She had become quite good at slipping away from adults ever since her life had changed.
She didn’t understand how her world had been turned upside down, or why. Her grandmother had explained that her mother was sitting with God and angels, and wouldn’t return. Mary knew that her mother would be pleased to be visiting such important people. But she was angry that her mother had left her behind.
And her father. Her throat tightened at the thought of this new man. He had left, gone as suddenly and as unexpectedly as her mother. But he had returned, a scar on his face. And his body. No one knew that she had seen his arm with its spider-web of cuts. No one knew that she had seen how he couldn’t move quickly anymore, no longer able to sweep her up into the air for big hugs and kisses. Or how he couldn’t catch her when she ran away.
Nor did anyone know that she had heard the whispers about the scandal. But she wasn’t even sure exactly what that meant. She only knew that everything had changed.
Not willing to take any chances that her father might come back and see her, Mary didn’t slow down until she was well along the granite walkway. But she hadn’t gotten farther than a few houses when she saw some of the children she had played with her whole life gathered on the front steps of Thaddeus Penhurst’s house.
Stopping dead in her tracks, she tried to dart across the street without being noticed. Since her mother had gone to heaven and her father to Africa, none of the other kids liked her anymore. But she had gone to live with her grandparents on Beacon Hill and it hadn’t mattered. And every time she had come to her old house before, she had managed to avoid them.
“Look! There’s Mary!”
Mary kept walking down Commonwealth Avenue toward the Public Gardens, pretending she didn’t hear. But in a few short seconds, the children raced up to her.
“What are you doing back here, Mary?” little Harry Adams demanded, his voice muffled beneath a thick scarf.
“We thought you were gone for good!”
Seven-year-old Thaddeus laughed harshly, his woolen hat sitting at a jaunty angle over sandy blond hair and a face full of freckles. “Do you want to hear the poem we made up for you while you were gone, Mary?”
She continued on, nearly slipping on a patch of ice, keeping her eyes determinedly focused straight ahead.
“Sure she does,” another stated.
But Mary didn’t stop.
Surrounding her as she walked, they began to chant. “Mary, Mary, monster Mary, where did your father go?”
The children repeated the words over and over, their chime of voices echoing against the snow and ice-covered street.
Mary’s lips started to tremble, and it was all she could do not to slap her hands to her ears. Instead, she started to run, never stopping until she skidded through the tall wrought-iron gates of the Public Gardens, the children thankfully left behind.
She fell back onto a bench, wanting her mother, wanting her father—wanting her old life back.
Closing her eyes, she felt the bench slats bite against her spine as she willed herself to be stronger. But when she opened them again, she saw a mother and her daughter hurrying through the park, their hands clasped together. The tears she had fought back slipped down her winter-reddened cheeks.
“Oh, Mama,” she whispered, “why did you leave me?”
Chapter Five
It was the pounding on the door that woke him.
With a hoarse groan, Matthew moved his head experimentally. He felt as if he had been run over by one of those dray wagons.
Bleary-eyed and weak, he pushed up into a sitting position on the divan. White light flashed in his head from the movement. He barely remembered collapsing on the floor, didn’t remember at all having moved to the divan.
His breathing was shallow but steady as he looked around the room, taking in the upended furniture, the shards of broken glass, and the smell of liquor that overpowered the space like an unwelcome
She didn’t understand how her world had been turned upside down, or why. Her grandmother had explained that her mother was sitting with God and angels, and wouldn’t return. Mary knew that her mother would be pleased to be visiting such important people. But she was angry that her mother had left her behind.
And her father. Her throat tightened at the thought of this new man. He had left, gone as suddenly and as unexpectedly as her mother. But he had returned, a scar on his face. And his body. No one knew that she had seen his arm with its spider-web of cuts. No one knew that she had seen how he couldn’t move quickly anymore, no longer able to sweep her up into the air for big hugs and kisses. Or how he couldn’t catch her when she ran away.
Nor did anyone know that she had heard the whispers about the scandal. But she wasn’t even sure exactly what that meant. She only knew that everything had changed.
Not willing to take any chances that her father might come back and see her, Mary didn’t slow down until she was well along the granite walkway. But she hadn’t gotten farther than a few houses when she saw some of the children she had played with her whole life gathered on the front steps of Thaddeus Penhurst’s house.
Stopping dead in her tracks, she tried to dart across the street without being noticed. Since her mother had gone to heaven and her father to Africa, none of the other kids liked her anymore. But she had gone to live with her grandparents on Beacon Hill and it hadn’t mattered. And every time she had come to her old house before, she had managed to avoid them.
“Look! There’s Mary!”
Mary kept walking down Commonwealth Avenue toward the Public Gardens, pretending she didn’t hear. But in a few short seconds, the children raced up to her.
“What are you doing back here, Mary?” little Harry Adams demanded, his voice muffled beneath a thick scarf.
“We thought you were gone for good!”
Seven-year-old Thaddeus laughed harshly, his woolen hat sitting at a jaunty angle over sandy blond hair and a face full of freckles. “Do you want to hear the poem we made up for you while you were gone, Mary?”
She continued on, nearly slipping on a patch of ice, keeping her eyes determinedly focused straight ahead.
“Sure she does,” another stated.
But Mary didn’t stop.
Surrounding her as she walked, they began to chant. “Mary, Mary, monster Mary, where did your father go?”
The children repeated the words over and over, their chime of voices echoing against the snow and ice-covered street.
Mary’s lips started to tremble, and it was all she could do not to slap her hands to her ears. Instead, she started to run, never stopping until she skidded through the tall wrought-iron gates of the Public Gardens, the children thankfully left behind.
She fell back onto a bench, wanting her mother, wanting her father—wanting her old life back.
Closing her eyes, she felt the bench slats bite against her spine as she willed herself to be stronger. But when she opened them again, she saw a mother and her daughter hurrying through the park, their hands clasped together. The tears she had fought back slipped down her winter-reddened cheeks.
“Oh, Mama,” she whispered, “why did you leave me?”
Chapter Five
It was the pounding on the door that woke him.
With a hoarse groan, Matthew moved his head experimentally. He felt as if he had been run over by one of those dray wagons.
Bleary-eyed and weak, he pushed up into a sitting position on the divan. White light flashed in his head from the movement. He barely remembered collapsing on the floor, didn’t remember at all having moved to the divan.
His breathing was shallow but steady as he looked around the room, taking in the upended furniture, the shards of broken glass, and the smell of liquor that overpowered the space like an unwelcome
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