Read Online Ken Kuhlken_Hickey Family Mystery 01 by The Loud Adios - Free Book Online
Authors: The Loud Adios
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swam in icy water. They were drinking soda in Tahoe City when a man approached them trying to sell land. Wendy got so excited that Pa walked off with the man and came back in a minute saying he’d bought her a place. Wendy believed him. She didn’t know about lies. It was the greatest day Wendy ever lived—she said that a lot of times after. Even two years later, when they were at church she told a preacher, “We been to Heaven, got us a piece of land there.”
She always smiled, too much, Pa said. You could warn her that men got crazy but she’d forget and smile at most anybody who looked her way and if it was men they’d get ideas. Folks who didn’t know her never could suspect she was a moron. She didn’t act stupid. For weeks she’d be talking, learning things, keeping her eyes on what was real, until Pa would get raging over something and take her out back, out of sight by the river, to whip her, he said. He might’ve whipped her when she was little, before she got her figure. After that, Clifford believed, he punished her a different way too. Every time she got punished, Wendy stopped talking again. Still, she didn’t act stupid, or smart either, but just like Wendy, quiet as a sleepwalker and with the brightest eyes, the softest touch. Nothing goofy-looking about her.
She didn’t have friends and Clifford supposed she got lonely, but she didn’t act so. She puttered around and played with the cats and sang or hummed to herself and the horses while she brushed them down. She learned to cook some and to clean the house and tend the garden and Ma finally taught her to read one Bible story out of a book made for six-year-olds. Ma taught her an easy solitaire game. The problem with trying to teach her, she’d keep her mind on the learning awhile, then her eyes would drift and she’d be smiling about things nobody else knew.
Ma got TB in 1936 but dying took her two years. About halfway through that time Pa started getting headaches that turned him meaner still. One time, after Ma died, all Wendy did was not hear him yell, and he was leading her out back. Clifford tried to stop them. Pa smacked him, caught him with the bone of an elbow right beside his ear, so Clifford let loose, ran for the woodpile and grabbed up a board. When Pa chased him down and lunged to clobber him again, the old man got a rib busted.
It was lying there, crippled up, nothing much to do but think, which broke the old man’s spirit. Made the rage go inside. A tumor started growing in his brain. It killed him, about a year after Ma died.
All he left was the rusty pickup and a broken down tractor that Clifford gave to a neighbor in trade for the deed to ninety feet of rocky shore at Lake Tahoe. That was something Pa had meant to do for three years.
Clifford was sixteen. He stopped going to school and took Pa’s ranch job. Wendy followed him around. She rode along on back of the horse when he went out mending fences. In winter she rode on the wagon, helping him carry feed to the pastures. He taught her fishing and throwing baseballs and poker.
Most Saturdays they drove into Reno for a movie or a soda. He could’ve left her in care of the Meyers who owned the ranch, but he would’ve felt bad, leaving her there like a nobody. In town the men gawked at her. He told her not to smile at them, but she might forget. She got whistles and sometimes a fellow walked over and asked her for a date. Clifford had to say no and maybe the guy said dirty things about them. Then Clifford took Wendy home and came back the next day alone—his nose got bent so he only had one breathing nostril and his jaw still popped when he opened wide, from those fights.
Meantime, Wendy kept forgetting to be modest. Like she’d call from her bath and ask Clifford to bring more hot water, especially in winter when the water nearly froze as you poured. He could’ve said no or gone in without looking but he didn’t because he wanted to see her, he dreamed about it,
She always smiled, too much, Pa said. You could warn her that men got crazy but she’d forget and smile at most anybody who looked her way and if it was men they’d get ideas. Folks who didn’t know her never could suspect she was a moron. She didn’t act stupid. For weeks she’d be talking, learning things, keeping her eyes on what was real, until Pa would get raging over something and take her out back, out of sight by the river, to whip her, he said. He might’ve whipped her when she was little, before she got her figure. After that, Clifford believed, he punished her a different way too. Every time she got punished, Wendy stopped talking again. Still, she didn’t act stupid, or smart either, but just like Wendy, quiet as a sleepwalker and with the brightest eyes, the softest touch. Nothing goofy-looking about her.
She didn’t have friends and Clifford supposed she got lonely, but she didn’t act so. She puttered around and played with the cats and sang or hummed to herself and the horses while she brushed them down. She learned to cook some and to clean the house and tend the garden and Ma finally taught her to read one Bible story out of a book made for six-year-olds. Ma taught her an easy solitaire game. The problem with trying to teach her, she’d keep her mind on the learning awhile, then her eyes would drift and she’d be smiling about things nobody else knew.
Ma got TB in 1936 but dying took her two years. About halfway through that time Pa started getting headaches that turned him meaner still. One time, after Ma died, all Wendy did was not hear him yell, and he was leading her out back. Clifford tried to stop them. Pa smacked him, caught him with the bone of an elbow right beside his ear, so Clifford let loose, ran for the woodpile and grabbed up a board. When Pa chased him down and lunged to clobber him again, the old man got a rib busted.
It was lying there, crippled up, nothing much to do but think, which broke the old man’s spirit. Made the rage go inside. A tumor started growing in his brain. It killed him, about a year after Ma died.
All he left was the rusty pickup and a broken down tractor that Clifford gave to a neighbor in trade for the deed to ninety feet of rocky shore at Lake Tahoe. That was something Pa had meant to do for three years.
Clifford was sixteen. He stopped going to school and took Pa’s ranch job. Wendy followed him around. She rode along on back of the horse when he went out mending fences. In winter she rode on the wagon, helping him carry feed to the pastures. He taught her fishing and throwing baseballs and poker.
Most Saturdays they drove into Reno for a movie or a soda. He could’ve left her in care of the Meyers who owned the ranch, but he would’ve felt bad, leaving her there like a nobody. In town the men gawked at her. He told her not to smile at them, but she might forget. She got whistles and sometimes a fellow walked over and asked her for a date. Clifford had to say no and maybe the guy said dirty things about them. Then Clifford took Wendy home and came back the next day alone—his nose got bent so he only had one breathing nostril and his jaw still popped when he opened wide, from those fights.
Meantime, Wendy kept forgetting to be modest. Like she’d call from her bath and ask Clifford to bring more hot water, especially in winter when the water nearly froze as you poured. He could’ve said no or gone in without looking but he didn’t because he wanted to see her, he dreamed about it,
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