Read Online Shattered by Eric Walters - Free Book Online

when I was little I spoke English with a Spanish accent. That shouldn’t have been a surprise since she’d spent more time with me than my mother did.
    â€œMuch more to go?” Mac asked.
    â€œAlmost done.”
    â€œGood. When you’re finished, you can start bringing out the plates and cups and utensils.”
    â€œSure. By the way, what’s for supper tonight?” I asked.
    â€œSpaghetti with meat sauce.” Mac lifted the lid on the biggest pot I’d ever seen. He grabbed a wooden spoon— a spoon that was about the same size as a canoe paddle— and stirred the bright red sauce that was bubbling away. He needed to use both hands to move the contents.
    â€œI make sure there’s lots and lots of vegetables in the sauce,” Mac said. “Best thing to protect’em from getting scurvy.”
    â€œScurvy? Isn’t that what sailors got in the old days … you know … like Christopher Columbus?”
    â€œYep. Being at sea for a long time without fruits and vegetables does that.”
    â€œAnd street people get it?” I asked.
    â€œThey don’t get what you’d call a balanced diet.
    Speaking of which, have you eaten?” Mac asked.
    I hadn’t and it was too early to claim I had. I shook my head.
    â€œFinish up and I’ll set out two bowls before we let the crowd in. Okay?”
    â€œYou sure there’ll be enough for everybody?” I asked. “There will be, but that’s mighty nice of you to ask.”
    I WAS IN CHARGE of serving the spaghetti. I was using a big pair of serving tongs. Mac was putting on the sauce. His job was way easier. The noodles were hard to get out of the pot and onto the plate. It almost seemed like they were alive and struggling to stay in the pot so they wouldn’t be eaten. And when I did convince the noodles to leave, it was hard to get just the right amount, the right serving size. If I put on too much, I couldn’t very well reach out and take it back, and if I didn’t put out enough,I could get somebody mad. It was much simpler serving the stew the other night—two scoops, plop, plop.
    An old grizzled man stood in front of me, tray in hand.
    I wondered how old he was. I was finding that everybody looked old and worn. He could have been fifty but he could have been one hundred and fifty.
    â€œIs it any good?” he asked.
    â€œIt’s really good,” I answered. It was good enough for me to have eaten two full servings.
    â€œIt don’t smell right.”
    I thought it smelled pretty good. “It’s the garlic in the sauce you’re smelling.”
    â€œThey put somethin’ in the sauce?” he asked. “There’s lots of things. Garlic, green peppers, onions and—”
    â€œSays who?” the old man demanded.
    â€œWell … me, I guess.”
    â€œAnd who are you and who do you work for?” the old man snapped.
    I didn’t know what to say. The old man started to snarl, his teeth—those that he had—yellowed and crooked and grubby, were locked together in a fierce-looking grimace, and he started to make a strange noise. Was he growling?
    â€œWhat did you put in that sauce?” he yelled. He raised his fist and started shaking it toward me.
    I backed a half step away. I felt a rush of adrenaline surge through my body. I realized that everybody had stopped talking or shuffling or eating and all eyes were on us.
    â€œI didn’t put anything in the—”
    â€œIt’s okay,” Mac said, stepping forward and cutting me off.
    â€œHow do I know it ain’t poisoned?” the old man demanded. “How do I know this ain’t another plot to get me and everybody else in here?” He gestured around the room.
    â€œCome on, buddy, you’ve been coming here a long time. You know I wouldn’t poison you or let anybody else poison you,” Mac reasoned. “You know me.”
    The old man