Read Online The Whiskey Sea by Ann Howard Creel - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Ann Howard Creel
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the first cut and watched tendrils of hair drift down to the bedding like feathers, its softness so in opposition to the snow that had started falling earlier and then turned to the ice now clattering on the windows. She made another cut.
“Speaking of beds . . .”
Frieda held still and sucked in a breath. “Do you have to start each sentence that way?” she said, and parroted her sister’s higher-pitched voice: “Speaking of . . .”
“Speaking of beds . . .” Bea repeated. “You should be sharing a bed with a husband by now. You’re twenty years old. Almost an old maid.”
“Pipe down, and stop moving your head.”
“Did you hear me?”
“Of course I heard you. You’re beginning to sound like Silver.”
Bea smiled at her reflection again and swept her eyes to Frieda, then brought them back to the mirror. “We all know you’re going to marry Hicks one day.”
Frieda harrumphed. “If you insist on talking baloney, I’ll cut your hair down to your prissy white scalp!”
A grunting noise came from the other room, a hfff that was almost animalistic. The scissors froze in Frieda’s hand. Then a thud, a muted whack. It didn’t sound like Silver pulling off his boots and letting them fall to the floor. And then a sigh.
A chilling sensation gelled in Frieda’s spine. She tossed down the scissors and ran out of the bedroom.
Silver, spittle foaming at his lips, lay on his side on the rug. His eyes were open and unmoving, his color close to blue. She leapt to his side and started calling his name.
Silver was conscious but couldn’t speak, as if he were lost in some otherworld between life and death. Placing her hands on the sides of Silver’s face, Frieda peered at him. Only his eyes seemed capable of movement, and they looked into hers with a plea.
“Bea, go run for the doctor!”
The doctor said, “A stroke.”
Frieda gulped down the taste of bile in the back of her throat. “Will he get better?”
Hicks stood at her side with his arm around Bea, who was weeping.
By then they’d moved Silver into the bedroom, all of Bea’s books and papers now strewn across the floor.
The doctor seemed to consider each word carefully. “Hard to know. We’ll have to wait and see.”
Frieda squeezed her eyes shut. No!
The one person who had always been their constant, their lighthouse, had now fallen.
Bea sniffled louder, and Frieda looked her way. Her sister’s hair was still half-cut, the back short and the sides hanging down.
CHAPTER FIVE
Three weeks passed, and Silver got no better. One side of his body was flaccid, and he was unable to speak. He could eat and drink if hand-fed, and he could use the old chamber pot a lady from the Catholic church had brought by, but he couldn’t walk or stand without someone supporting the side of his body that had died before he did. Frieda had stopped working to care for him so that Bea could return to school.
During the day she made him meals of soup and mashed food. During the night she slept on the floor, having given Bea the divan. Fighting with the blankets, she often got up to check that Silver was still there, still breathing. Only then could she summon sleep.
On those rare days when the sun came out, she bundled him into sweaters and jackets and helped him limp and drag, limp and drag, out to the porch, sitting him in the old chair, where he’d always loved to linger after a day on the sea. As she sat beside him, she remembered the kind man who had taken them home on the day their mother had died, his patience with two little girls he had known nothing about, the way he had waited while they giggled and fought, pretended to be firm, then tucked them in at night. He had gone out every day on his boat, even when the weather was brutal. She saw him trudging back to the house after a long day on the water, the red light of the sunset landing on him, bringing that last warmth of the day back with him. The way he’d tried to protect the
“Speaking of beds . . .”
Frieda held still and sucked in a breath. “Do you have to start each sentence that way?” she said, and parroted her sister’s higher-pitched voice: “Speaking of . . .”
“Speaking of beds . . .” Bea repeated. “You should be sharing a bed with a husband by now. You’re twenty years old. Almost an old maid.”
“Pipe down, and stop moving your head.”
“Did you hear me?”
“Of course I heard you. You’re beginning to sound like Silver.”
Bea smiled at her reflection again and swept her eyes to Frieda, then brought them back to the mirror. “We all know you’re going to marry Hicks one day.”
Frieda harrumphed. “If you insist on talking baloney, I’ll cut your hair down to your prissy white scalp!”
A grunting noise came from the other room, a hfff that was almost animalistic. The scissors froze in Frieda’s hand. Then a thud, a muted whack. It didn’t sound like Silver pulling off his boots and letting them fall to the floor. And then a sigh.
A chilling sensation gelled in Frieda’s spine. She tossed down the scissors and ran out of the bedroom.
Silver, spittle foaming at his lips, lay on his side on the rug. His eyes were open and unmoving, his color close to blue. She leapt to his side and started calling his name.
Silver was conscious but couldn’t speak, as if he were lost in some otherworld between life and death. Placing her hands on the sides of Silver’s face, Frieda peered at him. Only his eyes seemed capable of movement, and they looked into hers with a plea.
“Bea, go run for the doctor!”
The doctor said, “A stroke.”
Frieda gulped down the taste of bile in the back of her throat. “Will he get better?”
Hicks stood at her side with his arm around Bea, who was weeping.
By then they’d moved Silver into the bedroom, all of Bea’s books and papers now strewn across the floor.
The doctor seemed to consider each word carefully. “Hard to know. We’ll have to wait and see.”
Frieda squeezed her eyes shut. No!
The one person who had always been their constant, their lighthouse, had now fallen.
Bea sniffled louder, and Frieda looked her way. Her sister’s hair was still half-cut, the back short and the sides hanging down.
CHAPTER FIVE
Three weeks passed, and Silver got no better. One side of his body was flaccid, and he was unable to speak. He could eat and drink if hand-fed, and he could use the old chamber pot a lady from the Catholic church had brought by, but he couldn’t walk or stand without someone supporting the side of his body that had died before he did. Frieda had stopped working to care for him so that Bea could return to school.
During the day she made him meals of soup and mashed food. During the night she slept on the floor, having given Bea the divan. Fighting with the blankets, she often got up to check that Silver was still there, still breathing. Only then could she summon sleep.
On those rare days when the sun came out, she bundled him into sweaters and jackets and helped him limp and drag, limp and drag, out to the porch, sitting him in the old chair, where he’d always loved to linger after a day on the sea. As she sat beside him, she remembered the kind man who had taken them home on the day their mother had died, his patience with two little girls he had known nothing about, the way he had waited while they giggled and fought, pretended to be firm, then tucked them in at night. He had gone out every day on his boat, even when the weather was brutal. She saw him trudging back to the house after a long day on the water, the red light of the sunset landing on him, bringing that last warmth of the day back with him. The way he’d tried to protect the
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