Devil’s Paintbrush by K.L. Arthur

Author:K.L. Arthur [Arthur, K.L.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781466977686
Publisher: Trafford
Published: 2016-04-08T04:00:00+00:00

Right now, Ken sensed he needed such a “great probe” to use with his own mother. He also knew deep inside that it shouldn’t be done within these circumstances, especially considering she was no longer solidly in touch with reality. Additionally, he knew how manipulative, invasive, and self-serving such a “great probe” was, including the risk of doing so. “Great probes” always implied “great risk.” The old saying “be careful what you ask for . . . you may not like the answer,” has been proven over and over again to be true. Yet, Ken sensed the opportunity to ask her anything about his life with her would likely never come again. That was the risk. And, it was worth taking.

So he slowly asked his mother the following question. He did so with great trepidation, knowing the consequence of her answer also came with a high risk of crushing him.

“Hilda (not ‘mom’, this time) . . . did you ever have any children? If so, please tell me about them, Okay? I would really like to know.”

As soon as the words left his lips, Ken knew it was wrong; he felt shame and guilt rushing through his veins right away. Then he hoped she hadn’t heard or understood the question, or just would allow it to pass. At that second, he sensed that he really didn’t need to know how she truly felt about him or her other kids. Her personal thoughts and values toward them were meant to stay deep inside her memory and not shared with anyone else, including him.

Ken became momentarily disoriented trying to emotionally process what he had just done. So he just waited for time to take its course; hoping she wouldn’t respond at all. There was a long silence. Hilda seemed to be thinking about it, but Ken didn’t know for sure. And then a heavier kind of silence seemed to engulf them both. Her mind seemed to be travelling across the galaxy while her lifeless stare was drilling directly through Ken’s body, landing at some distant point across the dining room. But, even more time went by without a response from her.

He was glad and relieved that she wasn’t attempting to answer such an unscrupulous question. Then she looked at him. This was the only time during their lunch together when she actually made direct eye contact—the exact kind of intense eye contact she had always seemed to keep in reserve just for Ken on the rarest of moments while raising him. That’s when an ancient feeling of dread, fear and sorrow surfaced from Ken’s dark past. Eyes met and held without a word.

She then spoke.

Her words came slowly, genuinely, and quite reflectively as if she was speaking to him on her sofa in the living room of 4139 Martin Court with Little Ken safely snuggled underneath her long, extended legs, “No… no darlin’ . . . never had da’ kids of ma’ own… wudda’ liked it dough’ I guess… I t’ink it

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