Читать книгу Legacy of Secrets - Sara Mitchell - Страница 13

Rutter, Virginia

Shoulders slumped, Will Crocker trudged down the dirt lane that led to his home. It was dusk, when light and shadow blurred surroundings into indefinable shapes. A man could be invisible at dusk, if he were careful. Will shrugged, vaguely uncomfortable with the thought, and hurried toward the four-room unpainted frame house where he and his mother had lived for the last fifteen years.

The hardscrabble community of Rutter, population 973, boasted few amenities, though one or two families made persistent efforts to achieve a level of civilized comfort—whitewashing the clapboard, planting a flower garden; one family had ordered an entire parlor set of golden oak out of the Sears catalog.

Momma always had a good word to say about their neighbors; she tried as much as she could to thank Will for his efforts to improve their own home, despite the disconsolation that plagued most of her waking moments. Life’s unfairness had crushed her spirit; by the time Will reached his twelfth year her hair was completely gray, her eyes sunken in the once pretty face.

When Grandmother died, they had lost everything. Many a night when Will came home, the sound of his mother’s bitter weeping seeped like cold fog through the thin bedroom wall. She seldom wept in front of him, and he allowed her to cling to the illusion that he didn’t know how often she cried herself to sleep.

Mood bleak, he drew aimless patterns in the dirt with the toe of his shoe. No matter how bitter he might feel during these isolated moments, his mother loved him as much as she was able. Will was her only remaining relative. If he abandoned her, he knew she would die. Twice, in his late twenties, he’d gone so far as to move out. The first time his mother quit eating and almost starved herself to death; the second time she’d almost burned the house down. Will never tried living on his own again.

A vague shiver danced along his spine, one of fear and the longing he never quite knew what to do with because he couldn’t remember a time when both emotions hadn’t been part of his life, all forty-one years of it. When the Zuckermans’ snug little house appeared at the bend in the lane, light glowing through the windows, he gave in to the longing instead of the fear. Silently, imagining himself invisible as a gray field mouse, he slipped up to a side window and peeked through the narrow gap in the curtains. Mrs. Zuckerman had died the previous year, but their oldest daughter, a horse-faced but congenial spinster everyone called Miss Leila, moved in to take care of her father. At the moment they were sitting at a small table, playing some kind of board game. A fire danced merrily in the parlor stove. Pretty crocheted doilies were scattered about on tables and the backs of chairs. Their old hound dog slept beneath the table, and as Will watched, Mr. Zuckerman reached down to give the fellow an absentminded scratch behind his ears.

The ache in his belly grew and spread. As silently as he’d slipped up to the window, Will backed away, then turned a resolute face toward his own home. Whatever he found when he stepped over the threshold, he would deal with it. He was no longer the mewling whelp of a boy prone to nightmares, or the scarecrow young man forced to work repugnant jobs for degrading wages so they wouldn’t be thrown out into the streets.

Yet he could still feel the darkness inside, spreading like spilled ink. One day it would blacken him entirely, and he would disappear.

When he reached the door to their house, he paused, flexing his hands in a relaxing motion. Then he gave two brisk knocks and turned the rusting knob.

“Momma? I’m back!” Carefully he hung his bowler hat on the hall tree.

“William!” She rushed from her bedroom, her arms out-flung. “Is it finished, then? Were you successful this time? Do you have it at last?”

He hugged her, savoring the welcome, the warmth that could transform so quickly into anguish…or anger. When he felt her stiffen, he released her instantly. “It’s good to be home, Momma. But I’m very tired. Spent the last two days traveling, you know.” He tried a laugh. “Had to walk the last fifteen miles.”

She drew back, crossing long skeletal arms over her flat chest while her gaze seemed to devour him. “William? You look so tired, baby. And I don’t see any excitement on your face.” Vague fear swam into the pale brown eyes so like his own. “Something happened, didn’t it? Something bad.” Two bright red spots appeared on her cheeks. “William, please don’t tell me you failed. Not again. No, not again. I’ve been hoping—praying for you. We’re so close…”

Carefully Will gripped her shoulders, sat her down in her rickety old rocking chair he’d salvaged from the dump on the edge of town. “I promised to take care of us, and I will. Some things take a long time, remember? Listen, why don’t we eat, and I’ll tell you about the trip,” he finished, hoping to divert her. “Let me hang up my coat, and—”

“Don’t turn your back to me!” Her hand closed over his forearm, her fingers digging in. “You’re lying…” She slapped him hard, right across his mouth.

As abruptly as the rage boiled up, it disappeared. Tears swam into her glittering eyes. “Oh. Oh, William, baby, I’m sorry. So sorry. I can’t bear it.” She choked on a sob that brought moisture to Will’s eyes. “I didn’t mean it, you know I didn’t mean it. William, forgive me. Please.”

With a final anguished, tear-drenched look at Will, she fled to her room and slammed the door. A broken stream of sobs and wails about how horrible a mother she was, about the unfairness of life echoed from the room, washing over Will in a seething flood.

His jaw throbbed from her blow, and he slowly lifted a hand to wipe away the trickle of blood from the corner of his mouth.

The unnerving attacks were becoming more frequent. Yet he didn’t blame her. He couldn’t. She was his mother. He owed her his life, and to a great extent, his future. But this last attack…He released a long, tired breath. Footsteps heavy, he headed for the stove. The squalor of unwashed dishes and unemptied slops pail, the odor of rotting food and musty ashes revolted his senses.

But on the grease-laden warming plate rested a dish. A neatly folded piece of cloth covered his dinner.

With stoic resignation, Will sat down to eat before he set about cleaning the kitchen.