Read Online Stranger in the House by Patricia MacDonald - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Patricia MacDonald
Tags: USA
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vest. “I’m really…I’m used to Billy,” the boy said as he edged into the house, clutching his few belongings.
4
A lthough the weather-faded wooden sign on the La-Z Pines Motel billboard promised air-conditioned rooms, the unit in Albert Rambo’s window was nearly impotent, and the sheen of sweat on his skin from the outside did not dissolve inside the room. Rambo wiped the film off his face and heaved a sigh. The hair on his head was thinning, and his white scalp glowed in the gloomy room. The smell of the chicken in the little striped cardboard box he’d found in the garbage can outside Kentucky Fried Chicken made him feel faint. He felt tired, too. Tired of running.
The thought of his predicament filled him with a sickish feeling. He had always kind of stayed put after he married Dorothy Lee. When he was younger, he had bummed around, but then they had settled down and got that trailer. They had moved only once or twice after that: once when they got Billy and then again when they bought the trailer. And of course, there had been the times in the hospital. But he didn’t like to count those. He had long since lost his taste for moving around. Besides, Dorothy Lee had liked to stay put and make a home for the boy.
Remembering his wife caused a brief rage to stir in him; it then subsided into the familiar dead despair. How could she do this to him? Tell the minister everything and leave him to the wolves. After all, he had done it for her in the first place. It was his biggest mistake. He’d known it almost from the start. After the day they got Billy, she cared more for that son of Satan than she ever had for him. That little bastard with his evil eye. She denied it, but Albert knew it. And this was the proof. His eyes narrowed bitterly as they took in the parameters of the shabby room.
Having dragged himself off the chair, he walked over to the old Zenith TV set and flicked it on. He did not want to think about it anymore. He wanted to eat his chicken and just sit. Tomorrow he would make a plan of what to do.
The ten o’clock news came on as Rambo lifted a drumstick to his salivating mouth. The announcer promised that a visit to the Lange home was coming up. Disgusted, Rambo thought of changing the channel and then decided to leave it. The story fascinated him almost as much as it infuriated him. He only hoped that they did not show his picture on the TV again tonight. In a way, he was lucky that no one had ever cared much to take pictures of him. Once that kid came along, Dorothy Lee wasted all the film on Billy. The ones they usually flashed of Rambo were so grainy and distorted that you could hardly recognize him, the bill of his ever-present cap always throwing a shadow across his face. For a minute he wondered if he should get a different hat. Then he realized that he had no money to buy a new one. Maybe in the thrift shop. He might be able to pick one up for a quarter, although he hated the idea of wearing somebody else’s dirty hat on his head. The germs could probably get into your body through the hair.
Sweat began to stream off him again at the thought of the spot he was in. His stomach felt knotted, and he suddenly felt unable to eat. He sat immobile on the bed, the drumstick dangling from his fingers, lost in a miasma of fears. Two voices inside his head began to chant something unintelligible about death. Rambo strained to make it out. Then his stomach growled, drowning out words, reminding him of his hunger. He lifted the drumstick to his mouth and bit into it.
The reporter on the tube was talking about a happy ending at the Langes’ house, which was just visible behind the reporter. It looked like a mansion. Rambo thought of Billy, that evil little fiend, moving into all that luxury. Didn’t that just tear it? Little old Billy bedding down in roses while he, who had taken care of that kid, had to spend his life running and hiding for his trouble.
Suddenly the drumstick fell from his
4
A lthough the weather-faded wooden sign on the La-Z Pines Motel billboard promised air-conditioned rooms, the unit in Albert Rambo’s window was nearly impotent, and the sheen of sweat on his skin from the outside did not dissolve inside the room. Rambo wiped the film off his face and heaved a sigh. The hair on his head was thinning, and his white scalp glowed in the gloomy room. The smell of the chicken in the little striped cardboard box he’d found in the garbage can outside Kentucky Fried Chicken made him feel faint. He felt tired, too. Tired of running.
The thought of his predicament filled him with a sickish feeling. He had always kind of stayed put after he married Dorothy Lee. When he was younger, he had bummed around, but then they had settled down and got that trailer. They had moved only once or twice after that: once when they got Billy and then again when they bought the trailer. And of course, there had been the times in the hospital. But he didn’t like to count those. He had long since lost his taste for moving around. Besides, Dorothy Lee had liked to stay put and make a home for the boy.
Remembering his wife caused a brief rage to stir in him; it then subsided into the familiar dead despair. How could she do this to him? Tell the minister everything and leave him to the wolves. After all, he had done it for her in the first place. It was his biggest mistake. He’d known it almost from the start. After the day they got Billy, she cared more for that son of Satan than she ever had for him. That little bastard with his evil eye. She denied it, but Albert knew it. And this was the proof. His eyes narrowed bitterly as they took in the parameters of the shabby room.
Having dragged himself off the chair, he walked over to the old Zenith TV set and flicked it on. He did not want to think about it anymore. He wanted to eat his chicken and just sit. Tomorrow he would make a plan of what to do.
The ten o’clock news came on as Rambo lifted a drumstick to his salivating mouth. The announcer promised that a visit to the Lange home was coming up. Disgusted, Rambo thought of changing the channel and then decided to leave it. The story fascinated him almost as much as it infuriated him. He only hoped that they did not show his picture on the TV again tonight. In a way, he was lucky that no one had ever cared much to take pictures of him. Once that kid came along, Dorothy Lee wasted all the film on Billy. The ones they usually flashed of Rambo were so grainy and distorted that you could hardly recognize him, the bill of his ever-present cap always throwing a shadow across his face. For a minute he wondered if he should get a different hat. Then he realized that he had no money to buy a new one. Maybe in the thrift shop. He might be able to pick one up for a quarter, although he hated the idea of wearing somebody else’s dirty hat on his head. The germs could probably get into your body through the hair.
Sweat began to stream off him again at the thought of the spot he was in. His stomach felt knotted, and he suddenly felt unable to eat. He sat immobile on the bed, the drumstick dangling from his fingers, lost in a miasma of fears. Two voices inside his head began to chant something unintelligible about death. Rambo strained to make it out. Then his stomach growled, drowning out words, reminding him of his hunger. He lifted the drumstick to his mouth and bit into it.
The reporter on the tube was talking about a happy ending at the Langes’ house, which was just visible behind the reporter. It looked like a mansion. Rambo thought of Billy, that evil little fiend, moving into all that luxury. Didn’t that just tear it? Little old Billy bedding down in roses while he, who had taken care of that kid, had to spend his life running and hiding for his trouble.
Suddenly the drumstick fell from his
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