Page 94 of Forked (Frenched 2)
“A heap of trouble, no doubt.” He flashed a quick smile in my direction, but it didn’t reach his eyes.
#
Later that night—after making supper, washing the dishes, breaking up a fight between my sisters over whose turn it was to dry them, running the carpet sweeper, and putting out the trash—I took a cool bath, put on my nightgown, and flopped facedown onto my bed. Our home wasn’t large by any means, but keeping it clean and running smoothly was exhausting, not to mention keeping two younger sisters fed, clothed, and out of trouble. Daddy did what he could, willing to cook the occasional pot of soup or scrub the tub from time to time, but as the oldest daughter at home, I had the most responsibility. Sometimes the weight of it all threatened to drag me under.
It was probably crazy to attempt nursing school too, but my mother had always talked about how she’d have liked to be a nurse if only she’d had the opportunity. She was a poor Irish girl who grew up on a farm—she hadn’t even finished the eighth grade, let alone high school. I felt closer to her, knowing that I was fulfilling a dream she’d had for herself. Plus, a nursing degree would allow me to get a good job and make my own money. My first plan was to get an apartment, but after that I wanted to go places, and I didn’t want to be dependent on anyone else to take me.
From my nightstand, I picked up a dog-eared Photoplay magazine. I’d already finished reading it, but I loved looking at the advertisements boasting of grand hotels, luxury rail lines, and exotic locales. Too hot for covers, I flipped to my back and lay atop the sheet, thumbing through the tattered pages, grateful for a moment of peace.
“Tiny!” Mary Grace burst into my room without knocking. “Molly’s going to Electric Park tomorrow, but she says I can’t go along. Tell her she has to take me too!”
Sighing, I tossed the magazine back onto the nightstand and braced for an argument.
“I won’t take her,” said Molly from the doorway, arms crossed. “Last time she embarrassed me terribly by telling my friends I wet the bed until I was eight.”
“Well, you did,” insisted Mary Grace. “I can’t help it if that’s the truth.” She looked at me and pouted. “She just doesn’t want me there because boys are coming.”
“You be quiet,” snapped Molly, leaning in to slap Mary Grace on the shoulder.
“Girls.” I got off the bed to separate them. “It’s late, and I’m tired. We’ll talk about this tomorrow. Now go to bed before I find some chore that needs to be done yet tonight.”
“But she—”
“OUT!” I shoved them both through the door and shut it behind them. Half-expecting them to bang on it again, I waited a moment before switching off the light and crawling under the covers.
Certain they were scared off by the threat of more housework, I closed my eyes. Enzo’s face appeared. Breathing deeply, I replayed the scene in the boathouse in my head. When I got to the part where he first touched me, I slowed down to savor every delicious morsel—his fingers under my chin, his smoky breath, his lips on mine, our chests pressed together. Even the memory of discovering the gun gave me a peculiar kick that radiated from my stomach throughout my limbs.
Like the buzz from a cocktail mixed with equal parts fear and fascination.
#
Several hours later, the ringing telephone jarred me awake. I stumbled down the stairs and into the darkened hallway to answer it.
“Hello?”
“Tiny,” a male voice rasped. I thought it might be Daddy, but he’d spoken so softly I couldn’t tell for sure.
“Daddy? I can’t hear you. Hello?”
“The garage,” said a smooth new voice. “Come alone. And bring the money or he’s dead.”
“Who is this?” The phone went dead before I could get an answer, and my stomach turned over. Trembling, I set the receiver back on the switch hook. What money? Or who’s dead—Daddy? Racing up the steps up two at a time, I opened his bedroom door. The moonlight streaming through the window illuminated an empty bed. I dashed back into my room to dress without turning on any lights. The first outfit I got my hands on was the red blouse and black skirt I’d worn today, which I threw on over my chemise while questions pummeled my brain. Who was that? Should I really go alone? Should I call the police? Is this about a gambling debt? Does it have something to do with the letter?
Damn it, Daddy! What have you done?
I didn’t have any money at the house, and my tip envelope was at Bridget’s. The last thing I wanted to do was to alarm her or put the kids in danger—I’d have to see who it was and find out what they wanted first. If I ignored the instructions and involved the police, I might put Daddy in more danger than he was already in.
I shoved my bare feet into shoes and moved quietly down the stairs. As I let myself out the front door into the warm night, I tried to place the voice I’d heard. Daddy’s usual bookmaker was a cock-eyed sleaze called Ralph the Bookie, but he had a distinctive nasally whine. This voice was deep and smooth, with a slight accent. Was it Italian?
My stomach churned. The cops found unidentified bodies in the Detroit River all the time these days. Almost nightly, said the papers. Guys who’d been shot, beaten, drowned. I fought off the nausea by quickening my pace.
As I ran past darkened houses, a memory surfaced without warning—Daddy surprising me with a new Hawthorne bicycle on my ninth birthday and teaching me how to ride it. Running alongside me down this very street shouting encouragement. Clenching my fists, I dug my nails into my palms as I reached the end of the block and stopped to catch my breath.
Then with fear lodged like a hatchet in my chest, I turned the corner and inched through the alley toward the garage, my feet crunching on the gravel. At the back door, I closed my right hand around the handle and twisted—unlocked. I pushed it open and stepped in, hearing nothing but my own quick breaths. Seconds ticked by.
I was beginning to wonder if it was all a joke when I heard a rusty voice behind me. “Glad you could make it.”
The door slammed and a meaty hand clamped over my mouth. An arm snared my waist. Cackling, the man walked me deeper into the garage, pushing my legs with his own. Too terrified to resist, I moved forward like a rag doll in his grip.
