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Authors: Emily Sue Harvey
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have you around my family like this. Do you understand?”
Kirk’s dad sounded like some kind of mewling, evil beast as he cranked up with more foul scorn. Heather had crawled right up to her daddy’s legs, where she now sat, her saucer-eyed gaze bounding back and forth betwixt Kirk and her Grandfather. At
Tom’s angry bellowing, her lips began to pucker and her chest to puff soundlessly in and out with panic.
“Heather, baby,” I crooned and rushed to lift her into my arms.
I froze inside at the violence I sensed, heard in him. Heather began to bawl. And to think – he sired Kirk. My Kirk. Heather’s father. Kirk didn’t deserve this. He looked around and saw Heather’s distress and clenched his fists as he whirled on his father.
“How dare you come here and upset my baby. Get out!” Kirk hissed. “And don’t come back unless you’re sober. Go on.” He gestured to the road. “ Git!”
He slammed the door in his father’s snarling face and Kirk – who rarely swore – cursed soundly.
I hugged Heather to me, cooing and calming her, fighting my own disgust and anger at the man. Dear Lord, please make him leave quietly. I knew God heard me when Tom turned on his heel, staggered to his car and spun away without another word.
Kirk’s shame was palpable as he plopped down onto the sofa. He propped his elbows on his knees and buried his face in his palms for long minutes. I quietly left the room and changed Heather’s diaper, put on her nightgown and lay her in her crib. I wound up her musical crib-angels that circled overhead to Lullaby, before I tiptoed from her room.
Only thing that’d shifted about Kirk was now he sat sprawled on the sofa, head thrown back like a dead man. Eyes sealed shut, nothing moved about him except when his body vibrated with each heartbeat. I stared fascinated at his hair quivering rhythmically, his shirt, his fingers – everything. Like a dead man, I thought, except for that volcano roiling inside him that threatened to blow him to bits.
“Kirk? You okay, honey?” I asked softly, lowering myself beside him.
Long moments later, he muttered. “Yeah,” still like one comatose. But his voice was strong. I took heart at that.
“Want some coffee?” I asked, needing to do something – anything to draw him from that dark place he now inhabited.
“Huh uh.”
I felt helpless, wanting to console him but not knowing how. I’d learned by now that what comforted ninety-nine point
seventy five per cent of the population did not placate Kirk Crenshaw. I had yet to find that particular formula.
“Well,” I said, shrugging limply. I stood, and turned to leave. “I’ll turn in, honey.” Give you time to execute your own healing.
“It’s a terrible thing, Neecy.” The words floated out so softly I barely caught them. I turned to look at him. His eyes slowly opened, staring into a void somewhere.
“What’s terrible, sweetheart?” I asked.
He looked at me then, his eyes so desolate my breath hitched.
“Wishing my father dead.”
The next morning, Kirk was already dressed for church by the time I gave Heather a bath. I quickly stacked breakfast dishes in the sink then dressed myself and the baby. Kirk liked to get to church early. A true Type A clock watcher.
As we took our seats in the sanctuary, I noted Daddy and Anne’s absence. Again. Daddy had recently taken up smoking again. For Daddy, not a good spiritual sign. Anne was not, at that time, a particularly spiritual being anyway, so playing hookey wasn’t difficult. Trish, however, came in late and sat with us for the opening hymns. Then she whisked Heather away to the nursery.
The service was ordinary. Adult Sunday School Class. After that, three hymns, the offertory and sermon. Only difference was, today Kirk was there. Seemed to hang onto every word of the message about how we shouldn’t just be just pew-warmers.
Preacher Hart, short and squat, yet peculiarly imposing, had really worked himself up by
Kirk’s dad sounded like some kind of mewling, evil beast as he cranked up with more foul scorn. Heather had crawled right up to her daddy’s legs, where she now sat, her saucer-eyed gaze bounding back and forth betwixt Kirk and her Grandfather. At
Tom’s angry bellowing, her lips began to pucker and her chest to puff soundlessly in and out with panic.
“Heather, baby,” I crooned and rushed to lift her into my arms.
I froze inside at the violence I sensed, heard in him. Heather began to bawl. And to think – he sired Kirk. My Kirk. Heather’s father. Kirk didn’t deserve this. He looked around and saw Heather’s distress and clenched his fists as he whirled on his father.
“How dare you come here and upset my baby. Get out!” Kirk hissed. “And don’t come back unless you’re sober. Go on.” He gestured to the road. “ Git!”
He slammed the door in his father’s snarling face and Kirk – who rarely swore – cursed soundly.
I hugged Heather to me, cooing and calming her, fighting my own disgust and anger at the man. Dear Lord, please make him leave quietly. I knew God heard me when Tom turned on his heel, staggered to his car and spun away without another word.
Kirk’s shame was palpable as he plopped down onto the sofa. He propped his elbows on his knees and buried his face in his palms for long minutes. I quietly left the room and changed Heather’s diaper, put on her nightgown and lay her in her crib. I wound up her musical crib-angels that circled overhead to Lullaby, before I tiptoed from her room.
Only thing that’d shifted about Kirk was now he sat sprawled on the sofa, head thrown back like a dead man. Eyes sealed shut, nothing moved about him except when his body vibrated with each heartbeat. I stared fascinated at his hair quivering rhythmically, his shirt, his fingers – everything. Like a dead man, I thought, except for that volcano roiling inside him that threatened to blow him to bits.
“Kirk? You okay, honey?” I asked softly, lowering myself beside him.
Long moments later, he muttered. “Yeah,” still like one comatose. But his voice was strong. I took heart at that.
“Want some coffee?” I asked, needing to do something – anything to draw him from that dark place he now inhabited.
“Huh uh.”
I felt helpless, wanting to console him but not knowing how. I’d learned by now that what comforted ninety-nine point
seventy five per cent of the population did not placate Kirk Crenshaw. I had yet to find that particular formula.
“Well,” I said, shrugging limply. I stood, and turned to leave. “I’ll turn in, honey.” Give you time to execute your own healing.
“It’s a terrible thing, Neecy.” The words floated out so softly I barely caught them. I turned to look at him. His eyes slowly opened, staring into a void somewhere.
“What’s terrible, sweetheart?” I asked.
He looked at me then, his eyes so desolate my breath hitched.
“Wishing my father dead.”
The next morning, Kirk was already dressed for church by the time I gave Heather a bath. I quickly stacked breakfast dishes in the sink then dressed myself and the baby. Kirk liked to get to church early. A true Type A clock watcher.
As we took our seats in the sanctuary, I noted Daddy and Anne’s absence. Again. Daddy had recently taken up smoking again. For Daddy, not a good spiritual sign. Anne was not, at that time, a particularly spiritual being anyway, so playing hookey wasn’t difficult. Trish, however, came in late and sat with us for the opening hymns. Then she whisked Heather away to the nursery.
The service was ordinary. Adult Sunday School Class. After that, three hymns, the offertory and sermon. Only difference was, today Kirk was there. Seemed to hang onto every word of the message about how we shouldn’t just be just pew-warmers.
Preacher Hart, short and squat, yet peculiarly imposing, had really worked himself up by
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