|
Mike ran in the open door of
the motel room. He snatched up the telephone and dialed 911. The phone crashed
down. Stunned, he shook his head. No can do. What the hell would a couple of
cops be able to do when he couldn't? Mike checked his gun.
Loaded, hair trigger, fine
sights. It was a man's piece, two fisted, heavy and reassuring. It could knock a
hole through a body big enough to put his fist through. What if he were wrong,
and it wasn't the freak? Mama said the kid had saved his father's life. Did he
want to embarrass his family, saying they were too slow to know when they had an
abomination, a freak, under their roof.
Mike re-dialed the phone.
A sleepy voice yawned at him.
"Mama? It's Mike. Be
still and let me talk, please?"
Millie was jolted awake by the
strain in Mike's voice. "Go ahead, Mike. I'm always ready to listen to my
favorite."
He almost smiled at that.
Mama's favorite was every child she ever met. "Mom, describe the kid to me.
The one you have working there."
"Mike, is that why you
called me at this ungodly hour? I assure you-"
"Mama, please."
Seated in the bedroom, Millie
shook her head. She hesitated. Ron would want to know about Federal 'justicas'
asking questions about Benny, so she did like all good mothers do, she lied.
Millie justified it by remembering the tales about Santa Claus and the Easter
Bunny. It was for Mike's own good.
"He's blond?" Mike
gagged in relief. "Not dyed, is it?"
"No, no roots, Mike. I
should be jealous. It shines like gold. I guess he's sleeping in the barn. He
and Bull didn't hit it off too well, and he's a nice enough young man that he
wants this to be a good visit."
"Thanks, Mama." Mike
listened to her chatter on and eased her into saying good-bye. "I doubt
I'll be able to make it to breakfast. The roads aren't getting any better, and
we have a lot of territory to cover. Yeah, until Easter. Sorry, I mean
Resurrection Day," Mike said and winced, hoping she wouldn't start
preaching.
"All right. 'Bye,
Son." Millie listened to the telephone on the other end of the line click,
then heard a second click. The kitchen? She could hear the churn laboring even
this far up.
In the living room, Benny
glared at the winking light of the remote and steeled himself against it. He was
relieved that Millie had taken his side. Man, a righteous lady like her actually
lying, and for him? But he was frightened, too. She knew. How many others did?
In the kitchen John replaced
the receiver. He poured himself a fresh cup of coffee. He leaned against the
counter. A thin smile crossed his face, John tipped the cup in the direction of
Millie's room. Whatever had happened at the Manse was not over. Not by a long
shot.
"Hey! Cut it out, Honey.
You want me to get fat? The government says it's poison and my thighs
agree."
John grinned at Ellen.
"It's good butter. I made it."
One of the children groaned
and circled an ear with his finger.
His father gave Little John an
indulgent chuckle and slapped another pat of butter on his toast.
The door blew open. Benny
followed a skirl of snow into the kitchen. "Mornin', Mrs. Donnelly."
His good eye brightened. "Hey, how's it hangin', Swee- I mean Terr."
Benny swallowed his tongue. He stared at her. Her mouth hung slightly open.
There was a glazed look in her eyes. Her knees were clenched tightly together.
He knew, because so were his. Benny shook his head and scowled. Man but she was
one fiiiine looking lady. A tremor started somewhere in the vicinity of his
locked-together knees.
Bull growled, and Benny's head
snapped up. Everyone but Sweet-Bottom was smiling into newspapers or their
brunch. And Bull. Teeth bared in the mockery of a smile, he passed Boone on
silent feet. Boone's face reddened. He mumbled something and found his plate
preferable to watching Benny's hand stroking his throat. Anything was preferable
to the bum's smirk.
"I got the chains on the
station wagon for you, Mrs. Donnelly. You want I should make supper?"
"Well, I had thought we'd
stop at the diner on the way back from the hospital."
A World Series of hiccups
batted at him. Benny shuffled his feet and silently cursed them as they jolted
against his teeth.
"What ever is it, Benny?
Ron wants to talk to you." She smiled and gave a slight cough to cover it.
"Something about owing you a couple of broken ribs, I believe."
"Pop isn't the only
one." Boone smiled at Benny, one that failed to reach his eyes. He glared
at Benny, and Millie grew flustered.
"I better not, Mrs.
Donnelly." Benny thought fast. "I found some shingles in the yard. I
better take a look at the roof, if that's OK with you."
"All right, if that's
what you want." She smiled, though it sounded rather dubious to her ears.
Millie hadn't been a high school teacher for years without learning a little
something in return.
Benny looked at her and a
little defensively said, "A man earns his-"
"-His keep." Millie
chuckled. "All right. I'm sure there's plenty of work on this old place to
keep an ambitious young man busy for a lifetime. We'll be back in time for
dinner."
Benny was stacking dishes on
the counter. From behind, a pair of warm hands slid around his waist and tugged
free his tee shirt. They continued up, under the warm cloth.
"Mmm, something smells
delicious." Terry Marie sniffed at the back of his neck. A hot, wet tongue
on Benny's neck stoked the fires below. "Tasty, too."
"Hey, babe." The
side of his mouth crooked up and Benny turned in her arms. Big mistake. Her
hands went to the fly of his pants and undid the buttons. Benny stepped back in
haste before something popped out and clubbed her. He gestured at the sink with
one hand and tried to ward off her 'roman' hands with the other. He wasn't
having much luck. But then, he wasn't exactly unwilling.
Benny shook his head, his eye
turning to the door.
"I came home alone."
"Uh . . . no. Please,
Sweet-Bottom? I promised your mom."
"I didn't."
A little more firm, Benny
said, "Get to work." He gave her a gentle shove at the sink.
"Not on your life, bub.
This babe don't do dishes."
"Kitchen law states, 'No
work, no eat.'"
She tried to sink to her
knees. He caught her up. "You helped make the mess." Sweet-Bottom's
mouth turned down in a sulk. Her nose wrinkled at a stack of pots and mixing
bowls in the sink. One hand firmly in his fly, she sniffed deeply at the aroma
of supper. Sweet-Bottom leaned over and peeked in the oven.
"You can go and wash your
old dirty dishes your own self. Nyah."
Benny's hand cracked down
where the skintight jeans were the widest.
She yelped and the oven door
crashed shut.
"Hey, what's the
idea?" Sweet-Bottom gave him a tearful look and whimpered as she rubbed at
the sting. Her grip on him tightened. His legs too weak to stand, he thumped
down in a chair. She purred, and Benny helped rub out the sting.
"Every time you open an
oven you lose ten minutes cooking time. And Kitchen Law Number 1,398, paragraph
24, says the Cook is not responsible for mistakes, messes, or missing steaks. Kennen
sie gut?"
Ignoring him, she straddled
his legs, her hand warm and soft and constantly moving.
Benny choked. "Oh, baby.
We got to stop, and like now. What would your mom say if my shorts have funny
spots in them?"
"You don't wear shorts.
And neither do I. Please Benny?" Tears rose in her eyes. "I hurt so
for you."
His last words were, "Too
much. Way, way too much, man."
©2003 StoriesByEmail.com
|
