Read Online Miss Spitfire by Sarah Miller - Free Book Online

it?”
    â€œWhat is it? I’ll show you exactly what it is!” With a wincing flourish I spit a messy gob of tooth and blood into my hand and thrust my palm under her nose. “There! Your lovely little girl did that to me. Now, where is she?”
    Mrs. Keller pales. “Miss Annie, please. You must consider …” She hesitates a moment, uneasy at the force of my anger. “Helen doesn’t know any better.”
    â€œThat won’t be so when I’m done with her.”
    My threat makes her lips stiffen. “It’s hardly fair to punish her for something she doesn’t understand.” She lays a hand over the newel post, subtly blocking my path to the door. The poise I admire so much in her suddenly infuriates me.
    â€œYou want to talk about fair when I’m standinghere with a mouthful of blood and a gap in my jaw? I’ll tell you something, Mrs. Keller, there’ll be no ‘fair’ in this house while that she-devil runs loose!”
    Her eyes lower for an instant, but her body doesn’t budge. “I’ll have Viny bring in some ice and rags for your mouth,” she says, meeting my gaze at last. Frost tinges her blue eyes; the corners of her mouth waver.
    I shudder as my fists clench, digging the broken tooth into my palm. My voice rasps, “I’ll be in my room.”
    She looks me over once more, then turns and hurries down the hall toward the back door. Once, she sends a nervous glance over her shoulder. I haven’t moved an inch, though my fist grips tighter and tighter round my ruined tooth, until I think my knuckles will burst open. When the door shuts at last, I scream and fling the bloody handful down the hall behind her.
    The sound rips through my jaw, leaving me in a panting heap on the bottom step. All I can do is sit with my hand cupped over my lips, sucking cool air through my nose to warm in my lungs before I let it touch my throbbing mouth. The feeling is as raw as my memories.
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    The lamp gutters low, and my mother moans in the bed. My brothers and sisters are asleep, but in the next room I hear voices, their edges dulled by drink. My father’s is one of them. Roused by the wavering melody,I grope my way out of bed. Inside the doorway I stop in surprise when my hands blunder into a feathered lump hanging from the wall. My fingers find a fanned tail and scaly claws—a turkey! Around the table I make out the shapes of four men, joking and singing to the tune of “Seven Drunken Nights.” I hear the slap of cards on the table, and I know they’re gambling. Up to the table I go, determined that my father should win. I put out my hand to touch one of the cards, and someone slaps it away. My temper flares, but another hairy hand pats mine, lingering a moment too long. Someone sniggers across the table, and I yank my fingers out from under the heavy paw. I scurry back to my mother’s bedside, but she’s too ill even to toss or turn.
    The night wears on and the lamp flickers lower. Before long the men are guffawing and making up their own verses to the song. In the bed my mother whimpers and cries softly as their language grows more powerful and the house begins to rattle with the stomping of their feet. “Annie,” she whispers, “ask them to go. Please.”
    Back in the next room, I creep to my father’s elbow. “Dad, Mam says would the men please go home.” My father’s hand explodes across my cheek, and the group lets out a raucous laugh. One of the men sways up from his chair and falls to the floor.
I hope he dies,
I fume to myself, but he wobbles to his feet, pulls the turkey from the wall, and staggers out the door. Away they stumble, one by one, and I hear them calling,“Merry Christmas!” through the icy wind. At last the lamp goes out, and I vow no one will hit me again.
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    With a sigh I