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‘Sketch Talbot bought it for me,’ I stammer. ‘He invited me to the dance. I couldn’t refuse. He’s my boss. I didn’t want to lose my job.’
‘Are you a good worker?’ My father tugs my skirt roughly. I stand straight and roll my shoulders back. I force my bare feet firmly onto the ground. It’s almost impossible to stay standing as he tugs over and over, but I’m determined not to let him drag me to the ground.
‘Yes. I work hard,’ I say. ‘You can be proud.’
‘Proud?’ My father snorts, letting go. ‘How could I ever be proud of something like you?’
I swallow hard. His words roll off me as if my skin is made of wax. His vicious words have no effect. I don’t want his pride. Or his love. I don’t want anything from him except my freedom.
‘I work hard every day.’ I stiffen. ‘And I bring home good money. Money, I give to you. Do you really want to lose that income?’
‘I want a daughter who knows her place. You belong to me. I am your father. Iamyour boss. Not that silly boy, you hear me?’
I nod. ‘But we need the money,’ I say, my eyes dropping to the whiskey bottle that he still clutches.
‘We don’t need anything unless I say so.’ He raises the bottle and slugs large mouthfuls, draining the contents completely. Amber alcohol dribbles down his chin, and he throws the empty bottle onto the ground. It bounces, but surprisingly, it doesn’t crack. He drags his arm across his lips, wiping away the dribbling whiskey with his sleeve. ‘The only thing I need right now is my supper.’
My father has just finished a large meal. The aroma of delicious stew still wafts around the house. I know he’s not hungry; he’s just asserting himself the only way he knows how. By attempting to put a woman in her place.
‘Let me fix you something,’ my mother says. ‘I think there’s some stew left. I’ll heat it on the stove.’
‘I don’t want leftovers,’ my father growls, his eyes burning into my dress so intensely I almost believe they’ll leave scorch marks. ‘Annie says she’s a good worker. Cooking and cleaning over there on that big farm; well, let’s see her prove it. Let’s see you cook a decent meal for your real boss.’
‘Annie made the stew, Johnny,’ my mother says. ‘Wasn’t it delicious? Isn’t she a good cook?’
Pa raises his open hand into the air, and my mother ducks and closes her eyes. He can tell she’s lying. He leaves his hand in the air, hovering over her head. He smiles in satisfaction. I can see just scaring her gives him his kicks. He doesn’t need to hit her any more to feel powerful. He will hit her again, of course. Probably later when he’s had even more to drink. But the smell of her fear is enough to pacify him for now. My father is a lot of things, but stupid isn’t one of them. He won’t lay a hand on her before the dance. The print of my father’s hand across my mother’s face would have the whole town talking, and my father won’t give the gossiping biddies the satisfaction.
The sound of Sketch’s car rolling in the driveway finally encourages my father to lower his hand. I breathe a sigh of relief and slip my feet into my tattered black shoes next to the door, wincing as the cold leather reminds me of their age. Bridget will no doubt notice I’m not wearing her shoes. I’ve no idea how I’m going to explain, but right now, my only concern is getting out the door.
I hear the door of Sketch’s car shut, and I know he’s out and walking up to the house.
‘Where do you think you’re going?’ Pa says as I reach for the door knob ready to open it as soon as Sketch knocks.
‘Sketch Talbot has kindly offered us a lift,’ my mother explains, keeping a healthy distance from the span of my father’s arms. ‘It’s too far to walk.’
Pa thinks for a moment and surprises both Ma and me when he says, ‘You’re right. And it looks like it might rain.’
‘It does,’ Ma trembles, visibly shocked by his answer.
Sketch knocks on the door, and I look at my mother for approval before I open it. She smiles and my heart flutters with excitement. I close my eyes and take a deep breath. I want to commit this moment to memory forever. When I open the door, the man I love will be waiting on the other side ready to escort me to my first dance. It’s the stuff of fairy tales.
My father waits until Sketch knocks once more and my fingers curl around the knob before he grabs a fistful of my hair and drags me away. My feet scarper beneath me, unable to keep up with the speed he tugs me with, and I fall backwards onto my coccyx bone. Pain shoots up my spine, and I cry out.
‘I said I was hungry.’ Pa towers over me.
Sketch knocks again. Louder this time.
‘Get out.’ My father glares at my mother. ‘Get out and get that boy the hell out of here with you.’
‘But Johnny,’ Ma says, tears glistening in her eyes. ‘It’s Annie he’s really here for.’
‘Are you calling me stupid?’ Pa growls, his belly rounding as it grows full of air and frustration. ‘Don’t you think I know that?’
‘Hello?’ Sketch shouts, knocking again.
‘Get. Out!’ My father’s jaw locks, and his words barely make it out between his gritted teeth.
My mother looks at me, helpless. I try to silently let her know it’s okay. That I’ll be okay. The longer she waits and the more Sketch knocks, the angrier Pa will become.
