salad two nights ago?
“Your aunt needs a break.” He’s already getting up from his chair. “Coming here’s been too much for her.” His lips curve into an odd quirk of a half-smile. “Looks like it’s just you girls and your old man.”
Kay and I paste smiles on our faces, hold them there until he leaves the room, then let them crack and split open. “What the hell was that about?” Kay asks.
I want to punch something, or someone, anything.
“Sara ? What’s going on?”
“Why did you have to open your big mouth about the knife?”
“I was scared. I tried to keep quiet, but I needed to tell someone.”
“You shouldn’t have said anything. He’s not going to hurt us.”
“I’m miserable here,” Kay whines . “I’m dying.”
“Shut up.”
“You shut up.” She grabs a fork and digs into a lasagna square smothered with cheese.
“What are you doing?” I whisper. “He said to throw it out.”
“Just one more bite .” She shovels a large piece into her mouth. “Mmmm.” Before she finishes chewing, she’s after another bite.
“Kay, stop. He could come back and check.”
“I’m hungry,” she says around a mouthful of lasagna. “He’s crazy.” She makes a face at me. “So are you. Here. Try,” she whispers, holding her fork in front of my mouth.
“We have to throw it out.” I eye the lasagna. Kay dives into the dish again, scoops up sausage, cheese and macaroni. “Just one bite.” I lean forward and she plops it on my tongue.
“Sara!”
Chapter 16
He’s coming! Frank lumbers down each step, closing in on us. I swallow and almost choke on a chunk of sausage. “Get out the bologna,” I whisper to Kay. “And the leftover potatoes. Hurry.” I grab the pan of lasagna, cut in perfect squares with a gouged-out middle, and bolt to the trash can.
“Sara!” He’s on the landing, only one small room separating us.
“Yes?” I fling open the lid and shove squares of lasagna into the ten-gallon garbage can.
“ You cooking tonight, Kay?”
He is standing in the doorway, his bulky frame snuffing out light from the next room.
She shakes her head and busies herself with removing the shriveled skin from a potato. “I’m just helping, Sara.”
“Good girl,” he says, stepping into the kitchen. He pats her shoulder and moves toward me.
“Here” —he grabs the lasagna pan—“I told you to throw the whole damn thing out.” He stuffs the pan in the garbage can and the lid swings back and forth. There is a dark smear of sauce on it with crumbs of sausage buried in the middle.
“I couldn’t eat it anymore,” he says, his voice low, persuasive.
“I know.” You are such a liar .
“She wasn’t half the cook your mother was.”
…such a goddamn liar . I stare at the sauce on the garbage lid. “I know.”
“We’ll be okay, the three of us,” he says.
“Sure.” Why did she have to die?
“We’ll be just fine.”
“I know.” Why couldn’t it have been you, Frank?
He throws an arm around me, hauls me against his side, alcohol and sweat smacking me in the face. I try to hold my breath, turn my head away, but he has me tight against him and there is nothing I can do but suck in sips of air through my mouth. We stand next to the garbage can, his big arm pinning me to him like a grizzly bear swatting its young against its shoulder.
“Sara?” Kay looks from Frank to me, back to Frank again. “What should I do with the potatoes?”
He releases his arm, I step away. “Start cutting them into small squares,” I say. “I’ll help.”
“I’ll be in the garage,” this from Frank. “Call me when it’s time to eat.”
“Okay.” I step back so he can get to the door. I am looking down at his boots, brown, the only ones he ever wears, except for his work shoes that are black with a steel toe. These are big and clunky, with scuffs on the side. I follow the boots past me and out the door, trying to picture a pair of polished wing-tips in their
“Your aunt needs a break.” He’s already getting up from his chair. “Coming here’s been too much for her.” His lips curve into an odd quirk of a half-smile. “Looks like it’s just you girls and your old man.”
Kay and I paste smiles on our faces, hold them there until he leaves the room, then let them crack and split open. “What the hell was that about?” Kay asks.
I want to punch something, or someone, anything.
“Sara ? What’s going on?”
“Why did you have to open your big mouth about the knife?”
“I was scared. I tried to keep quiet, but I needed to tell someone.”
“You shouldn’t have said anything. He’s not going to hurt us.”
“I’m miserable here,” Kay whines . “I’m dying.”
“Shut up.”
“You shut up.” She grabs a fork and digs into a lasagna square smothered with cheese.
“What are you doing?” I whisper. “He said to throw it out.”
“Just one more bite .” She shovels a large piece into her mouth. “Mmmm.” Before she finishes chewing, she’s after another bite.
“Kay, stop. He could come back and check.”
“I’m hungry,” she says around a mouthful of lasagna. “He’s crazy.” She makes a face at me. “So are you. Here. Try,” she whispers, holding her fork in front of my mouth.
“We have to throw it out.” I eye the lasagna. Kay dives into the dish again, scoops up sausage, cheese and macaroni. “Just one bite.” I lean forward and she plops it on my tongue.
“Sara!”
Chapter 16
He’s coming! Frank lumbers down each step, closing in on us. I swallow and almost choke on a chunk of sausage. “Get out the bologna,” I whisper to Kay. “And the leftover potatoes. Hurry.” I grab the pan of lasagna, cut in perfect squares with a gouged-out middle, and bolt to the trash can.
“Sara!” He’s on the landing, only one small room separating us.
“Yes?” I fling open the lid and shove squares of lasagna into the ten-gallon garbage can.
“ You cooking tonight, Kay?”
He is standing in the doorway, his bulky frame snuffing out light from the next room.
She shakes her head and busies herself with removing the shriveled skin from a potato. “I’m just helping, Sara.”
“Good girl,” he says, stepping into the kitchen. He pats her shoulder and moves toward me.
“Here” —he grabs the lasagna pan—“I told you to throw the whole damn thing out.” He stuffs the pan in the garbage can and the lid swings back and forth. There is a dark smear of sauce on it with crumbs of sausage buried in the middle.
“I couldn’t eat it anymore,” he says, his voice low, persuasive.
“I know.” You are such a liar .
“She wasn’t half the cook your mother was.”
…such a goddamn liar . I stare at the sauce on the garbage lid. “I know.”
“We’ll be okay, the three of us,” he says.
“Sure.” Why did she have to die?
“We’ll be just fine.”
“I know.” Why couldn’t it have been you, Frank?
He throws an arm around me, hauls me against his side, alcohol and sweat smacking me in the face. I try to hold my breath, turn my head away, but he has me tight against him and there is nothing I can do but suck in sips of air through my mouth. We stand next to the garbage can, his big arm pinning me to him like a grizzly bear swatting its young against its shoulder.
“Sara?” Kay looks from Frank to me, back to Frank again. “What should I do with the potatoes?”
He releases his arm, I step away. “Start cutting them into small squares,” I say. “I’ll help.”
“I’ll be in the garage,” this from Frank. “Call me when it’s time to eat.”
“Okay.” I step back so he can get to the door. I am looking down at his boots, brown, the only ones he ever wears, except for his work shoes that are black with a steel toe. These are big and clunky, with scuffs on the side. I follow the boots past me and out the door, trying to picture a pair of polished wing-tips in their
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