Total pages in book: 159
Estimated words: 149301 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 747(@200wpm)___ 597(@250wpm)___ 498(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 149301 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 747(@200wpm)___ 597(@250wpm)___ 498(@300wpm)
“I can promise you one thing, though. He did mean what he said to me and about me, and you may as well stop tellin’ that lie to me, and to yourseld. Liquor, age, and illness makes folks tell the truth, Melba. That is what was in his heart, so that is what came out, and the sooner you accept that, the better off you’ll be, ’cause you apologizing for another grown man who is mean as a horny hippo during mating season, don’t make no sense.
“You don’t need to apologize for him. He needs to apologize to YOU.” Huni nodded in agreement, but kept her face on her task.
“He’s been beatin’ you upside the head, body and heart, long before he’d gone ill. He’s just a bad person. He got sick, and instead of takin’ that time to get his soul together, he got worse. Doubled downed on his evil. Now, tell the truth, shame the devil.”
Melba clutched the edge of the duvet.
“That’s okay. You don’t have to respond.” Poet slipped her purse over her shoulder. “I know the truth. You know the truth. He knows the truth. His nastiness didn’t shake me, and I don’t lose a wink of sleep over that fool. More importantly, he can’t hurt you anymore. That’s all that matters.” Poet walked closer to Melba and smoothed her hair in place. The woman seemed to almost melt into her touch…
When was the last time this woman was hugged? Told she was important? Probably years…
“Melba, now that the house is clean, and you’ve had groceries delivered, you should be all set. If you need me, just give me a call, okay? I left my number on the refrigerator.”
Melba’s forehead wrinkled, and her eyes narrowed.
“Poet, why are you bein’ so nice to me?”
“Huh?” She placed her hand against her chest. “Because you’re a human being, Melba, and besides being annoying, you never harmed me. I know why you were doing what you were doing now. You needed an excuse to get outta this house—away from him.”
Melba’s eyes watered. She snatched a tissue from the tissue box then blew her nose. She folded it in half, and dabbed at her eyes.
“Poet, I don’t have much. I’m on a fixed income. I’ve got some ailments, too, but if there’s ever anything I can do for you, and I mean anything, please let me know because I promise I’ll help you in any way that I can.” The woman looked as if she was about to cry, but then got a hold of herself. “I want to be able to pay you back in some way.”
“You being safe is all the help that I need.”
“Well, I’m here to help you anyway, as long as it doesn’t involve watchin’ over your stray cats!”
They all had a good laugh at that…
An eroded bike and a soiled sock lay in the dead grass amid a scattering of broken glass outside the grimy trailer. Blue spurts of light filtered through a small window dressed in cheap ivory blinds within, turning silvery, flashing, then vanishing for a second or two.
She’s in there watchin’ TV.
Grandpa sat in the back of the Lincoln car, smoking a red cigar. Pearl white mist drifted from his lips and out the cracked window while ‘It’ll Be Me’, by Jerry Lewis, played from his driver’s radio. His driver made to get out of the car and open his door, but he waved him off.
“No, no, I’ve got it. Just stay put.” Grandpa Wilde swung one leg out the car door, then the other, and stood to his full height. Holding tight to his cane, he stepped to the trailer door and knocked on it three good times. He could hear the television when he’d first approached, but now, silence.
“Who is it?” a man yelled out.
“My name is Cyrus Wilde. I’m here to have a word with Lorna Wilde.”
“Lorna? That ain’t her last name. I don’t know no damn Cyrus Wilde. Who the fuck are you to Lorna?” the man demanded from behind the door, then belched.
“I’m her grandfather-in-law. She ain’t legally changed her name, now has she? According to my records, she’s remarried, but never changed it, either.”
The trailer door swung open, and a man of about five foot ten or so appeared in a dirty tank top and jeans two sizes too big for him. A mop of cinnamon-brown covered his head, a patchy beard and mustache stained his face, and his arms were chock full of faded tattoos and fresh needle marks—some oozing, some scabbed over.
“Hank, who is it?’ came a feminine voice, though she sounded either half asleep or drunk herself.
“Some old cowboy in a fancy schmancy black jacket and boots, and lavish rings, talkin’ about he’s here to see you.” The man scoffed, his gaze on the woman he was talking to. The way the man licked his lips, it was clear the thought of an attempted robbery was zipping about in his embalmed skull.