Read Online The Betrayers by James Patrick Hunt - Free Book Online
Authors: James Patrick Hunt
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Karen Brady looked at him, confused. But she didnât ask why and he didnât tell.
TEN
Dillon liked the Stoufferâs prepackaged macaroni baked in the oven because if you heated it in the microwave, you couldnât get the cheese to brown on top. Sharon had cooked it in the microwave once, thinking he wouldnât know the difference, but he had, and he threw it against the wall and made her clean it up. Sharon Dunphy had wiped the sauce and noodles off the wall and floor and told herself that Mike had never hit her. Never slapped her or cuffed her on the head. She just had to remember to do things properly.
Dillon had said to her once, âWhat do I ask from you? Huh? Come on, tell me. What do I ask of you?â
What he asked of her was that she have a decent meal on the table every night at six oâclock. Not much, he said, considering that he was paying for the food as well as her mortgage. In fact, he didnât even press for sex. Once every couple of weeks or so, he would take her to bed. Which she didnât mind so much. Mike Dillon was older than she was, but he was not a mean-spirited lover. No rough stuff. And he looked good naked for a man of his age. There were times when Sharon wondered if Mike even enjoyed doing it. She wondered if he was making love to her not because he wanted to, but to prevent her from thinking he was a fag or something. They said it happened to some men when they served long prison sentences. Get used to things men shouldnât get used to. He had told her he spent most of his twenties and early thirties in Leavenworth.
Tonight, she had cooked the macaroni in the oven and she didnât take it out until a brown crust had formed on top. She took it out of the oven and transferred the steaming pile from its plastic dish to a dinner plate. She took asparagus from the stovetop and put it next to the macaroni.
Then she put a dinner roll on the side. One roll, not two. Mike was always careful about keeping dinner portions small. Fifty years old and no stomach on him.
Mike Dillon put the St. Louis Post-Dispatch down as Sharon put his plate in front of him. He said, âWhereâre the kids?â
Sharon said, âMattâs at band practice. Leeâs at her friendâs.â
Dillon frowned. âThey should be here for dinner,â he said.
They werenât his kids. But he was funny about these things. The family should eat together, he said, even if the family was not his. Sharon shrugged, hoping he would leave it alone for now, and he did. At another time, he might have lost his temper and told her she was a shitty mom, maybe broken something and walked out. But tonight he let it go. You could never tell what Mike was going to do.
At thirty-two, Sharon Dunphy was eighteen years younger than Mike Dillon. She was an attractive woman with blond hair she usually wore in a ponytail. In makeup and nice clothes, she would have been very pretty. Prettier still without a look of fear and dread wearing down her expression.
The father of her children, Matt Senior, had worked for one of Dillonâs associates years ago. But he got caught driving a truckload of stolen cigarettes near Kansas City and had to go away for a seven-year stretch. Before that, Matt had introduced her to Dillon like he was the pope or something. Dillon had made a point of remembering her when he showed up in St. Louis a couple of years agoâthis time to stay, apparently. Dillon said it was a shame about Matt getting caught, but he was here now and he wanted to take care of her and the kids. He had his own place, but he liked to have dinner at their house at least three times a week.
This night, he finished his dinner and put his plate in the kitchen sink. Rinsed off the gunk and put it in the dishwasher. Sharon remained at the table. Dillon put his windbreaker on and kissed her on the top of her head.
âIâll see you later,â he said.
She looked at
Karen Brady looked at him, confused. But she didnât ask why and he didnât tell.
TEN
Dillon liked the Stoufferâs prepackaged macaroni baked in the oven because if you heated it in the microwave, you couldnât get the cheese to brown on top. Sharon had cooked it in the microwave once, thinking he wouldnât know the difference, but he had, and he threw it against the wall and made her clean it up. Sharon Dunphy had wiped the sauce and noodles off the wall and floor and told herself that Mike had never hit her. Never slapped her or cuffed her on the head. She just had to remember to do things properly.
Dillon had said to her once, âWhat do I ask from you? Huh? Come on, tell me. What do I ask of you?â
What he asked of her was that she have a decent meal on the table every night at six oâclock. Not much, he said, considering that he was paying for the food as well as her mortgage. In fact, he didnât even press for sex. Once every couple of weeks or so, he would take her to bed. Which she didnât mind so much. Mike Dillon was older than she was, but he was not a mean-spirited lover. No rough stuff. And he looked good naked for a man of his age. There were times when Sharon wondered if Mike even enjoyed doing it. She wondered if he was making love to her not because he wanted to, but to prevent her from thinking he was a fag or something. They said it happened to some men when they served long prison sentences. Get used to things men shouldnât get used to. He had told her he spent most of his twenties and early thirties in Leavenworth.
Tonight, she had cooked the macaroni in the oven and she didnât take it out until a brown crust had formed on top. She took it out of the oven and transferred the steaming pile from its plastic dish to a dinner plate. She took asparagus from the stovetop and put it next to the macaroni.
Then she put a dinner roll on the side. One roll, not two. Mike was always careful about keeping dinner portions small. Fifty years old and no stomach on him.
Mike Dillon put the St. Louis Post-Dispatch down as Sharon put his plate in front of him. He said, âWhereâre the kids?â
Sharon said, âMattâs at band practice. Leeâs at her friendâs.â
Dillon frowned. âThey should be here for dinner,â he said.
They werenât his kids. But he was funny about these things. The family should eat together, he said, even if the family was not his. Sharon shrugged, hoping he would leave it alone for now, and he did. At another time, he might have lost his temper and told her she was a shitty mom, maybe broken something and walked out. But tonight he let it go. You could never tell what Mike was going to do.
At thirty-two, Sharon Dunphy was eighteen years younger than Mike Dillon. She was an attractive woman with blond hair she usually wore in a ponytail. In makeup and nice clothes, she would have been very pretty. Prettier still without a look of fear and dread wearing down her expression.
The father of her children, Matt Senior, had worked for one of Dillonâs associates years ago. But he got caught driving a truckload of stolen cigarettes near Kansas City and had to go away for a seven-year stretch. Before that, Matt had introduced her to Dillon like he was the pope or something. Dillon had made a point of remembering her when he showed up in St. Louis a couple of years agoâthis time to stay, apparently. Dillon said it was a shame about Matt getting caught, but he was here now and he wanted to take care of her and the kids. He had his own place, but he liked to have dinner at their house at least three times a week.
This night, he finished his dinner and put his plate in the kitchen sink. Rinsed off the gunk and put it in the dishwasher. Sharon remained at the table. Dillon put his windbreaker on and kissed her on the top of her head.
âIâll see you later,â he said.
She looked at
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