BlackWind (7 page)

Recognizing the love mirrored in the other boy's eyes, Sean nodded. “It's different between me and her.”

“I wouldn't know,” Dave lamented, “and I don't guess I ever will. Not now, anyway.”

Sean's lips twitched in what he knew passed for a smile for everyone but Bronnie. “You can't lose what was never yours, Cox.”

“Screw you, Cullen.” Dave turned away.

“I don't fly that way, Cox.” Sean chuckled when Dave flipped him the bird. Still laughing, he walked to his bicycle and unlocked it from the stand. He pushed the bike a few feet, stepped on the right pedal, swung his leg over the seat and raced out of the parking lot before Dave ever reached his rusted-out jalopy.

Dave opened this car door, wincing at the loud shriek. He threw his books inside the moldy-smelling interior. The interior of the twenty-year-old coupe was like an inferno, but he paid no heed as he settled behind the large steering wheel. For a long time he stared unseeingly at the fuzzy dice dangling from the rear view mirror. When the blare of a nearby horn brought him out of his self-imposed catatonia, he swiped at the moisture running down his face, then wrapped his hands around the steering wheel. When he looked at himself in the mirror, he knew anyone passing by would do a double take; his normally pleasant features were distorted with anger.

The park was quiet, the shade of the stately oaks cool as Sean entered. He pedaled to one of the picnic tables, dismounted, and rested his bike against a nearby pine. Going to the table, he sat, pulled Bronnie's note from his pocket, and bent over to read.

I am sorry Daddy threatened you, Sean. Mama threatened me, too. I wasn't surprised he came to see you and not surprised at all that he tried to bribe you. I heard him and Mama talking last night. He called your father a beggar because he heard that radio spot Mr. Cullen did last week. My Dad thinks anyone who advertises on the radio and TV has to beg to make a living. He said people like that would do anything for money. I am so proud of you for not taking that check even if you did want to tear it up in front of him. I don't know what makes them so mean, but it doesn't matter.

Although my heart is breaking, I will do as you suggest. It will be the hardest thing in the world to pass you in the halls and not speak. It will be torture not to be able to pick up the phone and call you. I will be miserable not being able to talk with you at the park or meet you at Burdette's for a Cherry Coke.

Sean paused, staring at the clean, elegant sweep of Bronwyn's handwriting. He lovingly touched one of the little circles she used to dot her “Is,” then turned the sheet over to read the last page.

I will keep the letter you wrote me in a safe place, but the poem you wrote I folded and placed in the locket you gave me for Christmas. I will wear it with the Claddagh for as long as I live, my love.

Next year, as soon as graduation is over, I will be ready to leave with you. No one will know I've left until it is too late to do anything about it. We'll go up to South Carolina and get married. Until then, know I love you.

Bronnie

He read the note twice more, then slowly folded the sheets and put them back in his pocket. With his hands clasped on the tabletop, he stared across the park at the caged animals.

McGregor's threats made him feel as though he were one of those helpless creatures, no longer in control of his life. He had not planned on leaving Albany until he could take Bronnie with him, but now he had no choice. As soon as he graduated in June, he would enlist in the service and hope, if they sent him overseas, he'd live to come back for the woman he loved.

When Sean arrived home that evening, his father was sitting on the front porch steps, a bottle of beer clutched in his meaty hand. The older man was clad in a pair of worn shorts and a sleeveless undershirt stained heavily under the arms. “You're late,” he accused.

“I had two details to do.”

Cullen grunted, then reached into the back pocket of his shorts. “This came for you today.” He threw an envelope at Sean's feet.

Sean laid his bike on the ground and bent to pick up the envelope. He frowned when he saw it had been opened.

“I asked myself why do you reckon that fancy doc with his expensive foreign car would be writing a letter to my addle-brained son,” Cullen commented. “Couldn't be nothing good, I answered.”

Sean spread the flap of the envelope and glanced at the check inside, which he had expected to find.

“Then I asked myself why under God's blue sky this fancy doc would be giving my son five thousand dollars.” Cullen took a long swig of beer. Wiping the back of his hand across his lips, he pointed the bottle at Sean. “Know what I answered myself that time, Seannie, me boy? I says to myself—that fancy doc don't want no Cullen wigglies a'growin’ in his little gal's belly and I can't say that I blame him. Seems to me, though, it's worth more'n five grand to see that don't happen, don't you?”

