Chapter 3 #4
Pushing him from my head for the dozenth time tonight, I continued with my chores.
I’d already assisted with the trash, transporting a bag that was almost as big as me by dragging it through the field outside.
The Heaven’s—that was their family name, the coolest one I’d ever heard—kept the trash cans at the edge of the main road, which was about a mile from the damn house.
But I didn’t complain as I’d put on a green coat of Wynter’s and made my way through the daisies.
I’d returned to find another chore waiting, the broom already out.
I dusted corners of the room that housed dust particles older than me. I sang to myself as I worked, something Nessie had been blaring throughout the day. She didn’t know the words, and in truth, neither did I, but I liked the tune.
Placing the broom down, Wynter rounded the kitchen door.
Her chores, much better than mine, bathing her small daughter and putting her to bed, were done for the night.
I half expected her to deliver another devoir, and it almost made me want to shove the broom between my legs, aim for the window and fly out of it like a wrathful witch.
But she didn’t have any more tasks, just a request.
“Thank you, sweetie. I appreciate it. Dust bugs my nose. I’ve asked Ville to do it for weeks, but apparently, it isn’t a man’s job.
” Her brown eyes rolled, searching her brain for her next words.
“I hope you don’t mind, but seeing as it’s his birthday, Ville was wondering if you’d spend a little time with Woodrow.
You and he are older; you don’t have to go to sleep as early as Nessie. ”
“Tonight?”
“If you wouldn’t mind. I think a little company would be good for you both.”
“Of course.” I put a smile on my face, one that felt real. I had no idea what it was about him, but something made me want to spend time with him. Something magnetic.
Moving past Wynter, I took off my coat—her coat—and I handed it back to her. “Thank you.”
“No. . . thank you.” She accepted the duffle with another smile.
As I moved out of the room, I noticed her inspecting the material, like I could have somehow tarnished it on my short trash trip.
The neon green that I didn’t immediately appreciate, would have highlighted any imperfections, should she find any.
But she didn’t–the coat harbored the same condition of which I’d received it.
And yet, on fast feet, she still shifted to the laundry basket.
I ignored Wynter’s quirks; I didn’t know enough about her to make comments on her behavior. And, if my dad had taught me anything, it was how weird people could be. He had quirks that would have the entire world raising their eyebrows. . . and I missed them all.
I moved towards the next room—the living room. The TV was on, the sound muted, the screen blank on a satellite issue.
My cold feet were protected from the bare wooden steps by baggy socks, that were, at one point, white. I climbed the stairs. Each step creaking under my weight had me feeling like I’d eaten a little too much at dinner tonight.
In a way, I had. I was comfort eating. . . relying on food to weigh down my sadness.
Maybe a friend would help. Nessie’s presence and company were good distractions, taking up half of my heart, while my dad still lived in the other half. Only in my other half. . . and nowhere else.
Maybe Woodrow could steal me from him. . . from all the painful memories still fresh in my psyche.
My excitement to see him pulled me to the first door on my left. I reached for the door handle before remembering my manners. I retracted, and the bones of my knuckles tapped at the door, quiet and mindful of the sleeping child down the hall.
“Come in!” called a loud voice, not mindful, at all.
The voice wasn’t Woodrow’s. It was his father’s, who was sat swinging on a computer desk chair. A dated screensaver on the plasma screen alerted me that whatever he’d been doing there was done.
“Ah, there you are, darlin’. Thank you for coming up. He’s just changing.” Ville’s hands were down on his knees as he struggled to push his weight up from the chair. “Woodrow!” he called, his voice was loud and heavy, and it rattled the room and all of my bones.
I swallowed hard.
Men were different to me now. A species not to be trusted.
. . to be avoided. I could handle Woodrow—a boy who intrigued me in so many different ways.
I couldn’t handle a man like Ville, three hundred pounds of authority; his shadow alone could push me to the ground, so hard, I may never get back up.
His heavy weight hobbled closer. He smiled at me, and it made my skin crawl. It was probably nothing to do with him and all to do with me and my new feelings. Though, that said, I absolutely hated how he’d manhandled his son, and as a result, it was an effort to keep my face neutral.
Ville’s heavy hand left a bruising touch on my shoulder, and I couldn’t help but cringe as his calloused hand rubbed my softer skin.
