Total pages in book: 151
Estimated words: 145746 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 729(@200wpm)___ 583(@250wpm)___ 486(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 145746 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 729(@200wpm)___ 583(@250wpm)___ 486(@300wpm)
“You stay outta that bottle, maybe you could keep a job.”
“I know what you get up to there,” he snarls, shaking the phone in the air for emphasis. “Giving it to anybody who wants it.”
“Boy, I ain’t giving nothing to nobody, and I for damn sure ain’t giving it to you acting like this.”
“You s’posed to be the one. You promised it’d be me and you, and then you…” Daddy’s words trail away into a pool of sudden tears. “You go and step out on me.”
“Will,” Mama says, her voice going a little soft, melting the way it does right before she forgives him. “It is you and me. Why you think I’m still here? But… something ain’t right. You need to talk to somebody, see somebody. I can’t keep doing this.”
“See somebody?” Daddy stiffens, scoffs, sniffs. “What I’m gon’ see somebody about?”
No answer, but the silence seems to be the answer; some conversation they’ve had before that plays back in the quiet hush of the room. Maybe one of those exchanges they have right in front of me at the table sometimes only with their eyes.
“What I’m gonna see somebody about?” Daddy demands again.
“You know, Will,” Mama says, tears trickling down her cheeks. “You know something ain’t right and—”
“I told you I’m fine!”
Daddy paces back and forth, hands gripping his head and tugging at his hair, long and rough because he hasn’t brushed it and he needs it cut.
“Shut up!” he screams, but he’s not looking at Mama. His eyes dart wildly around the room.
“Who you talking to, Will?” Mama asks, concern and caution on her face.
“It’s in the walls.” Daddy stops pacing and stands perfectly still, as if whatever is bothering him will leave him alone if he just doesn’t draw its notice.
“I don’t hear nothing in the walls,” Mama says, shaking her head. “And this is why I say you need to see somebody, baby. If you just—”
“There’s nothing wrong with me, Bernadette. I told you I’m fine. You trying to distract me from what you did by accusing me of shit you know I didn’t do. And don’t mention no doctors, no medicine. I know you trying to trick me. I know. I know. I know. I know. I know. I know. I know. I know.”
He knocks a fist against his temple with every word.
“It’s a trick. Trick. Trick. Trick. Trick. Trick.”
“Will,” Mama hisses, her eyes wide and her hands balled at her sides. “You scaring me.”
“Now you scared of me?” His voice booms, and it’s terrifying, but not because he sounds angry, but because he sounds lost. So scared under it all.
Mama walks over to him, lays her hand on his arm. “Will, let me call—”
“Don’t touch me!” Startling like a spooked horse, he shoves her away, as if her touch were hot coals, and hurls the phone across the room. “Not after what you did.”
It feels like Mama falls back in slow motion. I want to run into the room, but I’m too slow. I’m too late. There’s lead in my feet as Mama falls and her head slams into the edge of the coffee table with a dull thump.
Her yelp of pain sets my feet in motion. I charge into the room, stopping short at the sight of Mama crumpled on the floor, a line of blood streaming from her hairline. Daddy stands over her, blinking rapidly and still pounding his fist into his temple.
“No, no, no, no,” he whimpers, sinking to the floor, eyes squeezed shut and his back pressed to the couch. “Bernie, baby. Bernie. Bernie.”
“Mama.” Tears run into the corners of my mouth as I caress her hair, my fingers coming away smeared with blood.
I take in the shattered cell and the kitchen phone useless on the floor.
“Daddy!” I scream, turning to him. “Where’s your phone?”
He shakes his head, covers his ears, and wails. I scramble across the floor to him at the couch and search his pockets. Nothing, except his old beat-up wallet.
“Your phone!” I sob, panic and tears choking the words. “I gotta call for help.”
I shake his shoulder, but it’s like he doesn’t hear me, like I’m not here.
“It’s in the walls,” he mutters, eyes squeezed shut and hands flattened to cover his ears.
I jump up and rush out the front door. The gravel pathway to Aunt Roz’s has never felt so long. The sharp rocks cut into my bare feet, and I veer into the grass so I can run faster. The gravel gives way to a worn path of Georgia mud. I’ve run so hard that my leg starts cramping by the time Aunt Rosalyn’s neat little house comes into view. I trip up the steps and bang on the door.
The screen door swings open, and Aunt Roz, already dressed for bed in one of her floor-length nightgowns and a scarf tied around her rollers, looks out at the porch suspiciously until she turns on the light.