“I have no intention of cashing this.”

“You don't want it, I'll take it.”

“I'll be sending it right back to Dr. McGregor.”

Cullen's mouth turned hard. “You ain't gonna do no such thing.” With a speed that surprised Sean, the older man leapt to his feet and snatched the envelope from him.

Sean's hands doubled into fists at his side, but he knew it would be useless to argue with his father. When Tymothy Cullen drank, he got junkyard-dog mean and usually either his wife or son paid the price for that anger. Sean also knew that would not always be the way things would work.

“This will help pay for next month's bills,” Cullen asserted as he stuffed the envelope into his pocket.

“Do whatever you want with it,” Sean said, knowing full well his father would forge his signature on the back of the check and cash it. He hoped Dr. McGregor would find out and have the fool arrested.

“Good boy,” Cullen sneered. He sat on the step and stared up at his son with one eye squeezed shut. “How come you're so agreeable?”

“I didn't ask for the money and I don't want it.”

“Stupid little bastard,” Cullen said. “Throwing away perfectly good money.”

Sean shrugged, picked up his bike, and wheeled it under the carport where he locked it to one of the wrought iron roof supports. He walked to the carport door and went into the house. Inside, the aroma of meatloaf filled the kitchen. He grimaced and went to the stove to see what his mother had prepared for herself and him. Lifting a pot, he was relieved to find succotash, a stewed tomato, okra, onion, and corn mixture that was one of his mother's specialties.

“There is baked macaroni and cornbread in the oven,” his mother told him as she came into the small room. “Fix me some tea, will ya, laddie?”

Sean's lips moved into the smile he reserved for his mother and Bronnie. “This stuff is gonna give you diabetes one of these days,” he said as he poured her a metal tumbler of the thickly-sweet brew.

“At least I'll die a happy woman,” his mother countered, taking the tumbler from him. She looked deeply into his eyes. “You all right, laddie?”

“Aye, Ma,” he lied.

Dorrie Cullen sighed. “As all right as you're gonna be, I'm reckonin'.” She turned to the stove. “Call your Da in and let's hope he don't find no fault with my meatloaf tonight.”

“How long's he been drinking?”

“Since he closed up shop early and came home.”

Sean tensed. The last time his father had closed the shop early. a savage punch had sent his mother to the hospital with a broken jaw. That had been when Sean was nine. “What brought this on?” he asked, glancing worriedly at the back door.

His mother lifted her thin shoulders. “He's been gamblin’ again with them darkies what run the barbeque place two doors down. Shootin’ the craps, I suppose. Lost a hundred dollars or more.”

Sean's jaw tightened. “Did you give him the letter from Dr. McGregor?” He knew that wasn't the case, but wanted to know how his father came in possession of the missive.

“You know I didn't, laddie,” his mother answered in a hurt voice. “He went through your room lookin’ for loose money and that's when he found it.” She twisted her hands together. “It came this morning and I put it in your room knowin’ you didn't want him to see it. I asked him not to open it, but you know how your Da is.”

“That I do.”

“When he opened it, he let out an almighty whoop.”

“I'll bet.”

“What was in that letter, Seannie?”

“The solution to his problem, Ma. At least for the time being.”

She pulled open the oven door, took up a pair of potholders, and reached for the meatloaf, the sight of which made Sean queasy. “Call him on in, now.”

Sean went to the screen door. “Supper's ready!”

“Put this ungodly concoction on the table for him and I'll get us the macaroni,” his mother ordered, placing the sizzling meatloaf on a hot pad on the counter.

Sean retrieved another set of potholders from the drawer and, with his lips pursed tightly, he carried the meatloaf to the table and placed it in front of his father's plate. He avoided looking at the gray-brown meat.

“The succotash smells great, Ma,” he said as he watched her ladle their main course into a soup tureen.

“Smells like crap to me,” Cullen grunted. He let the screen door slam behind him as he plopped down at the table. “Get me another brew, boy.”

