Nora Roberts - The Pagan Stone

Maybe they could swing a new TV, one that had been manufactured in the last decade. Things were pretty solid right now with them both working full-time for the summer. He was squirreling away some of his take for a new headset, but he could kick in half. He had a couple more weeks before school started up, a couple more paychecks. A new TV would be good.

He put his glass away, closed the cupboard. He heard his father’s step on the stairs. And he knew.

The optimism drained out of him like water. What was left in him hardened like stone. Stupid, he thought, stupid of him to let himself believe the old man would stay sober. Stupid to believe there’d ever be anything decent in this rat trap of an apartment.

He started to cross to his room, go inside, shut the door. Then he thought the hell with it. He’d see what the drunken son of a bitch had to say for himself.

So he stood, hip-shot, thumbs in the front pockets of his jeans, a defiant red flag eager to wave at the bull. His father pushed open the door.

Weaving, Bill Turner gripped the jamb. His face was red from the climb, from the heat, from the liquor. Even across the room, Gage could smell the whiskey sweat seeping out of his pores. His T-shirt was stained with it under the arms, down the front in a sodden vee. The look in his eyes when they met Gage’s was blurry and mean.

“’Fuck you looking at?”

“A drunk.”

“Had a couple beers with some friends, don’t make me a drunk.”

“I guess I was wrong. I’m looking at a drunken liar.”

The meanness intensified. It was like watching a snake coil. “You watch your fucking mouth, boy.”

“I should’ve known you couldn’t do it.” But he had done it, for nearly five months. He’d stayed sober through Gage’s birthday, and that, Gage knew, had been when he’d started to believe. For the first time since his father had stumbled down the drunken path, he’d stayed on that wagon over Gage’s birthday.

This disappointment, this betrayal was a sharper slash than any lash of the belt had ever been. This killed every small drop of his hope.

“None of your goddamn business,” Bill shot back. “This is my house. You don’t tell me what’s what under my own roof.”

“This is Jim Hawkins’s roof, and I pay rent on it just like you. You drink your paycheck again?”

“I don’t answer to you. Shut your mouth, or-”

“What?” Gage challenged. “You’re so drunk you can barely stand. What the hell are you going to do? And what the hell do I care,” he finished in disgust. Turning, he started toward his room. “I wish you’d drink yourself dead and finish the job.”

He was drunk, but he was fast. Bill lunged across the room, slammed Gage back against the wall. “You’re no good, never been any damn good. Never should’ve been born.”

“That makes two of us. Now take your hands off me.”

Two quick slaps, front and back, set Gage’s ears ringing, split his bottom lip. “Time you learned some goddamn respect .”

Gage remembered the first punch, remembered plowing his fist into his father’s face, and the shock that fired in his father’s eyes. Something crashed-the old pole lamp-and someone cursed viciously over and over. Had that been him?

The next clear memory was standing over his father as the old man sprawled on the floor, his face bruised and bleeding. His own fists had screamed from the pounding, and the healing of his swollen, bloody knuckles. His breath wheezed in and out of his lungs, and sweat soaked him like water.

How long had he beaten on the old man with his fists? It was a hot red haze. But it cleared now, and behind it was ice cold.

“If you ever touch me again, if you ever lay a fucking hand on me again in your life, I’ll kill you.” He crouched down to make sure the old man heard him. “I swear an oath on it. In three years, I’m gone. I don’t care if you drink yourself to death in the meantime. I’m past caring. I’ve got to live here at least most of the time the next three years. I’ll give my share of the rent straight to Mr. Hawkins. You don’t get a dime. I’ll buy my own food, my own clothes. I don’t want anything from you. But however drunk you are, you’d better be able to think this one thought. Hit me again, you motherfucker, you’re a dead man.”

He rose, walked into his room, shut the door. He’d buy a lock for it the next day, he thought. Keep the bastard out.

He could go. Exhausted, he sat on the side of the bed and dropped his head in his hands. He could pack up what was his and if he showed up on Cal ’s doorstep or at Fox’s farm, they’d take him in.

That’s the kind of people they were.

But he needed to stick this out, needed to show the old man and, more, show himself, that he could stick it out. Three years till his eighteenth birthday, he thought, then he’d be free.

Not quite accurate, Gage thought now. He’d stuck it out, and the old man had never raised a hand to him again. And he’d taken off when his three years were up. But freedom? That was another story.

You carried the past with you, he thought, dragging it behind you on a thick, unbreakable chain no matter how far you looked ahead. You could ignore it for good long stretches of time, but you couldn’t escape it. He could drag that chain ten thousand miles, but the Hollow, the people he loved in it, and his goddamn destiny just kept pulling him back.

He pushed away from the computer, went down to get himself more coffee. Sitting at the counter, he dealt out a hand of solitaire. It calmed him, the feel of the cards, the sound of them, their colors and shapes. When he heard the knock on the door, he glanced at his watch. It appeared Cybil was early. He left the cards where they were, grateful the simple game had kept his mind off the past, and off the woman as well.

When he pulled open the door, it was Joanne Barry on the front deck. “Well, hey.”

She only looked at him for a moment. Her dark hair was braided back, as she often wore it. Her eyes were clear in her pretty face, her body slim in jeans and a cotton shirt. Then she touched his face, laid her lips on his forehead, his cheeks, his lips in her traditional greeting when there was love.

“Thank you for the orchid.”

“You’re welcome. Sorry I missed you when I dropped it off. Do you want to come in? Do you have time?”

“Yes, I’d like to come in, for a few minutes.”

“Probably something to drink back here.” He led the way back toward the kitchen.

“ Cal ’s got a nice place here. It’s always a surprise.”

“Really?”

“That he-all of you-are grown men. That Cal ’s a grown man with this very nice home of his own, with its beautiful gardens. Sometimes still, just every so often, I wake up in the morning and think: I’ve got to get those kids up and off to school. Then I remember, the kids are grown and gone. It’s both a relief and a punch in the heart. I miss my little guys.”

“You’ll never be rid of us.” Knowing Jo, he skipped right over all the sodas, whittled her choices down to juice or bottled water. “I can offer you water or what I think might be grapefruit juice.”

“I’m fine, Gage. Don’t bother.”

“Could make some tea-or you could. I’d probably-” He broke off when he turned and saw a tear sliding down her cheek. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

“The note you left me, with the plant.”

“I’d hoped to be able to talk to you. I stopped by Cal ’s mom’s, but-”

“I know. Frannie told me. You wrote: ‘Because you were always there for me. Because I know you always will be.’”

“You were. I do.”

With a sigh, she put her arms around him, laid her head on his shoulder. “All of your life, as a parent, you wonder and you worry. Did I do that right? Should I have done that, said this? Then, suddenly, in a fingersnap it seems, your children are grown. And still you wonder and you worry. Could I have done this, did I remember to say that? If you’re very lucky, one day one of your children…” She leaned back to look into his eyes. “Because you’re mine and Frannie’s, too. One of your children writes you a note that arrows straight into your heart. All that worry goes away.” She gave him a watery smile. “For a moment anyway. Thank you for the moment, baby.”