creep into his cheeks. “I don’t drink beer.” George Paulsen’s chin jerked up. “Don’t get smart with me!”
“George, he can’t!” His mother glanced hurriedly at Jared. “He can’t drink alcohol of any kind. You know that. His medication doesn’t mix with alcohol.”
“Hell, you think for one minute that would stop him, Enid? You think it would stop any kid?” George drank from his own can, draining the last of its contents. “Medication, hell! Just another word for drugs. Kids do drugs and drink beer everywhere. Always have, always will. And you think your kid won’t? Where’d you check your brain at, anyway? Christ almighty! You better let me do the thinking around here, okay? You just stick to cooking the meals