The Way Home by Dallas Schulze Page B

door with her. If her stepfather was angry with her, she didn’t want Ty there to witness any scene he might create. He waited until she reached the porch and turned to wave before turning the roadster and heading back out to the road. Meg watched until his taillights disappeared, hugging the day’s memories to her, along with the kewpie doll he’d won for her.
    Surely there had never been a more perfect day, and she was reluctant to spoil it with the scene she suspected awaited her inside. But she could hardly linger on the porch forever. With a last glance in the direction Ty had gone, Meg turned and pulled open the screen door.
    “Margaret. Come here.” Harlan’s nasal voice twanged from the small living room the moment the door shut behind her.
    Meg felt her spine stiffen with resentment at the autocratic command. For a brief moment, she considered just going on to her room as if she hadn’t heard him. She couldn’t quite imagine him coming to get her. But her mother would be the one to suffer for it. Reluctantly she obeyed his order.
    “Hello.” She conjured up a smile for her mother.
    “Meg.” Ruth’s voice was hardly more than a whisper, and she didn’t lift her eyes from her lap, her attention all for the restless movement of her fingers as they pleated and then smoothed the fabric of her skirt.
    “Do you know what time it is, miss?” The question forced her to look at her stepfather. It had always seemed to her that his features huddled in the middle of his face, as small and stingy as his personality. His eyes were a blue so pale they seemed colorless, and they peered out at the world with disapproval.
    “I’m afraid I don’t know what the time is,” she said, forcing the dislike from her voice.
    “Too busy spreading your legs to look at a clock?” he snapped.
    Meg gasped. The crude accusation was so unexpected that she was struck momentarily speechless.
    “No.” The word was a choked denial.
    She looked at her mother’s bent head, waiting for her to say something, to tell Harlan how wrong he was, but Ruth kept her head bent over the restless movements of her fingers as if, if only she pleated the worn fabric just so, the unpleasant scene in front of her would go away. Meg knew there’d be no help from her mother.
    “You’ve no right to say that,” Meg said, outrage making her throat tight.
    “No right?” His voice rose to a shout. “I’ve every right to say anything I please to you. Who do you think puts the food on the table and provides the money for the clothes on your back? And you repay me by going out whoring.”
    Her face white, Meg turned to leave, wanting only to escape the rage in her stepfather’s eyes, the ugly words he was spewing out. She hadn’t taken more than a step when his fingers closed over her arm, digging into the soft flesh with force enough to draw a cry of pain as he spun her around to face him.
    “Don’t you dare walk away when I’m talking to you.” He grabbed her other arm, dragging her close enough that she could smell the slightly sour odor of his breath.
    “I’m not a … what you said,” she protested, frightened by the rage in his face. “We just went to the fair. I didn’t do anything wrong.”
    “You’re just like your sister,” he snarled. “Whores, both of you.”
    “I’m not.” Meg gasped. “And neither is Patsy. You’re a filthy liar.”
    He moved quickly. The impact of his hand on her face jerked her head to the side and drove the soft inner flesh of her lips back against her teeth. Meg felt the salty, sweet taste of blood fill her mouth. Through the ringing in her ears, she could hear him shouting that she was a whore — just like her sister.
    It was the first time since her father died that someone had struck her in anger. She’d have thought all the old responses buried too deep to find, but now she felt the old freezing calm welling up inside her. If she just went far enough away, it wouldn’t matter what happened