Sean exchanged a glance with his mother, but he did as he was told. After fetching the ice-cold bottle for his father, he brought the cornbread to the table for his mother, pulled her chair out for her, then took his seat, ignoring the snort of disgust from his father at the courtesy.

“Always puttin’ on the Ritz, ain't you, Seannie? Where does such highfalutin’ crap getcha?” Cullen popped the cap from the bottle with a church key.

“He's just showin’ his Ma some respect,” Dorrie said quietly.

Sean tensed. It was such innocuous remarks that, for whatever reason, set his father off. But the old man seemed not to have heard, for he was swilling down a long drag of beer. He grimaced as the man gave a loud belch, then another for good measure.

“Will you say Grace, Tymothy?” Dorrie asked.

Cullen shook his head. “Let His Holiness do it.”

Dorrie reached for her son's hand. Her tired, sad eyes locked with Sean's and she lowered her head.

“Bless us, Oh Lord,” Sean prayed, “and these thy gifts that we are about to receive from thy bounty.”

“Bless us, Oh Lord, and these thy grits that we are about to receive from the county.” Cullen giggled as he ladled a big slice of meatloaf onto his plate.

Dorrie's mouth tightened at the sacrilege, but she made no comment. She passed the macaroni to Sean. “Would you slice me a piece of cornbread, laddie?”

“Just a minute,” Sean said, realizing he would have to leave the table to get a knife. Before he could, a powerful backhanded blow from his father's left hand slammed into his face and knocked him out of his chair. He hit the floor hard on his left hip, his nose gushing blood.

“When your Ma tells you to do something, you'd best hop to it,
boy
!” Cullen shouted.

Dorrie gasped and started to get up, but her husband's furious bellow kept her in her seat.

“Leave him be, Dorrie!”

Sean lay where he landed, attempting to staunch the flow of blood with the heel of his palm. He knew his nose was broken and his upper lip had been split from contact with his father's heavy signet ring.

“Get your lazy ass off the floor and clean up that mess,” Cullen demanded, “before I have to drag you up.”

His nose throbbing, the smell of the blood, and the taste of it in his mouth making him sick, Sean pushed up from the floor. He knew if he made one sound, said one word, his father would be on him like a tiger on a wounded gazelle. He dared not even look the older man's way for fear the vicious temper would erupt and someone would suffer the consequences.

“Lily-livered little pantywaist,” Cullen mocked. “Not man enough to stand up for himself and too damned stupid to even try.” He stabbed a chunk of meatloaf and crammed it into his mouth.

Stumbling to the sink, Sean pulled a handful of paper towels from the rack and, with his nose still bleeding, went back to clean up the splatters on the floor.

Sean sensed his mother wanted to help him, but she knew better than to try. Things would be worse for him, and more so for herself, if she dared. She sat still, her head bowed, her lips trembling.

“Eat your damned food, woman!” Cullen demanded.

Dorrie reached for her fork and gently slipped the utensil beneath a pile of macaroni. She moved the pasta from one side of her plate to the other.

“Good meatloaf for a change,” Cullen pronounced around a glob of the mixture.

“Thank you, Tym,” Dorrie said automatically. She flinched and her eyes went wide when he grabbed her hand. His strong grip tightened brutally around her wrist.

“I said eat your damned food, not push it around!”

“Aye, Tym,” she agreed, her head bobbing. She lifted a forkful of macaroni to her mouth.

“When you get that floor spotless, go to your room,” Cullen told Sean. “No food for you tonight, boy.”

Sean lay staring at the ceiling, his hands behind his head. He could hear his father's angry mumbles as he moved about in the bedroom next door. With the scrape of a chair across the wooden floor came a piercing yelp. Sean knew the man was falling-down drunk again. He turned his head and looked at the clock.

Ten o'clock—unnaturally early for Tym Kullen to take to his bed. The man liked to sit in front of the television and curse the eleven o'clock news team. That he had forgone his nightly ritual meant the old man had consumed more than normal and hopefully would pass out before too many more minutes ticked off the clock.

When a light scratching came at his door, Sean sat up. “I'm awake,” he said softly.

His mother opened the door and stood there, her work-reddened hands gripping the door's edge. “He won't be conscious too much longer,” she whispered. “I left you a plate in the oven.”