Read Online Tourists of the Apocalypse by C. F. WALLER - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: C. F. WALLER
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across the table then his posture softens. “You into Izzy?” he asks, wiggling his eyebrows as he waits for an answer.
“Of course not,” I blurt out quickly, but to be honest I cannot imagine why any man would not be into her. My face feels flushed just thinking these words. Ah, but were I a little older.
“Right, well don’t be,” he warns.
Before I can muster a reply, shouting can be heard from the street. Graham hops up and peeks out the window. Seeing something he doesn’t like, he moves to the door and heads out. Pulling the curtains back I glimpse Izzy and Lance shouting at each other as they stand in their own front lawn. Before Graham can get to them, Lance grabs her by the throat and stops her yelling. Her hands come up to her neck, but he backs her up slowly. The look on his face is terrifying.
I flash back to a myriad of memories where Jarod beat up on my mother and feel sick. My stomach turns and cold sweat breaks out on my forehead. When Graham arrives Lance holds out a finger in his direction which stops him from interceding on Izzy’s behalf. Why doesn’t he get Lance off her? He certainly didn’t pause when Jarrod hit my Mom.
Determined to stop this, I head out to the porch, and arrive in time see Lance release her neck. Gasping, Izzy drops into the grass holding her throat. She snarls at Lance, who frowns and goes back in the house. Graham bends down to comfort Izzy, who buries her face into his shoulder and appears to cry. I freeze on the porch steps, not wanting to interrupt their private huddle.
“What’s going on?” my mother asks quietly from inside the door.
“Nothing,” I blurt, not wanting her to see any domestic violence. I have spent enough time trying to re-integrate her back into society after her brush with Jarrod. I don’t need her seeing this and regressing back to whispering everything.
“Sounded like something?”
“Nope, nothing to see here,” I remark, turning her by the arm in the direction of the dining area. “What should we do about this lonely piece of cake?”
…
Dickey’s mother passes away a week before Christmas. My mother, while able to speak aloud, still fears leaving the house. Izzy and Graham go with me to the funeral. T-Buck and Graham have a verbal altercation before we leave, but after some loud words he doesn’t try to stop Graham from accompanying me. I am surprised T-Buck doesn’t want to go along, but with Lance out at the construction site this week he stays home to watch over the flock.
I had never met Dickey’s mother, thus the stark face of her corpse has little or no effect on me. I do feel bad for her son, who stands by the door shaking hands as people leave. It is surprising how many people attend. There have to be seventy people milling about the Saint Catherine Catholic Church downtown. It would seat twice as many, but since his mother never left the house it feels like a good turnout.
Dickey wears a worn black suit jacket a size too small for him. The sleeves are several inches from his wrists and the one button he managed to get buttoned looks like it may pop at any moment. No dress pants, just black jeans and his work boots. I imagine him wearing this jacket as a child and try to picture his life with both parents and a bright future. How old is Dickey? The plant has been closed since September and I am not sure what he’s doing for an income. I imagine him delivering pizzas, but doubt many of the towns folk can afford one these days.
My mother is hosting a wake after the funeral, so we all head out in advance of Dickey. It’s dark when we pull up the street, but notice Lance’s car sitting in his driveway. Graham and Izzy share a whisper, but neither speaks to me. We pile out of Grahams truck and head inside to discover Lance already sitting at the round table drinking a beer. A half dozen other guests are milling about as well. Izzy ignores Lance and goes into the kitchen with my mother. Graham joins Lance
“Of course not,” I blurt out quickly, but to be honest I cannot imagine why any man would not be into her. My face feels flushed just thinking these words. Ah, but were I a little older.
“Right, well don’t be,” he warns.
Before I can muster a reply, shouting can be heard from the street. Graham hops up and peeks out the window. Seeing something he doesn’t like, he moves to the door and heads out. Pulling the curtains back I glimpse Izzy and Lance shouting at each other as they stand in their own front lawn. Before Graham can get to them, Lance grabs her by the throat and stops her yelling. Her hands come up to her neck, but he backs her up slowly. The look on his face is terrifying.
I flash back to a myriad of memories where Jarod beat up on my mother and feel sick. My stomach turns and cold sweat breaks out on my forehead. When Graham arrives Lance holds out a finger in his direction which stops him from interceding on Izzy’s behalf. Why doesn’t he get Lance off her? He certainly didn’t pause when Jarrod hit my Mom.
Determined to stop this, I head out to the porch, and arrive in time see Lance release her neck. Gasping, Izzy drops into the grass holding her throat. She snarls at Lance, who frowns and goes back in the house. Graham bends down to comfort Izzy, who buries her face into his shoulder and appears to cry. I freeze on the porch steps, not wanting to interrupt their private huddle.
“What’s going on?” my mother asks quietly from inside the door.
“Nothing,” I blurt, not wanting her to see any domestic violence. I have spent enough time trying to re-integrate her back into society after her brush with Jarrod. I don’t need her seeing this and regressing back to whispering everything.
“Sounded like something?”
“Nope, nothing to see here,” I remark, turning her by the arm in the direction of the dining area. “What should we do about this lonely piece of cake?”
…
Dickey’s mother passes away a week before Christmas. My mother, while able to speak aloud, still fears leaving the house. Izzy and Graham go with me to the funeral. T-Buck and Graham have a verbal altercation before we leave, but after some loud words he doesn’t try to stop Graham from accompanying me. I am surprised T-Buck doesn’t want to go along, but with Lance out at the construction site this week he stays home to watch over the flock.
I had never met Dickey’s mother, thus the stark face of her corpse has little or no effect on me. I do feel bad for her son, who stands by the door shaking hands as people leave. It is surprising how many people attend. There have to be seventy people milling about the Saint Catherine Catholic Church downtown. It would seat twice as many, but since his mother never left the house it feels like a good turnout.
Dickey wears a worn black suit jacket a size too small for him. The sleeves are several inches from his wrists and the one button he managed to get buttoned looks like it may pop at any moment. No dress pants, just black jeans and his work boots. I imagine him wearing this jacket as a child and try to picture his life with both parents and a bright future. How old is Dickey? The plant has been closed since September and I am not sure what he’s doing for an income. I imagine him delivering pizzas, but doubt many of the towns folk can afford one these days.
My mother is hosting a wake after the funeral, so we all head out in advance of Dickey. It’s dark when we pull up the street, but notice Lance’s car sitting in his driveway. Graham and Izzy share a whisper, but neither speaks to me. We pile out of Grahams truck and head inside to discover Lance already sitting at the round table drinking a beer. A half dozen other guests are milling about as well. Izzy ignores Lance and goes into the kitchen with my mother. Graham joins Lance
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