“That’s kind of strange,” said Laverna. But this entire month had been odd, and he was age appropriate, and vaguely handsome. If he read to her, maybe Red Mabel would try harder.
He helped Laverna to the couch, assisted her in lying down on her back, her casts stiff and pointing at the ceiling, the plaster still so white that it was painful to behold.
He had brought Roots, because it was the longest book he owned, and the word around town was that her recovery was going to take months.
“Never read it,” said Laverna. “Didn’t watch the miniseries, either. To tell you the truth, I wasn’t that interested. We didn’t have slaves in Montana.”
Jim Number Three ignored this statement, sat back in the love seat, and turned to page one.
He finished the first chapter by the time Red Mabel finally returned. As Laverna had hoped, Red Mabel seemed suspicious. She marched straight past them without saying a word, and stomped into the kitchen.
Laverna listened, and could hear Red Mabel eating the entire rhubarb pie.
The Hostage
Bert’s truck was in the driveway, and he was never home when Jake returned from school. He was usually at the bar. This was the new Bert, the one who had the revelation, saved and shaved. No bird shot had touched Bert’s body, and he claimed it a miracle. Although he had avoided its flight, he did have a bruise on his shoulder from when he had encountered Red Mabel in the grocery store. She had punched him for not coming to Laverna’s aid.
Inside the house, Bert sat next to a redheaded man. Instead of beer, the coffee table in front of the couch held two Bibles, side by side, held open with matching macramé bookmarks. Jake removed his snow boots, and the two men watched him silently.
Jake hoped he could make it to his bedroom in continued silence. Unfortunately, the redheaded man stood up and offered his hand. Also unfortunate, because it revealed the monstrosity of the man’s suit, the color of a burnt-sienna crayon. His white shirt was brand-new, spoiled by the tie. Jake liked vintage clothing, but the tie was a disco disaster, much too wide, striped in orange and mint. Nobody had ever told this man that redheads could not wear these colors, and the man was pink in the face, sweaty.
“We’ve been waiting for you,” said the man. Jake shook his hand, aghast at the sheer number of freckles, the bright orange hair on his arm as it emerged from the cuffs. The suit didn’t even fit him. Jake did not respond, because this man affronted him on so many levels. Plus, this man wore shoes in the house. Jake wasn’t even allowed to wear his house slippers in the house.
“I’ve been at school,” said Jake, dropping the man’s hand. “Where’s my mom?”
“Grocery shopping,” said the man. “You are a lucky young man. We’ve all taken a shine to Sister Krystal.”
“Sister Krystal?” Jake said the name, and giggled as soon as it escaped his mouth. “That sounds like that Night Ranger song.” Jake could not control himself now, and was laughing out loud. All he could think of was “Sister Christian.” Bert stood up from the couch, his neck a rash of fury, but the man held up a hand. Bert sat back down.
“I am familiar with that song,” said the man. “There was a time when I listened to secular music.” Jake could not help but notice Bert had been broken, leashed. Jake was impressed by the weird man and his unfortunate color scheme. He accomplished the impossible, and he had not tracked snow on the carpet.
“You’re gonna listen to the reverend!” Bert shouted this out, and it startled the man, but Jake was used to this. Bert was suddenly meek again, eyes on the coffee table, face scarlet with impotent rage.
“Fine,” said Jake. “Whatever.” He sat down on the floor and leaned back on his hands, crossing one leg over the other. He was glad he had chosen green-and-purple argyle socks, wiggled his toes to attract even more attention.
He listened for two minutes because it seemed the polite thing to do, and it rolled off him like another math class. He had been preached to before.
His mother returned from the store and shocked Jake with her amiability. It seemed that she had forgotten her promises, and Jake had no choice but to listen. Krystal and the reverend were an effective team. Jake stopped listening and began to protest. They had planned this ambush, clearly predicted Jake’s reactions, prepared counterarguments, and held fast to their demands. He stopped wiggling his toes and covered his face with his hands. He would not allow them to see the defeat. Frank had given up, too. Misty had been captured, taken away. The little faith and hope that remained inside him had been hung on his mother, and now it was gone forever. He would rather be an infidel; he would never be spineless, or submissive.
He would play along. This was just another thing to endure. Even though Jake couldn’t see Bert through his hands, the intensity filled the room. Bert didn’t need to utter a word. Jake could not believe he had let himself be taken hostage by his mild-mannered mother and a man in an ill-fitting suit.
* * *