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But now, he was no longer weak.
His father was.
Rev forced himself to climb the two steps to the small back porch. He forced his fingers to wrap around the metal knob. He forced himself to turn it.
Both surprise and unease filled him as the door opened without resistance.
Did his mother believe that if she locked the front door he wouldn’t go around to the back?
Was she foolish enough to think he would simply go away? Leave them in peace?
He didn’t give a fuck about their peace, only his own. Only Saylor’s.
And they wouldn’t achieve theirs until he knew with certainty his father was gone. Then that peace would finally be within reach. Wouldn’t it?
Didn’t he finally deserve his own with everything he went through when he was Michael? Didn’t Saylor deserve hers after everything she went through when she was Sarah?
The kitchen was empty. Quiet except for the ticking of the clock above the sink.
The counters were perfectly clean. Not a dirty dish in the sink. The dish towel hung perfectly straight in its place.
At first glance, you’d think the kitchen was never used. That the table was never sat at. When he knew for a fact Michael had sat at it more times than he could remember.
They couldn’t eat until his father came home from work. Starting at the scheduled dinner time, which was six, he and Sarah would have to sit quietly at the table, waiting.
Waiting to hear the front door open, waiting to hear his footsteps coming down the narrow hallway.
Waiting for their father to kiss their mother on the cheek before settling into his spot at the head of the table.
And with all that waiting, especially when his father was late, his stomach would growl and twist in pain as he stared at the cooling food on his plate.
Sometimes he was so hungry he couldn’t resist taking a bite before his father blessed the food and thanked God for providing it. When Michael would reach out, his father would slap his hand away from his plate and send him to bed without dinner.
If that was his only punishment for that infraction, he didn’t care. He went willingly to his room. Because buried deep within his closet he had hidden a shoebox full of snacks that he’d stolen from the store in town.
Every time he was sent there on his bike with a few dollars to pick up an item for his mother, he’d pocket something. A candy bar, a granola bar, a pack of cheese crackers, anything that would fill his stomach. If he could, he’d take two. One for him, one for Sarah.
Rev moved through the kitchen and, instead of going directly to the sitting room, he moved up the back steps. The narrow stairway was designed for the hired help when the house was originally built in the mid-1800s.
The Schmidts never had hired help since they couldn’t afford it. Even if they could, his father didn’t want strangers in his house. The only people allowed in their home were family and the members of their religious order. People with the same beliefs.
It was easier that way. Safer.
No questions asked. No comments made.
The steps creaked slightly as he moved up them slowly, carefully. The narrow walls closing in on him the higher he climbed. To prevent himself from a full-blown panic attack, he focused on the door at the top of the steps and, once he got there without stumbling, he opened it and stepped out at the end of the upstairs hallway.
He sucked in air and hesitated for only a second while his vision restored. Then, instinctively, he headed to the first room on the left. The door was closed but not locked.
When he opened it, the disturbed dust and the stale air filled his nostrils. He struggled not to sneeze.
The curtains were drawn but he didn’t need light to see what he expected.
Sarah’s bedroom remained unchanged. It was exactly as he remembered. Almost as if they expected her to come home at any time and step directly back into her youth, prior to that first time she was sent to the detention center.
He stared at the single bed. The bed he had curled up on with his sister too many nights to count, holding her and trying to soothe her when all she could do was cry.
He always had left before morning.
All except that one time when he made the mistake of falling asleep. When what he was doing wasn’t seen as something good, but something bad instead.
A worn spot on the wood floor by Sarah’s bed caught his attention. She knelt in that exact spot to say her prayers before bed. After doing it night after night and year after year, it had worn away the paint on the wood.
The bed was crisply made. No items left out. Sterile and neat. Nothing to indicate it was a little girl’s room. No dolls. No toys. No hair bows or barrettes. No pinks. No purples. No bright colors at all. All muted whites. The color of purity.
