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“How much, baby? Show Daddy how much.”
He couldn’t stand it another minute. Yanking the slingshot and a sharp-edged rock from his back pocket, he took aim. Through the open window, right at that white, freckled back he sighted his slingshot, drew back on the thick rubber band, and with a thwang, let his sharp little missile fly.
Crash! The mirror over the bureau shattered and the man, startled, yelled and looked over his shoulder. Oh, shit! He was in for it now. As he swung down from the limb and landed hard on the balls of his feet, Weston caught a glimpse of Dutch Holland’s red face.
Dutch Holland. Dad’s rival. Mom’s been fucking Dutch Holland?
Betrayal screamed through Weston’s brain.
“Was that your kid?” Dutch demanded.
Weston rolled into the undergrowth, startling a rabbit that dived into the bracken. Agilely, Weston scrambled to his feet, but the burning image of his mother, his mother! screwing her brains out with Dutch Holland burned through his mind, clouded his vision. How could she? How? With that mean son of a bitch? Without so much as a glance over his shoulder, Weston ran. Faster and faster. Nearly tripping over dirt clods and potholes. Branches slapped his face, brought tears. Because he couldn’t be crying over his mother. No way. Jezebel. Cunt. Whore. He tore through the forest, putting as much distance as he could from the nasty, ugly, horrible scene that was jammed into his brain. Mikki singing. Mikki smiling. Mikki moaning while that bastard rutted on her.
His stomach heaved and Weston had to stop to puke. Then he was running again, splashing through the creek, rocks slippery under his feet. Scrambling up the far bank, berry vines tore at his pant legs, spiderwebs and leaves brushed his tears away. Sobbing, scared and angry he ran farther and farther into the forest. As far as he could go until he collapsed on the ground and pounded a fist into the earth. How could she do it? How? He gasped for breath and thoughts of his mother, his friggin’ mother—his good, churchgoing, pious mother—tore at his brain.
He hated her.
He hated fucking Dutch Holland.
And he’d get back at them both. Someday. Some way. That was it. He’d show both of ’em. And he’d start by staying away. Making his bitch of a mother worry about him . . . if she did . . . maybe she didn’t even care. Maybe she never had.
He stayed out all night, hiding in the forest, crouched under a rocky ledge where he imagined cougars and bears and coyotes lived. He spent the next day tired, hungry, and sick with thoughts about his whore of a mother. He didn’t want to live and hoped she was sick with worry about him. As night fell again he slept outside, closer to the house this time, near enough to see the warm patches of light glowing through the trees, beckoning him home.
On the third day his stomach was cramped from lack of food. He sneaked into the kitchen to grab a couple of Cokes from the back porch and a box of Hostess cupcakes from the pantry when she caught him. Dressed in a beige pantsuit, her purse over her arm as if she were running to the market, she spied him from the hallway.
“I think we need to talk, Wes,” she said. Her eyes were cool and blue, without emotion. “Your father is very angry that you ran away.”
He didn’t say a word, just stood at the sliding door, ready to escape to the forest.
Clucking her tongue, she shook her head. “Look at you. You’re filthy. Now, if you come upstairs and clean yourself up, I think I can work things out so that your father doesn’t beat the tar out of you.”
Weston’s eyes narrowed. This was all wrong. Everything she was saying was wrong.
“I told him that you broke the mirror in the guest house, that you ran away from me, and that it was best to let you come back on your own rather than have the police hunt you down, but your father . . . well, you know how he is. As I said, he’s angry with you, son. Very angry.?
?
“And how about you? Is he mad at you, too?”
“Why would he be angry with me?” she asked as if she really didn’t understand. She’d screwed his father’s enemy and was playing the part of the innocent.
“Because of the guy.”
“What guy?”
“Mr. Holland. You were in bed with Mr. Holland. Fucking him!”
“What?” She crossed the room and slapped him so hard his head slammed against the wall. “Take that filthy talk out of here.”
“But you were—”
Smack! Her hand caught his cheek again. “Don’t you ever spread lies about me, Weston. I’m your mother, and I deserve some respect. Now, I’ll plead your case with your father. I’ll ask him not to punish you too severely for breaking the mirror and running away, but if you start telling these lies about me, there’s nothing more I can do for you.”
“I’m not lying.”
“Oh, yes you are,” she said, leaning down so that her nose was nearly touching his. “You’ve been a liar from the day you were born, Weston. Always making up stories, but until now they weren’t particularly harmful. But this . . . this lie . . . is malicious. If you breathe one word of it, just one, I swear I’ll tell your father, and he’ll make your life a living hell. You know he can do it, Weston. He’s done it before. So what’s it going to be? Are you going to take the punishment for breaking the mirror and running away, or are you going to keep lying about me and force me to have your father put you in isolation down in the cellar? Remember the cellar? You saw a rat down there the last time, didn’t you? And spiders.”
“Spiders don’t scare me.” But he shuddered. And he remembered being locked in the basement. It had been cold, damp and dark. His backside burned from the welts of his father’s belt and he could remember Neal Taggert’s taunts from the other side of the door. “Watch your goddamned mouth, Wes, or I’ll leave you in there forever. You’ll never get a piece of my estate. No, siree, I’ll cut you off and leave you in there to rot.”
