He takes me to the house I called home my whole life—the main house. He parks in front of the porch, shuts the engine down, and swings out. I follow more slowly. When I reach the front door, he stops and spins to face me.
“Jerry’s out of town on business,” he says. “You’re staying with me till he gets back. He requested that I let him deal with your disobedience himself, which I feel is a fair request. So, until your husband gets back, you’re gonna stay here, locked in your room.”
I nod.
“You understand me?” he demands.
“Yes, I understand.”
He leans toward me, eyes narrowing. “Try that again?”
“I saidyes,Iunderstand,” I say louder.
His jaw grinds. “Last chance to show me the proper respect.”
I can’t.
I won’t.
He backhands me to the rough wood of the front porch, and I feel blood sluice out of my nose and slivers slicing into my palms. I stay down, waiting.
I’m saved by his ringing phone.
“Yeah, this is Buddy Ibsen.” A pause as he listens. “Oh, right. Great, yeah, come on up.” The sound of his voice fades as he walks inside…but not before I overhear the most important sentence of my life. “Right, yeah. Gate code is three-six-six-seven. Lock it again once you’re through.”
I limp to my room, shut the door, kill the lights, and crawl into bed. Alone.
* * *
I wake to silence.
My heart pounds in my chest.
Go.
The word clangs in my skull. Resonates in my chest.
Run.
I shift out of bed—my ribs scream, but not as badly as they did. My side where Papa hit me also hurts, but it’s tolerable. I try the door, hoping against hope—
The knob twists in my hand…
And the door opens.
He forgot to lock it.
My pulse hammers in my throat, pounds in my ears as I tiptoe out of my room and across the darkened living room. The kitchen is silvered with moonlight from the window over the sink. I smell bleach.
Papa’s new wife, Jerry’s daughter, must have been “punished” pretty severely, then.
The front door is locked—I twist the deadbolt as slowly as I can; the bolt thunks in noisily. The door whispers open. The screen door squeals in protest, and I freeze. Listen.
Nothing.
I slip through the cracked open screen door, not daring to open it any further. Close it gingerly, so it won’t slam.
Down the steps. Stop to listen.
