Read Online Death of a Toy Soldier by Barbara Early - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Barbara Early
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noticing another packed car working its way into one of only a few empty spaces left on the block.
Dad gave me an impish wink. “Nah, I think we ought to crash it.”
Before I could say another word, he was out of the car and hobbling to the front door behind the group of new arrivals. I hustled to get out of the car but then had to jump a pile of slush that had accumulated at the head of the driveway. By the time I made it to the door, Dad had already followed the others inside. I stood, staring at the doorknob. Dad was a lotbolder than I was, but I couldn’t leave him in this stranger’s house alone. I took a deep breath and tried to open the door. Only the knob wouldn’t budge.
“Here, let me get that,” said a familiar, masculine voice from behind me. Jack Wallace handed me a covered tray of cookies. He gave the knob a forceful turn while pushing on the door. “It sticks sometimes.” Then whoosh, it opened, and he held the door so I could enter.
The house smelled like old people. I wasn’t quite sure how else to describe it. There was a mix of that cloying fragrance they add to chemical ointments along with the chemical odors too strong to mask, stale cooking odors, a touch of mildew, and a pinch of urine. I hoped a pet was involved in the equation.
Earlier arrivals had kicked off their boots in the cramped entryway, and I did the same, stepping over the puddles left by melting snow. I missed avoiding one and felt the cold bite through my sock. Jack took my coat and whisked it away. I turned to face the gathering crowd.
I didn’t know a blessed person in the room, save for Jack’s mother. If she had a first name, I’d never been privy to it. She was always just Mrs. Wallace. Any more familiarity would have been met with an icy stare.
I’d gotten on Mrs. Wallace’s no-fly list way back in high school, when I’d supposedly dumped her son. Jack always claimed he filled her in on the true story, but she’d taken his side anyway. Despite the fact that Jack had stood me up for the prom—yes, the prom, leaving me with credit card charges for a manicure, a pedicure, hair and makeup, an unreturnable altered dress, and shoes dyed to match—I came out thevillain, at least in her eyes. Not that I was bitter or anything. Even now I sensed my jaw tightening in her presence.
I scanned the rest of the room. Dark woodwork with cracked varnish and dated green wallpaper that puckered at the seams made the overstuffed room feel gloomy and neglected. Water stains dotted the ceiling and ran down one wall. The rug was stained and bare in spots, as was the furniture. The place was cluttered with piles of newspaper, boxes stacked upon boxes, and curio shelves crammed with dusty relics.
People milled around, some in closed-off groups, sharing hushed conversation. Others filled disposable plates from the platters of food laid out on the dining room table. Two elderly women sat primly on what could only be described as a settee.
If we’d walked in on a holiday party, it might be one of the worst ever.
Dad was busy talking to a man I didn’t recognize. I was about to join them when Jack returned.
“I didn’t know you were acquainted with Uncle Sy,” he said.
“Oh, this is your uncle’s house?” I wondered which of the men present might be his uncle. Then I realized the others were all wearing suits and most of the women were in dresses or nice pantsuits—if there is such a thing as a nice pantsuit. I felt a little underdressed in my jeans. At least I’d coupled that with a dressier top, a glittery red number with a draped neckline. Cathy had raved about how it flattered my figure and complexion.
Then I noticed something my eyes hadn’t caught the first time I’d scanned the room. The official guests were all dressed in somber colors: blacks, charcoal grays, and muted purples.
“Your Uncle Sy . . .” I began.
A nearby man raised a bottle of Michelob in a toast. “To Sy!”
More beverages were raised
Dad gave me an impish wink. “Nah, I think we ought to crash it.”
Before I could say another word, he was out of the car and hobbling to the front door behind the group of new arrivals. I hustled to get out of the car but then had to jump a pile of slush that had accumulated at the head of the driveway. By the time I made it to the door, Dad had already followed the others inside. I stood, staring at the doorknob. Dad was a lotbolder than I was, but I couldn’t leave him in this stranger’s house alone. I took a deep breath and tried to open the door. Only the knob wouldn’t budge.
“Here, let me get that,” said a familiar, masculine voice from behind me. Jack Wallace handed me a covered tray of cookies. He gave the knob a forceful turn while pushing on the door. “It sticks sometimes.” Then whoosh, it opened, and he held the door so I could enter.
The house smelled like old people. I wasn’t quite sure how else to describe it. There was a mix of that cloying fragrance they add to chemical ointments along with the chemical odors too strong to mask, stale cooking odors, a touch of mildew, and a pinch of urine. I hoped a pet was involved in the equation.
Earlier arrivals had kicked off their boots in the cramped entryway, and I did the same, stepping over the puddles left by melting snow. I missed avoiding one and felt the cold bite through my sock. Jack took my coat and whisked it away. I turned to face the gathering crowd.
I didn’t know a blessed person in the room, save for Jack’s mother. If she had a first name, I’d never been privy to it. She was always just Mrs. Wallace. Any more familiarity would have been met with an icy stare.
I’d gotten on Mrs. Wallace’s no-fly list way back in high school, when I’d supposedly dumped her son. Jack always claimed he filled her in on the true story, but she’d taken his side anyway. Despite the fact that Jack had stood me up for the prom—yes, the prom, leaving me with credit card charges for a manicure, a pedicure, hair and makeup, an unreturnable altered dress, and shoes dyed to match—I came out thevillain, at least in her eyes. Not that I was bitter or anything. Even now I sensed my jaw tightening in her presence.
I scanned the rest of the room. Dark woodwork with cracked varnish and dated green wallpaper that puckered at the seams made the overstuffed room feel gloomy and neglected. Water stains dotted the ceiling and ran down one wall. The rug was stained and bare in spots, as was the furniture. The place was cluttered with piles of newspaper, boxes stacked upon boxes, and curio shelves crammed with dusty relics.
People milled around, some in closed-off groups, sharing hushed conversation. Others filled disposable plates from the platters of food laid out on the dining room table. Two elderly women sat primly on what could only be described as a settee.
If we’d walked in on a holiday party, it might be one of the worst ever.
Dad was busy talking to a man I didn’t recognize. I was about to join them when Jack returned.
“I didn’t know you were acquainted with Uncle Sy,” he said.
“Oh, this is your uncle’s house?” I wondered which of the men present might be his uncle. Then I realized the others were all wearing suits and most of the women were in dresses or nice pantsuits—if there is such a thing as a nice pantsuit. I felt a little underdressed in my jeans. At least I’d coupled that with a dressier top, a glittery red number with a draped neckline. Cathy had raved about how it flattered my figure and complexion.
Then I noticed something my eyes hadn’t caught the first time I’d scanned the room. The official guests were all dressed in somber colors: blacks, charcoal grays, and muted purples.
“Your Uncle Sy . . .” I began.
A nearby man raised a bottle of Michelob in a toast. “To Sy!”
More beverages were raised
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