problem,â he replied. âOh, and hey, hon, clean up the bathroom a little. Okay?â
In response, Amy slammed the receiver on its cradle, then glared at the dirty dishes piled up on the counter. Defeatedly, she wandered over to the sink and turned on the water. She reached for a plate. âGod, Eddie!â she whispered. What an awful mother she was, leaving him out there. How could she forget her own child? She ran outside, her heart pounding. There hadnât been a peep out of him. She half expected to find him gone.
But he was there, asleep in the carriage, his little hands cupped beneath the double chin.
âDammit, Amy,â she scolded herself aloud. Sheâd never do that again. God only knew how long sheâd left him out there.
Â
Four and a half minutes. Sheâd left the baby alone that long, and heâd just sat in the car, too scared to make a move. Hell, in the past nine weeks, heâd used up almost all his sick days from work so he could watch the house and possibly get an opportunity like the one heâd just blown. Stupid, stupidâ¦
Pulling away from the curb, Carl gripped the steering wheel tightly. Maybe it wasnât meant to be. He just didnât have the nerve to pull it off. He didnât have the money either.
Heâd found an apartment up in Seattle, and on weekends he was furnishing the place that would be his sonâs new home. His money had wings; paying rent on two apartments put an extra bite into his wallet. He was down to his last thousand in the bank.
All the baby things were still at the place on Weidler. He liked having them around, but he couldnât afford to indulge himself much longer. Everything had to be ready in the new apartment if he took the baby. What heâd do for money when he got to Seattle was another question.
Shit, donât think about that now . Carl told himself. You need a nap. Hardly got any sleep last night. Everything seems worse when you havenât had enough sleep. Just a few winks and youâll feel betterâ¦.
But back in his apartment, stripped down to his undershorts and sprawled across the living room sofa with a blanket over him, Carl couldnât fall asleep. Typical. And he was dead tired, too. Even as a kid, heâd been plagued with insomnia.
Back then, he was never sure when closing his eyes to sleep if heâd make it to morning without a beating.
The attacks during the night were the worst. Carl was never quite sure what heâd said or done during the day that set his father off. Maybe heâd eaten the last of the Toll House cookies that night; or yesterday, forgotten to take out the garbage; or last week, been late for dinner. Then again, the old man didnât always need an excuse to start in on him. Sometimes, all it took was a bad day or too much scotch. Heâd wake up Carl with a slap or a blow to the stomach. Often during the night attacks, the old man would grab Carlâs pillow and press it over his face to muffle the screams. Carl would feel the knee come down hard on his stomach, the breath squeezed out of him until heâd think he was going to die. The pressure of the pillow crushing his face sometimes caused a nosebleed.
At first, Mrs. Jorgenson tried to dismiss the attacks as âbad dreams.â Her stock explanation for the bloodstained pillowcase and sheets was: âWell, you must have hit yourself in your sleep again, honey.â Still, she nursed the bruises and cuts. Carl often noticed a puffy discoloration by his motherâs lip or eye that makeup didnât quite camouflage, and he knew the old man was beating up on her, too. But she never let on, not even when Carl asked her. She was adamant that he keep his own suffering a secret as well: âYou mustnât let anyone know about this. It would ruin us.â She made it a point to casually mention to all the other mothers that eleven-year-old Carl was
In response, Amy slammed the receiver on its cradle, then glared at the dirty dishes piled up on the counter. Defeatedly, she wandered over to the sink and turned on the water. She reached for a plate. âGod, Eddie!â she whispered. What an awful mother she was, leaving him out there. How could she forget her own child? She ran outside, her heart pounding. There hadnât been a peep out of him. She half expected to find him gone.
But he was there, asleep in the carriage, his little hands cupped beneath the double chin.
âDammit, Amy,â she scolded herself aloud. Sheâd never do that again. God only knew how long sheâd left him out there.
Â
Four and a half minutes. Sheâd left the baby alone that long, and heâd just sat in the car, too scared to make a move. Hell, in the past nine weeks, heâd used up almost all his sick days from work so he could watch the house and possibly get an opportunity like the one heâd just blown. Stupid, stupidâ¦
Pulling away from the curb, Carl gripped the steering wheel tightly. Maybe it wasnât meant to be. He just didnât have the nerve to pull it off. He didnât have the money either.
Heâd found an apartment up in Seattle, and on weekends he was furnishing the place that would be his sonâs new home. His money had wings; paying rent on two apartments put an extra bite into his wallet. He was down to his last thousand in the bank.
All the baby things were still at the place on Weidler. He liked having them around, but he couldnât afford to indulge himself much longer. Everything had to be ready in the new apartment if he took the baby. What heâd do for money when he got to Seattle was another question.
Shit, donât think about that now . Carl told himself. You need a nap. Hardly got any sleep last night. Everything seems worse when you havenât had enough sleep. Just a few winks and youâll feel betterâ¦.
But back in his apartment, stripped down to his undershorts and sprawled across the living room sofa with a blanket over him, Carl couldnât fall asleep. Typical. And he was dead tired, too. Even as a kid, heâd been plagued with insomnia.
Back then, he was never sure when closing his eyes to sleep if heâd make it to morning without a beating.
The attacks during the night were the worst. Carl was never quite sure what heâd said or done during the day that set his father off. Maybe heâd eaten the last of the Toll House cookies that night; or yesterday, forgotten to take out the garbage; or last week, been late for dinner. Then again, the old man didnât always need an excuse to start in on him. Sometimes, all it took was a bad day or too much scotch. Heâd wake up Carl with a slap or a blow to the stomach. Often during the night attacks, the old man would grab Carlâs pillow and press it over his face to muffle the screams. Carl would feel the knee come down hard on his stomach, the breath squeezed out of him until heâd think he was going to die. The pressure of the pillow crushing his face sometimes caused a nosebleed.
At first, Mrs. Jorgenson tried to dismiss the attacks as âbad dreams.â Her stock explanation for the bloodstained pillowcase and sheets was: âWell, you must have hit yourself in your sleep again, honey.â Still, she nursed the bruises and cuts. Carl often noticed a puffy discoloration by his motherâs lip or eye that makeup didnât quite camouflage, and he knew the old man was beating up on her, too. But she never let on, not even when Carl asked her. She was adamant that he keep his own suffering a secret as well: âYou mustnât let anyone know about this. It would ruin us.â She made it a point to casually mention to all the other mothers that eleven-year-old Carl was
Similar Books
