Part 42 (1/2)

When she was on her feet, he said, ”I want the kitchen cleaned. I want everything in here cleaned up. You hear me?”

”Yes, Martin. I hear you.”

”You've got two steaks in the freezer.”

”Yes.”

”Cook them both. One for me, one for Paul. He's got a big night ahead of him.”

A long pause. Too long.

”You hear me?”

”What are you gonna do, Martin?”

”That ain't your concern. Just get this place cleaned up.”

”Martin, that's my son. I won't let you corrupt him. I won't let you make him into what you are. You're evil, Martin. You're a sick, evil man, and I won't have my boy being anything like you.”

Paul's mother was breathing hard, her mouth twitching with barely contained rage. But his father was calm. He almost looked amused.

”I got big plans for Paul, Carol. He's gonna be powerful one day. You don't know how powerful. When he's a man he's gonna lead nations. Nations, Carol! Do you understand that? He will be a prophet, and his words will be as sweet in their ears as honey on their tongue. Can you picture that? Can you picture this world pa.s.sing away, and my boy ushering in a new age?”

”I don't want him being anything like you.”

Martin Henninger did something then that surprised Paul. He walked across the room to where his wife stood cowering and he put a hand on the back of her head and he stroked her oily gray hair almost like a master strokes a dog.

He said, ”Carol, he ain't gonna be like me. He's gonna be bigger, stronger, more powerful. And sweetheart, it ain't your decision to make.”

She pulled herself away from him.

”It is, too. I'll take him away from here. Away from you!”

”What you're gonna do is clean this kitchen. After that you're gonna-”

”You go to h.e.l.l, Martin Henninger!” She was nearly spitting the words at him. ”You go to h.e.l.l, you b.a.s.t.a.r.d!”

”Carol, you're gonna clean this kitchen up. Now if you wanna get the s.h.i.+t kicked out of you before that happens, well, that's your decision to make. Either way it's fine by me. The job will get done regardless.”

They stood there, staring at one another. Paul watched them both. He could feel his father exerting his power over her, and he could feel her fighting against it. Her whole body was quivering with the effort.

Finally, she broke.

Her shoulders sagged.

Her eyes turned down to the floor.

Martin Henninger smiled, turned, and walked out the door.

His mother left the kitchen and went to the room with the yellow wall. Paul followed her, wis.h.i.+ng that he could say something to her. He wanted to tell her that he had misunderstood, that he had screwed up so very badly. He had no idea what she had been fighting against, and the fact that she had lasted as long as she did spoke to the depth of her feelings for him. All this time, she had been acting as a buffer between him and his father, keeping the man at bay by sacrificing herself. She had fought to save him, and all he had thought to do was hate her for taking the coward's way out.

She went to the bed and reached under it and came up with the picture Paul had seen her secret away in the folds of her skirt. She sat on the edge of the bed and held the picture in her lap and sobbed quietly. Then she sniffled and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and flipped the picture over.

She took a pen from her blouse and started to write something on the back of the picture.

She was writing from memory, and writing quickly.

He only saw the first line before the room around him started to s.h.i.+ft, but that first line was like a punch in the gut.

They f.u.c.k you up, your mum and dad.

Whatever it was she had written on the back of that picture had been some sort of victory for her. Every stroke of the pen had been another step towards standing up straight and taking back a piece of herself from the black pit that was her marriage to Martin Henninger. She was stronger now. Paul could feel her strength echoing through the house. And it wasn't just coming from her as she walked through the kitchen, cleaning, smiling, even whistling a tune that, to Paul at least, sounded like vintage Patsy Cline. It wasn't just that. He could also feel it as a sort of positive energy, an eddy breaking the smooth flow of his father's power. Martin Henninger watched her moving through the house, and he was trying to rea.s.sert his sway over her, but somehow the connection had shorted out. His control was slipping, and he knew it. He was fl.u.s.tered, uncertain, even a little scared of her now. She was still a dog in his eyes, but a dog who no longer cowers just because the master raises his fist.

Martin Henninger came up behind her as she did the dishes and stroked the back of her hair. She stiffened for just a moment, an almost imperceptible moment, but never stopped scrubbing the pot in the sink.

He said, ”You don't like it when I touch you like that, do you?”

”I'm working.”

”That ain't what I asked,” he said. And as Paul watched, his father curled his mother's hair around the back of his fist and yanked her head back until her face was pointed up at him.

In a breathless whisper, she said, ”You're gonna do whatever you want to do.”

He didn't let go. He said, ”That's right,” and grabbed one of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s with his other hand and squeezed. It was a violation, a prelude to a rape. Paul felt his arms tremble with rage, his fingernails digging into the palms of his hands as they curled into fists.

His mother remained perfectly still. Her arms stayed limp at her side, and white, sudsy water dripped from her fingertips and onto the floor.

Just then there was the sound of a truck slowing out on the road.

Paul looked up. Steve Sullivan's truck. I'll be coming home soon. I'll find her in here, and she'll be smiling. She'll say, ”Hey baby. h.e.l.lo Steve,” and I'll think something is wrong because for the first time in G.o.d knows how long, she won't be a wasted vegetable curled up in the shadows. She'll look almost healthy, and I'll think something is wrong, but I'll think what's wrong is that she looks healthy. I'll never guess the truth. My G.o.d, I never had a clue.

Martin Henninger's lip curled into a sneer of frustration. Carol Henninger just laughed. He said, ”d.a.m.n it,” and threw her to the floor.

Then he stormed out the screen door and let it slam behind him.

It was nighttime now, and he was standing in his old bedroom. Moonlight filtered in through the window above his desk, silvering the wooden floor. The air felt cool. On the bed a younger version of himself huddled beneath the blankets, listening to his parents screaming at each other down below. Paul, the boy, whimpered. Paul the man took a deep breath and walked out of the room and down the stairs and into the kitchen, where he saw his father slapping his mother to the floor.

She looked up at her husband and sneered through her b.l.o.o.d.y lips. ”You can't stop me,” she said. ”You can't. He's mine, and I won't let you have him.”

”You ain't got no say in it,” he said.

”I won't let you have him,” she said again. There was no fear in her voice. Nothing in her eyes but contempt.

He raised the back of his hand to her, but she just laughed.

”Go on,” she said. ”Hit me. Hit me, you dumb b.a.s.t.a.r.d. You think you can break me. You can't break me. You've tried. For six years you've tried, and you still haven't done it. You hear me? You haven't!”