“Have a good evening. Don’t be loud. . . and don’t stay out of bed too late.”
“We won’t.” I kept my reply short and sweet, which was how I felt while standing in his oppressing shadow.
Happy with my answer, he left. The wooden door clicked shut, and I almost felt like it pushed me deeper into the room. . . but I was happy to venture, creating a bigger space between us. I wandered, taking in the details of a room—a room that didn’t look like it belonged to a boy of seventeen.
Shelves lined the green-painted walls—a color choice of his mother, no doubt. Toys lined the shelves, nothing worth money or significance. Tatty dolls that looked like they were probably stolen from his sister’s room.
I stretched high, my loaned dress from Wynter rising as I clutched a plastic blonde from a shelf above my head. She looked just like the others, uncared for.
Silent steps crept up behind me; his shadow darkened the already dark room, lit only by a lava lamp and the pale moon peeping in from outside.
I spun around, startled to see him so close we were practically joined as one.
Surprised by his silence, I dropped the doll to the floor.
Her hard body belted the ground, making her appear heavier than she actually was.
Her head rolled from her body, an inch or two to the left, prevented from going further by her matted strands of hair.
“I’m sorry.” I quickly retrieved the doll and her head, trying in vain to reattach it before standing back to my full height.
He stretched out his hand, not to help me from the ground, but to steal his possession back. Taking her from my hand, he made one attempt to reattach her head. . . and failed. He tossed her into the trash without care.
Then, he moved away, in nothing but a pair of pajama bottoms hanging low on his hips. His body was lean, almost starved, the opposite of how I was feeling.
“I’m sorry,” I voiced once more. I stood but kept my head low, emphasizing my apology.
He didn’t answer. He barely ever talked. He was a mystery.
I stared up at the shelves, twiddling my thumbs as I silently vowed not to touch anything else. Each doll was once pretty blonde. Generic beauty. White. Nothing like me, at all.
“You collect dolls?” I asked, trying to force a conversation.
“They’re Nessie’s.” He adjusted his throat with careful fingers as he spoke.
“Best we don’t tell her about that one.” A smile crept onto his lips, making him even more enchanting as he dropped into the computer chair.
The look of disgust on his face told me he could still scent his father there. Sweat and fading alcohol.
“We can probably fix her head with a little glue?” I suggested.
“Nessie ain't going to notice. Have you seen how many others are in her room? Or this one, for that matter.”
“There are a lot,” I agreed. She probably wouldn’t notice.
He laughed a little, covering his throat again. My eyes followed his hand.
“I’m sorry.” I immediately diverted my gaze. “I don’t mean offense.”
“I don’t feel all that offended. Not with you.” His words told me how much his mother’s comments hurt him. He took a sip of water from an almost empty bottle on his desk, spinning the chair to reach it.
The dolls watched with judging eyes as he drank. He spun the chair back to me, looking at me, as if he were a king on a throne, but not like I was some peasant not worthy of his time.
A smile lit up his face.
I took the smallest of steps towards his chair. “Do you use this for gaming?” A bob of my head had my curls falling into my eyes and onto his naked chest, tickling his ears when I leaned in and motioned to the screen.
His breathing stalled, and I hated that I potentially caused him more pain.
His eyes and hand moved in harmony, to the space where my hair still lingered. His fingers weaved through the thickness, like his sister’s did last night as I cuddled her to sleep, and yet, it felt so different.
“I don’t. I hardly use it, at all. The computer was my father’s; he still uses it to send some messages; I have no idea why it’s in here. Maybe he doesn’t want my momma to see what he’s talking about. Occasionally, he’ll play games when he’s done, just so he doesn’t have to do anything else.”
“Your dad keeps secrets from your mom?” it wasn’t my business, and it wasn’t my place to get involved, but I had taken an instant liking to Wynter, molding to her. She was a mom; I was a child, and I was still craving that bond, even years after losing my mother.
“Who knows? He doesn’t say much.”
Apparently, that was a common theme for the men in this family.
“He says it’s work stuff. Stuff he wouldn’t want to stress my momma with. That’s probably a good thing.”
It wasn’t a good thing; it was a bullshit excuse that his father was no doubt using to disrespect his wife without her knowledge or any potential recriminations.