Read Online Ken Kuhlken_Hickey Family Mystery 01 by The Loud Adios - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: The Loud Adios
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how she’d flutter her fingers on the top of the water and smile at him. Then his skin caught fever, his balls felt like jumping toads. Even so, for more than a year he didn’t touch her, before the devil got his way.
A cold night, when you couldn’t find a single place in their house where the wind didn’t blow through some crack, he followed her from the bath tub over to her bed. She kept smiling, whispering sounds that didn’t make words. As long as he touched her gently, rubbed soft and slow, she let him do anything. But if he clutched her, made a sudden jump or noise, she tightened into wood and whimpered.
It was only a few times, before he got too afraid she’d tell somebody, and he saw visions of a cavern where creeping and flying things attacked you in the darkness and the only ways out led to ditches you had to cross but they were full of boiling water. After that, even when she wanted him to hold her, he stayed firm-hearted. Two years before the Army called him.
They had no business calling him up, Clifford believed, and he told the draft board about Wendy. But they took him anyway.
He should’ve put her in the Catholic home except Ma was a Baptist. She would’ve sneaked back from the grave with fiery breath before she let her baby go with those nuns. Besides, Wendy begged to stay on the ranch to clean house for the Meyers and Mrs. Meyers was offering to give her a big room and teach her woman things, so Clifford could go off and fight the Japs. And home and Clifford were all she had. And it looked like she didn’t believe him when he promised to come back. Probably in less than a year they’d finish the Japs and Nazis, he supposed. But Wendy didn’t know time exactly—a month and tomorrow weren’t much different to her. And what if he didn’t come back? At the home they’d sure make her a nun and Clifford hated the thought of that. And she might tell the nuns about how Clifford used to hold her, how they lay cinched together all night those times. Besides, she’d always been half a prisoner. Maybe one day there’d come along a man to protect her and give her things that regular folks get. Somebody who’d cherish her and not mind too much that her brain wasn’t just so, and who could forgive Clifford for losing to the devil. A man full of good. Like Pop.
He’d probably done right to leave her with the Meyers except that he shouldn’t have left her at all. Most any man could fight a war but there was nobody like him to keep care of Wendy. That sure proved out. Not two months later.
Most of what happened he’d pieced together when he got leave, after Mr. Meyers called. Only a few parts of the story stayed missing, like he still didn’t know what’d driven her away from the Meyers. Somebody scared her, that was sure, and made her need Clifford.
He hitchhiked to Reno and followed her trail, found she’d sneaked out one night and got on a bus. Then George sat beside her. He was tall and had skin way darker than hers but lighter than most Mexicans. He wore a bright red fancy shirt, and a baseball cap with the letters SD. In Bishop, the rat was drunk. The driver saw him slap Wendy. The driver said he’d have kicked them off except he figured it’d go bad for the girl, then they left the bus in San Bernardino. Four days later, somebody saw them getting on the San Diego bus.
The trail ended there. Nobody at the San Diego depot remembered seeing her get off, and folks most always remembered Wendy. He gave a photo to the dispatcher who showed it to all the drivers and finally one said, yeah, he saw her get off at the border, with a loud Italian guy in a silver shirt.
In TJ Clifford showed her picture to a cabbie—right away he said, “Oh, si, la Rosa Blanca.”
Now Clifford took from his pocket the pint of mescal Pop had left with him. He drained the last sip and threw the bottle hard into the water. Its ripple made rainbow colors. The bottle slowly filled and sank beneath the greasy
A cold night, when you couldn’t find a single place in their house where the wind didn’t blow through some crack, he followed her from the bath tub over to her bed. She kept smiling, whispering sounds that didn’t make words. As long as he touched her gently, rubbed soft and slow, she let him do anything. But if he clutched her, made a sudden jump or noise, she tightened into wood and whimpered.
It was only a few times, before he got too afraid she’d tell somebody, and he saw visions of a cavern where creeping and flying things attacked you in the darkness and the only ways out led to ditches you had to cross but they were full of boiling water. After that, even when she wanted him to hold her, he stayed firm-hearted. Two years before the Army called him.
They had no business calling him up, Clifford believed, and he told the draft board about Wendy. But they took him anyway.
He should’ve put her in the Catholic home except Ma was a Baptist. She would’ve sneaked back from the grave with fiery breath before she let her baby go with those nuns. Besides, Wendy begged to stay on the ranch to clean house for the Meyers and Mrs. Meyers was offering to give her a big room and teach her woman things, so Clifford could go off and fight the Japs. And home and Clifford were all she had. And it looked like she didn’t believe him when he promised to come back. Probably in less than a year they’d finish the Japs and Nazis, he supposed. But Wendy didn’t know time exactly—a month and tomorrow weren’t much different to her. And what if he didn’t come back? At the home they’d sure make her a nun and Clifford hated the thought of that. And she might tell the nuns about how Clifford used to hold her, how they lay cinched together all night those times. Besides, she’d always been half a prisoner. Maybe one day there’d come along a man to protect her and give her things that regular folks get. Somebody who’d cherish her and not mind too much that her brain wasn’t just so, and who could forgive Clifford for losing to the devil. A man full of good. Like Pop.
He’d probably done right to leave her with the Meyers except that he shouldn’t have left her at all. Most any man could fight a war but there was nobody like him to keep care of Wendy. That sure proved out. Not two months later.
Most of what happened he’d pieced together when he got leave, after Mr. Meyers called. Only a few parts of the story stayed missing, like he still didn’t know what’d driven her away from the Meyers. Somebody scared her, that was sure, and made her need Clifford.
He hitchhiked to Reno and followed her trail, found she’d sneaked out one night and got on a bus. Then George sat beside her. He was tall and had skin way darker than hers but lighter than most Mexicans. He wore a bright red fancy shirt, and a baseball cap with the letters SD. In Bishop, the rat was drunk. The driver saw him slap Wendy. The driver said he’d have kicked them off except he figured it’d go bad for the girl, then they left the bus in San Bernardino. Four days later, somebody saw them getting on the San Diego bus.
The trail ended there. Nobody at the San Diego depot remembered seeing her get off, and folks most always remembered Wendy. He gave a photo to the dispatcher who showed it to all the drivers and finally one said, yeah, he saw her get off at the border, with a loud Italian guy in a silver shirt.
In TJ Clifford showed her picture to a cabbie—right away he said, “Oh, si, la Rosa Blanca.”
Now Clifford took from his pocket the pint of mescal Pop had left with him. He drained the last sip and threw the bottle hard into the water. Its ripple made rainbow colors. The bottle slowly filled and sank beneath the greasy
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