Laurels Literary Magazine Spring 2016 | Page 98

William Walter “I want her to help us with the farm.” “Now.” “Fine.” Michael trudges to his room, glancing at the front door and listening to his mother’s footsteps crackle on the porch. Inside his room, he slides to the floor and peers out the space between his door and the carpet. He hears the front lock rattle and watches his mother’s worn flats stop before his father’s boots. “Where the hell have you been?” “Where’s Michael?” his mother asks. “He’s in his room. Answer the damn question, Sarah.” She mumbles. “What was that? Why didn’t you pick him up from school? I had five cars to work on at the shop.” “You’ll be fine.” “Tell that to the people who call. I can’t afford to lose this job. We can’t.” “I’m gonna see Michael.” “No, you’re not. Answer my question.” “What are you talking about?” He kicks the floor. “Where were you?” “I was at . . . never mind.” “You were at her place, weren’t you?” She scratches her ankle. “Who?” “Crystal.” “What’s it matter if I was?” “I know damn well that—” “She’s clean now.” “Bullshit.” “How would you know? You don’t know about her.” “I know she’s a goddamn junkie.” “She’s clean now.” His father steps closer and lowers his voice. Michael tries to wedge his whole ear beneath his door, straining to listen. “Did you?” “Of course, I didn’t.” “Then why couldn’t you pick him up?” “You’re gonna believe what you want, Jim.” 86