tell me ‘nothing,’ girl!” He lurched to his feet and crossing to her, ripped the magazines from her folded arms. She bit back a sound of dismay, knowing the best way to avoid the full brunt of Randall Lee’s fury was to be as quiet, as agreeable, as possible.
He stared at the magazines a moment, spittle collecting at the corners of his slightly open mouth. Then he swore. Wheeling back, almost losing his balance, he threw the magazines. Becky Lynn jerked as they slammed against the wall. “How many times I told you I don’t want you readin’ this shit. How many times I told you not to spend money on—”
“I didn’t!” she said quickly, breathlessly. “These are the old issues. Miss Opal gave them to me. If you’d check the mailing labels, you’d see—”
“You tellin’ me what to do, girl? You sayin’ I’m dumb?” He took a menacing step toward her, his fists clenched.
“No, sir.” Becky Lynn shook her head vigorously, knowing that she had somehow, once again, crossed the invisible line. But then, it had always been like this with her father. She’d never had to do anything in particular to set him off.
Her mother appeared at the kitchen door, her face pinched and pale, her eyes anxious. “Becky Lynn, baby, why don’t you come in here and help me with the supper.”
A ripple of relief moved over Becky Lynn, and she sent her mother a look of gratitude. Randall Lee didn’t like interference and he wasn’t averse to turning his rage onto his wife. And it was an awesome rage. But then, her father, at six foot four inches tall and as big as a tree trunk, was an awesome man.
“I’d better help Mama,” she whispered, taking a step toward the kitchen.
Her father grabbed her arm, his big hand a vise on her flesh. She winced in pain but didn’t try to jerk away.
“How much you make today?”
“Twelve dollars.” Seventeen, counting the five she’d tucked into her shoe.
He narrowed his eyes. “You’d better not be lying to me.”
She straightened and looked him right in the eye. “No, sir.”
“Empty your pockets.” He dropped his hand and stepped away from her, weaving slightly.
She did as he asked, handing him the money. He looked suspiciously at her, counted it, then handed her two dollars back. She stared at the crumpled bills, thinking of the heads she’d washed that day, of the hair she’d swept off the floor. And of the fact that there would probably be enough money for her father to drink Thursday night.
Bitterness welled inside her, souring in her mouth. She supposed she should be happy, she thought. Most times, he took it all.
Her brother, Randy, came in then, the screen door slapping shut behind him, and her father’s attention momentarily shifted. He swung toward his oldest child. At eighteen, Randy, who had been held back in the third grade, was already as big as his father. And almost as mean. His disposition on—and off—the field had moved his fellow football players to nickname him Madman Lee. “Where’ve you been, boy?”
Randy shrugged. “Out with the guys.”
Randall Lee opened his mouth as if to comment, then just snorted with disgust and turned back to her.
Randy shot her a cocky glance and ambled toward the kitchen. Frustration welled up inside her. Her father rarely attacked Randy. Not Randy, star tackle on the Bend High School football team. Because he was a jock, and because he had the right friends, boys like Tommy Fischer.
No, he saved all his hatred and bitterness for her. He always had. And she didn’t know why.
Suddenly furious at the unfairness of it, she jerked her chin up. She looked at her father, not bothering to hide her contempt. “May I go now?”
“You’ll go when I say so.”
“Why do you think I’m asking?” Idiot. Asshole.
At her tone, a mottled red started at the base of his thick neck and crept upward. He grabbed her arm again, but this time he twisted it until she cried out in pain. “Where’d you get the right to put on airs?” he snapped. “Just like your mother, thinkin’ you’re some kinda queen.” He dragged her to the room’s single window, twisting her arm again, forcing her to face her reflection. Tears stung her eyes and she fought to keep them from spilling over. “Take a look, girl. What man’s ever goin’ to marry you? Tell me that.” He shook her so hard her teeth rattled. “I’ll probably be stuck looking at your ugly mug for the rest of my life. Now get outta here, it makes me sick to look at you.”
He flung her aside, so violently she hit the wall, much the same as her magazines had only moments before. Her head snapped back, cracking against the wallboard. Pain shot through her shoulder. She sank to the dirt floor, thinking, oddly, of the pretty pink and white linoleum at Miss Opal’s. Flecked with silver, it was always so clean it shone.
Shaking her head to clear it, she sucked in a deep breath and using the wall for support, eased to her feet. Her father had returned to his place in front of the television, and she saw him bring the bottle to his lips. She stared at him a moment, hatred roiling inside her, the urge to lunge at him, to claw and hit and scratch, thundering through her. Its beat matched that of the blood pounding in her brain, and she pictured herself doing it. Just walking up to him and smashing her fist into his face.
Becky Lynn squeezed her eyes shut, fighting back the urge. She wouldn’t lower herself to his level. For even worse than living the nightmare that was her life, was living his. Becoming like him.
Besides, he’d probably beat the hell out of her before she could get in the first punch.
She limped to the kitchen. Her mama and Randy were there. Her mother chattered softly about the things that needed to be done that weekend, and Randy stood by, his stance uncomfortable and stiff. Neither of them met her eyes, but Becky Lynn could see it in their faces, in their downcast gazes: If it wasn’t you, it might be me.
She couldn’t say they were wrong. She knew they weren’t. And she knew that was why Randy never inter-ceded for her, why her mother never openly tried to comfort her. They didn’t want to incur Randall Lee’s wrath.
Becky Lynn squeezed her fingers into fists. She’d inter-ceded for Randy before; she had stepped into the line of fire on his behalf. She had done the same for her mother; she still did.
They didn’t even have the guts to look at her.
She drew in a shuddering breath, pain spearing through her shoulder once more. She was so weary of living alone with her fear. With her despair. Wasn’t Randy? Wasn’t her mother? It hurt to hold it in, day in and day out. Didn’t they long, as she did, to share their pain? Didn’t they long to have someone to whisper with in the dark, to hold on to and love?
Tears stinging her eyes, Becky Lynn shifted her gaze to the other room, to the magazines scattered obscenely across the floor. Her gaze landed on an old Vogue, on model Renée Simonsen’s beautiful, smiling face.
Someone to whisper with in the dark, she thought, hopelessness clutching at her. Someone to lean on, someone who would give her one perfect moment without fear. Her eyes swam; the model’s face blurred. Turning her back to the glossy image, she crossed the kitchen and began to help her mother
