when she explained things to him, he understood and promised to keep her secret. Even though Joe had a simple mind, she knew without a doubt the boy wouldn't tell a soul about the episode behind the hotel.
She glanced back at the building. If she'd come earlier, Joe might not have had the fit and they'd be sitting on the porch playing Old Maid. Nora felt terrible for making him wait. She would come back tomorrow and hope he'd be well enough to see her.
She took the path behind the stores home. The aroma of coal stoves heating up dinners wafted toward her. Smoke filtered up from the chimneys and dissolved into the gray sky. Her pace quickened. Pa would be home soon.
What was she going to make for dinner? There wasn't much in the tiny cupboards to cook and Pa had drunk away all their money. She sighed. He needed help, and she had to make him see that he was destroying his life as well as hers.
She climbed through the window and closed it quietly behind her. In the kitchen, she skimmed through their meager supplies, not bothering to take down the box that held her mother's jewelry. No, she wouldn't sell the few things she had left of her.
There was one jar of peaches and one jar of pork left, and she placed them on the counter. The bag of cornmeal was the last thing left on the shelf. She'd use that in the morning for their breakfast. They would make do.
She looked out the window at her garden. A handful of carrots and two hills of potatoes remained. They could get by for most of the week, if she were careful. She could make potato soup. The meal would last them a few days. She opened the icebox. Her shoulders sagged and her bottom lip trembled. No milk. She glanced back to the counter. A teaspoon of flour was left in the jar, and she'd used all the baking soda on the sofa earlier.
Inside the cupboard, two empty shelves stared back at her. She squeezed her eyes shut to stop the tears from flowing and pressed her forehead to the wood.
What will we do? Oh Pa, what will we do?
The door swung open and her father came in, harried, filthy and stinking of stale alcohol. How did Jed work with him all day and not be sick?
She planted a smile on her face. "Good evening, Pa. How was work?"
Pa's eyes narrowed. "It was work." He pulled a chair out and slumped down into it.
She fidgeted with her hands, twisting her fingers until they hurt. She opened the jars and put the meat in the frying pan. She needed to talk with him, but she didn't know how. Every time she confronted him about going out or having friends, he'd fly off the handle and spend the rest of the night drinking at the saloon. But she had to say something now. She had to. There was no food left.
He hunched over in his chair half asleep. He was drinking himself to death.
She cleared her throat. "Um, Pa?"
The meat in the pan sizzled and she flipped it with a fork.
He angled his head toward her, but didn't say anything.
She chewed on her bottom lip while wiping her hands up and down on her apron. Quit being a ninny.
"Pa?" she started again. "We need to talk about...about your drinking." She braced herself for what was to come. From head to toe her muscles tensed.
He was silent.
She took two plates of peaches and fried pork to the table. She watched, as he moved the rubbery meat from one end of the plate to the other, never bringing the fork to his mouth. She couldn't blame him because it didn't look appealing.
She stared at him. Was he going to say anything? Taking his silence as a sign that he was willing to listen, she put her fork down and said quickly, "Pa, you have to stop going to the saloon. You have to stop gambling."
He stared at his plate for what seemed an eternity.
She inhaled and waited for him to speak.
He placed his elbows on the table and folded his hands. His blue eyes penetrated right through her. "No daughter of mine will tell me what to do," he growled, deep and low.
"But, Pa, you've spent all our money again. You gambled and drank it all
She glanced back at the building. If she'd come earlier, Joe might not have had the fit and they'd be sitting on the porch playing Old Maid. Nora felt terrible for making him wait. She would come back tomorrow and hope he'd be well enough to see her.
She took the path behind the stores home. The aroma of coal stoves heating up dinners wafted toward her. Smoke filtered up from the chimneys and dissolved into the gray sky. Her pace quickened. Pa would be home soon.
What was she going to make for dinner? There wasn't much in the tiny cupboards to cook and Pa had drunk away all their money. She sighed. He needed help, and she had to make him see that he was destroying his life as well as hers.
She climbed through the window and closed it quietly behind her. In the kitchen, she skimmed through their meager supplies, not bothering to take down the box that held her mother's jewelry. No, she wouldn't sell the few things she had left of her.
There was one jar of peaches and one jar of pork left, and she placed them on the counter. The bag of cornmeal was the last thing left on the shelf. She'd use that in the morning for their breakfast. They would make do.
She looked out the window at her garden. A handful of carrots and two hills of potatoes remained. They could get by for most of the week, if she were careful. She could make potato soup. The meal would last them a few days. She opened the icebox. Her shoulders sagged and her bottom lip trembled. No milk. She glanced back to the counter. A teaspoon of flour was left in the jar, and she'd used all the baking soda on the sofa earlier.
Inside the cupboard, two empty shelves stared back at her. She squeezed her eyes shut to stop the tears from flowing and pressed her forehead to the wood.
What will we do? Oh Pa, what will we do?
The door swung open and her father came in, harried, filthy and stinking of stale alcohol. How did Jed work with him all day and not be sick?
She planted a smile on her face. "Good evening, Pa. How was work?"
Pa's eyes narrowed. "It was work." He pulled a chair out and slumped down into it.
She fidgeted with her hands, twisting her fingers until they hurt. She opened the jars and put the meat in the frying pan. She needed to talk with him, but she didn't know how. Every time she confronted him about going out or having friends, he'd fly off the handle and spend the rest of the night drinking at the saloon. But she had to say something now. She had to. There was no food left.
He hunched over in his chair half asleep. He was drinking himself to death.
She cleared her throat. "Um, Pa?"
The meat in the pan sizzled and she flipped it with a fork.
He angled his head toward her, but didn't say anything.
She chewed on her bottom lip while wiping her hands up and down on her apron. Quit being a ninny.
"Pa?" she started again. "We need to talk about...about your drinking." She braced herself for what was to come. From head to toe her muscles tensed.
He was silent.
She took two plates of peaches and fried pork to the table. She watched, as he moved the rubbery meat from one end of the plate to the other, never bringing the fork to his mouth. She couldn't blame him because it didn't look appealing.
She stared at him. Was he going to say anything? Taking his silence as a sign that he was willing to listen, she put her fork down and said quickly, "Pa, you have to stop going to the saloon. You have to stop gambling."
He stared at his plate for what seemed an eternity.
She inhaled and waited for him to speak.
He placed his elbows on the table and folded his hands. His blue eyes penetrated right through her. "No daughter of mine will tell me what to do," he growled, deep and low.
"But, Pa, you've spent all our money again. You gambled and drank it all
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