Murder of the Prodigal Father by Mark Wm Smith

Author:Mark Wm Smith
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub

After Renée left for the dealership, I made a decision to pressure Mother about Granger’s anger at my father.

First, I needed to wash off some of the shame and fear coming through my pores after Nansi’s indictment. I climbed into the shower before realizing Renée had used up the shampoo. So I trotted down the steps, in my towel and dripping wet, to steal Mother’s.

The house was quiet. I guessed Mother would still be in the kitchen, or back in her bedroom.

I crept around the corner of the stairwell, adolescent fear tingling in my gut at the possibility of my mother catching me half naked. Every tiptoe threatened a creak on the stairs. Mother had hearing like a mule deer in hunting season. I reached the landing.

Her bedroom door was cracked open two inches.

I froze. It suddenly occurred that she might be in the bathroom.

A shadow bounced off the door jamb of her room.

I sprinted for my destination, grinning at my childish success. Excitement approaching dread infused me as I thought about the return trip. Mother’s doorway would offer a small gap of visibility into the hall for anyone near her bedroom window. And of course, anyone exiting the room would have a clear view of my towel-adorned body.

As I stood in the bathroom doorway pondering this scenario, feeling foolish at the youthful silliness of my circumstance, a halting figure passed by the tiny opening.

Curiosity pushed me forward. I crept along the wall, stretching my neck to see inside her room. Pangs of treachery stirred in my gullet. I peeked through the opening.

Mother eased herself into her wheelchair.

My heart stopped beating. I became light-headed, actually feeling the blood drain from my brain. This was not possible!

Collecting the tiny bit of self-control I had left, I ran up the stairs, two steps at a time on tiptoes. Behind the safety of the bathroom door, I cranked on the water and sat down in the spray.

Maybe she was just moving from the bed? Maybe she’d lifted herself from the bed and into the chair? I closed my eyes and let the hard droplets pummel my face. I recreated the scene in my mind.

The bed had been made. The light from the window spread across the foot of the bed and onto the floor. The wheelchair back rested against the edge of the bed. There was no way she could have moved from the bed to her wheelchair without walking around it.

Rivulets poured down my face and chest and pooled into tiny rivers along my heels and toes. I watched the trails as they converged in a spiraling descent down the drain. The miniature waterways reminded me of the four lives connected by this house. We came together in a rush and spilled maddeningly downward, into an unknown future. Only our rivers weren’t conformist. Nor were they predictable.

Did Renée know my mother could walk? Did Granger? I wanted to run out naked and ask them. I couldn’t ask Mother. She obviously intended this to be a secret.

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