Read Online Black Stump Ridge by John Manning; Forrest Hedrick - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: John Manning; Forrest Hedrick
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slowly, his head turning in every direction, his eyes straining against the dark. He had to get out. He had to find Granny Truly. Only she knew how to set things right.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Fred sat silently on the bed, his head bowed. He stared at his hands lying folded together on his lap. Quiet filled the room. The half full whiskey bottle lay on the bed next to him. He’d hardly touched it during his narrative. Amanda fidgeted in the chair. The legs scraping against the tile floor sounded like splintering wood in the room’s silence.
“Dave asked me about the marks. Trouble was I didn’t know anything about them ’til I read the journal on Saturday. By then, it was far too late. Too much shit had already hit the infamous fan. Things were movin’ to a head, but none of us knew it.” Fred looked up. He blinked and then wiped one hand across his eyes.
“That first day at the cabin, Thanksgiving, was good.” He glanced at the bottle. He picked it up, looked at the label as if trying to decide whether or not to drink, and then laid the bottle back on the bed. “Probably the best day of the whole damned weekend.”
Fred picked up the bottle again. This time he opened it, took a couple of swallows, and then closed it and set it on his lap. “I’m tired. It’s close to my supper time and I just don’t feel like remembering any more today.”
“How about I treat you to supper? Then, after we eat, you can tell me more.”
“How about you go back to your motel and eat while I stay here and do the same? We can talk more tomorrow.”
Amanda sagged back into the chair. “Okay. How about this? I treat you to supper and we talk more tomorrow.”
Fred lifted the bottle by the neck. “You already did, girl. Well, lunch, anyway. I’ll be drinking my supper and I don’t think it would be good if you was here while I did it. I really don’t.”
“Mr. Kyle, that’s not a good idea.”
“I never claimed to be a genius when it comes t’ good ideas.” He swirled the bottle around. The contents gurgled. “There’s enough whiskey left in here to help me sleep tonight. Might even keep the dreams away. That seems like a good enough idea t’me.”
“But…”
“But me no buts. I’ve been dealing with these memories long enough to know how to make them keep their distance once in awhile. Go on back to your room. If you still want to hear more, be here at noon tomorrow with another bottle.”
•
Amanda sat at the small table picking at her room service salad. The aroma of her dinner filled her nostrils, but the food lay mostly untouched on her plate. She stared into space. Fred’s voice filled her mind as she replayed the narrative. Memories of her father and his friends as they were then filled her mind.
Charlie Dobbs, who always wore a hat of some kind – mostly gimme hats and baseball caps – to hide the growing bald spot he tried so hard to pretend wasn’t there. Peete Davis, who looked so much like Wayne Brady, the comedian, that she always expected to hear him sing some kind of parody song every time she saw him. Dave Willets, with his sandy red hair always brushed straight back. She didn’t remember if he was a car salesman or just looked like one. He always smelled like a mix of Brut cologne and freshly-smoked cigarette. Dave was the only one of the five who smoked. Amanda didn’t count the occasional poker night cigar the others might enjoy.
Fred Kyle always had a ready laugh to go with his dancing blue eyes and shiny black hair. He was the brother her father never had as well as the favorite uncle who always had some kind of treat or present or something for her and Kevin. He was her father’s best friend – the family’s best friend. Her mom tolerated the others – even Amanda could see that – but she had a tender spot for Fred.
Her father, John – Johnny to the others – the dark haired gentle giant who laughed with her and cried with her. The hazel-eyed, stubble-chinned man who
CHAPTER EIGHT
Fred sat silently on the bed, his head bowed. He stared at his hands lying folded together on his lap. Quiet filled the room. The half full whiskey bottle lay on the bed next to him. He’d hardly touched it during his narrative. Amanda fidgeted in the chair. The legs scraping against the tile floor sounded like splintering wood in the room’s silence.
“Dave asked me about the marks. Trouble was I didn’t know anything about them ’til I read the journal on Saturday. By then, it was far too late. Too much shit had already hit the infamous fan. Things were movin’ to a head, but none of us knew it.” Fred looked up. He blinked and then wiped one hand across his eyes.
“That first day at the cabin, Thanksgiving, was good.” He glanced at the bottle. He picked it up, looked at the label as if trying to decide whether or not to drink, and then laid the bottle back on the bed. “Probably the best day of the whole damned weekend.”
Fred picked up the bottle again. This time he opened it, took a couple of swallows, and then closed it and set it on his lap. “I’m tired. It’s close to my supper time and I just don’t feel like remembering any more today.”
“How about I treat you to supper? Then, after we eat, you can tell me more.”
“How about you go back to your motel and eat while I stay here and do the same? We can talk more tomorrow.”
Amanda sagged back into the chair. “Okay. How about this? I treat you to supper and we talk more tomorrow.”
Fred lifted the bottle by the neck. “You already did, girl. Well, lunch, anyway. I’ll be drinking my supper and I don’t think it would be good if you was here while I did it. I really don’t.”
“Mr. Kyle, that’s not a good idea.”
“I never claimed to be a genius when it comes t’ good ideas.” He swirled the bottle around. The contents gurgled. “There’s enough whiskey left in here to help me sleep tonight. Might even keep the dreams away. That seems like a good enough idea t’me.”
“But…”
“But me no buts. I’ve been dealing with these memories long enough to know how to make them keep their distance once in awhile. Go on back to your room. If you still want to hear more, be here at noon tomorrow with another bottle.”
•
Amanda sat at the small table picking at her room service salad. The aroma of her dinner filled her nostrils, but the food lay mostly untouched on her plate. She stared into space. Fred’s voice filled her mind as she replayed the narrative. Memories of her father and his friends as they were then filled her mind.
Charlie Dobbs, who always wore a hat of some kind – mostly gimme hats and baseball caps – to hide the growing bald spot he tried so hard to pretend wasn’t there. Peete Davis, who looked so much like Wayne Brady, the comedian, that she always expected to hear him sing some kind of parody song every time she saw him. Dave Willets, with his sandy red hair always brushed straight back. She didn’t remember if he was a car salesman or just looked like one. He always smelled like a mix of Brut cologne and freshly-smoked cigarette. Dave was the only one of the five who smoked. Amanda didn’t count the occasional poker night cigar the others might enjoy.
Fred Kyle always had a ready laugh to go with his dancing blue eyes and shiny black hair. He was the brother her father never had as well as the favorite uncle who always had some kind of treat or present or something for her and Kevin. He was her father’s best friend – the family’s best friend. Her mom tolerated the others – even Amanda could see that – but she had a tender spot for Fred.
Her father, John – Johnny to the others – the dark haired gentle giant who laughed with her and cried with her. The hazel-eyed, stubble-chinned man who
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