Page 13 of Shelter
“Where have you been?” The voice, cold and angry, echoed from the front hall. I recognized it as Mr. Whitehurst — Cole and Ava’s father — and my insides shrank at the sound.
Now, Mr. Whitehurst had never said one word to me, and he worked long days, so out of everyone in the family, I saw him the least. But that didn’t mean I didn’tfeelhim.
When he was home, the house was all kinds of quiet. Ava and her friends didn’t laugh and shriek in the den at the back of the house. As I froze on hands and knees under the dining table, I realized I couldn’t think of a time when Ava had friends over while her father was home. Now that I thought about it, it seemed like she was more often at their houses on weekends when her daddy was home for stretches at a time.
From what I could tell, Mr. Whitehurst was not a man to raise his voice. But he didn’t need to. I remembered a time in fourth grade when I sat in the kitchen with Mama because we had no school for parent-teacher conferences. Cole and Ava, who were in private school, had class that day, but Mrs. Abigail was taking coffee in the dining room.
Mr. Whitehurst had been home, which was unusual, and he’d come downstairs, joining her at the table. From my spot in the kitchen, I hadn’t been able to see this, but Mama had heard it, and she’d quickly gone out with the coffeepot to fill up his cup.
“Thank you, Flora,” I’d heard him say.
“You’re welcome, sir,” she’d said back, so low I could just make it out. And then Mama had returned to the kitchen. Silence had followed for a long moment.
“Abigail, what did you do to your hair?”
I’d been coloring at the kitchen table, and though he’d spoken softly, I heard his words clear as a bell. Mrs. Abigail was all kinds of pretty. A natural redhead. Not strawberry-blond or auburn. Her hair was a deep copper I loved looking at. As I colored, I wondered how she’d fixed it that day and hoped I’d get a chance to see it.
“I just thought I’d try something n—”
“Don’t.” The word was clipped. Tight. “It looks cheap.”
I had looked to Mama and saw her eyes widen, though she hadn’t met my gaze. Instead, she’d crossed to the laundry room and started filling the washing machine, the sound drowning out the conversation from the dining room.
But not before I heard the next words.
“Yes, Garrett, I’ll change it after breakfast,” Mrs. Abigail had replied in a rush.
And then there had been silence. But a heavy, full silence.
“I mean, I’ll go up and fix it now.” And then I’d heard Mrs. Abigail’s chair scrape against the dining room floor just as a rush of water started to fill the washing machine.
Now, from that dining room floor, the silence felt exactly the same. Too heavy to be carried. And who was he talking to? Mrs. Abigail had gone to bed hours before. And she couldn’t have left the house in her condition without help. Even if she could maneuver her wheelchair, her right leg stuck out in front of her in a cast. Getting the front door open and moving herself through it would have made a whole lot more noise than the soft click I’d heard.
“I asked you a question, son. Don’t make me repeat it.”
I held my breath. Cole. Of course, it was Cole. I hadn’t seen him since he’d stopped me on the back porch. In fact, I’d forgotten all about him in my efforts to help Mama and redeem myself for being late.
I heard a sigh that must have been Cole’s, and I shivered. Why wasn’t he answering his father? He needed to hurry up and answer.
“I went for a walk,” he said, sounding both innocent and irritated.
Silence again. I wondered if they’d hear me if I grabbed my errant napkin, crawled out from under the dining room table, and made a break for the kitchen. With my luck, I’d bump a chair, draw their attention, and be suspected of spying.
“You know how important this night was to your mother.” Mr. Whitehurst wasn’t asking a question. He seemed to be making an accusation.
“I disagree,” Cole said, his voice dropping almost to a whisper. “I think it was more important to you.”
This statement confused me, but not as much as thethwackthat followed it. I heard a secondthwackbefore a grunt I clearly understood.
My blood turned to ice water.
I wanted to scramble to my feet and run as fast as I could to get Mama, but something held me still under that table. It was the memory of Mama hurrying to turn on that washing machine.
I bit my lip and swallowed.
The sounds of heavy, measured breathing floated through the living room and into my ear. This was Cole, I realized. This was Cole trying to stay calm.
“There’s blood on the floor, Coleman. Be sure to clean that up before you go to bed.”
