Читать книгу The Fourth Monkey: A twisted thriller you won’t be able to put down - Джей Ди Баркер, J.D. Barker - Страница 11

5

Diary

I’d like to set the record straight from the very beginning.

This is not my parents’ fault.

I grew up in a loving home that would have made Norman Rockwell take note.

My mother, God bless her soul, gave up a promising career in publishing to stay home after my birth, and I don’t believe she ever longed to return. She had breakfast on the table every morning for my father and me, and supper was held promptly at six. We cherished such family time, and it was spent in the most jovial of ways.

Mother would recount her exploits of the day with Father and me listening attentively. The sound of her voice was that of angels, and to this day I long for more.

Father worked in finance. I am most certain he was held in high regard by his peers, although he didn’t discuss his work at home. He firmly believed that the day-to-day happenings of one’s employ should remain at the place of business, not brought home and spilled within the sanctuary of the residence as one might dump out a bucket of slop for the pigs to feast on. He left work at work, where it belonged.

He carried a shiny black briefcase, but I never once saw him open it. He set it beside the front door each night, and there it remained until he left for the office on the next business day. He would scoop the briefcase up on his way out, only after a loving kiss for Mother and a pat on the head for me.

“Take care of your mother, my boy!” he would say. “You are the man of the house until I return. Should the bill man come knocking, send him next door to collect. Do not pay him any mind. He is of no consequence in the large scheme of things. Better you learn this now than fret about such things when you have a family of your own.”

Fedora upon his head and briefcase in hand, he would slip out the door with a smile and a wave. I would go to the picture window and watch him as he made his way down the walk (careful of the ice during the cold winters) and climbed into his little black convertible. Father drove a 1969 Porsche. It was a marvelous machine. A work of art with a throaty growl that rumbled forth with the turn of the key and grew louder still as it eased out onto the road and lapped up the pavement with hungry delight.

Oh, how Father loved that car.

Every Sunday we’d take a large blue bucket from the garage along with a handful of rags and wash it from top to bottom. He would spend hours conditioning the soft black top and applying wax to its metal curves, not once but twice. I was tasked with cleaning the spokes on the wheels, a job I took very seriously. When finished, the car shone as if the showroom was a recent memory. Then he would put the top down and take Mother and me on a Sunday drive. Although the Porsche was only a two-seater, I was a tiny lad and fit snugly in the space behind the seats. We would stop at the local Dairy Freeze for ice cream and soda, then head to the park for an afternoon stroll among the large oaks and grassy fields.

I would play with the other children as Mother and Father watched from the shade of an old tree, their hands entwined and love in their eyes. They would joke and laugh, and I could hear them as I ran after a ball or chased a Frisbee. “Watch me! Watch me!” I would shout. And they would. They watched me as parents should. They watched me with pride. Their son, their joy. I’d look back at the myself at that tender age. I’d look back at them under that tree, all in smiles. I’d look back and picture their necks sliced from ear to ear, blood pouring from the wounds and pooling in the grass beneath them. And I would laugh, my heart fluttering, I would laugh so.

Of course, that was years ago, but that is surely when it began.