Red. Erica SpindlerЧитать онлайн книгу.
hatred and bitterness for her. He always had. And she didn’t know why.
Suddenly furious at the unfairness of it, she jerked her chin up. She looked at her father, not bothering to hide her contempt. “May I go now?”
“You’ll go when I say so.”
“Why do you think I’m asking?” Idiot. Asshole.
At her tone, a mottled red started at the base of his thick neck and crept upward. He grabbed her arm again, but this time he twisted it until she cried out in pain. “Where’d you get the right to put on airs?” he snapped. “Just like your mother, thinkin’ you’re some kinda queen.” He dragged her to the room’s single window, twisting her arm again, forcing her to face her reflection. Tears stung her eyes and she fought to keep them from spilling over. “Take a look, girl. What man’s ever goin’ to marry you? Tell me that.” He shook her so hard her teeth rattled. “I’ll probably be stuck looking at your ugly mug for the rest of my life. Now get outta here, it makes me sick to look at you.”
He flung her aside, so violently she hit the wall, much the same as her magazines had only moments before. Her head snapped back, cracking against the wallboard. Pain shot through her shoulder. She sank to the dirt floor, thinking, oddly, of the pretty pink and white linoleum at Miss Opal’s. Flecked with silver, it was always so clean it shone.
Shaking her head to clear it, she sucked in a deep breath and using the wall for support, eased to her feet. Her father had returned to his place in front of the television, and she saw him bring the bottle to his lips. She stared at him a moment, hatred roiling inside her, the urge to lunge at him, to claw and hit and scratch, thundering through her. Its beat matched that of the blood pounding in her brain, and she pictured herself doing it. Just walking up to him and smashing her fist into his face.
Becky Lynn squeezed her eyes shut, fighting back the urge. She wouldn’t lower herself to his level. For even worse than living the nightmare that was her life, was living his. Becoming like him.
Besides, he’d probably beat the hell out of her before she could get in the first punch.
She limped to the kitchen. Her mama and Randy were there. Her mother chattered softly about the things that needed to be done that weekend, and Randy stood by, his stance uncomfortable and stiff. Neither of them met her eyes, but Becky Lynn could see it in their faces, in their downcast gazes: If it wasn’t you, it might be me.
She couldn’t say they were wrong. She knew they weren’t. And she knew that was why Randy never inter-ceded for her, why her mother never openly tried to comfort her. They didn’t want to incur Randall Lee’s wrath.
Becky Lynn squeezed her fingers into fists. She’d inter-ceded for Randy before; she had stepped into the line of fire on his behalf. She had done the same for her mother; she still did.
They didn’t even have the guts to look at her.
She drew in a shuddering breath, pain spearing through her shoulder once more. She was so weary of living alone with her fear. With her despair. Wasn’t Randy? Wasn’t her mother? It hurt to hold it in, day in and day out. Didn’t they long, as she did, to share their pain? Didn’t they long to have someone to whisper with in the dark, to hold on to and love?
Tears stinging her eyes, Becky Lynn shifted her gaze to the other room, to the magazines scattered obscenely across the floor. Her gaze landed on an old Vogue, on model Renée Simonsen’s beautiful, smiling face.
Someone to whisper with in the dark, she thought, hopelessness clutching at her. Someone to lean on, someone who would give her one perfect moment without fear. Her eyes swam; the model’s face blurred. Turning her back to the glossy image, she crossed the kitchen and began to help her mother with the peas.
3
“Becky Lynn, baby, come here.”
Becky Lynn stopped at the front door. Feeling like a prisoner who had gotten caught a moment before she’d made her escape, she turned to her mother. The other woman stood just outside the kitchen; she wore the floral print housecoat Becky Lynn had bought her two Christmases ago. The rose pattern which had been so vibrant and pretty when she’d purchased it, looked tired and gray. Like her mother. And everything else in this house.
Becky Lynn gazed at her mother’s gaunt face and shadowed eyes, pity moving over her. And fear. Fear that by age thirty-six she, too, would look beaten and without hope.
She pushed the thought away, and forced a smile. “What is it, Mama?”
Her mother’s lips curved into a wispy smile. “I thought I might brush your hair.”
Becky Lynn hesitated. She’d planned to hike to the river before it got too hot, and spend her day off from Opal’s sunning and reading. She had several magazines, a soft drink and a sandwich packed in her knapsack. It would be her last opportunity before school started; she’d been on her way out the door.
She darted a glance over her shoulder, to the bright day, and bit back a sigh. Her mother derived too much pleasure from it to deny her this ritual. The river would wait.
“That sounds nice, Mama,” she said, smiling again. She set down her knapsack and crossed to one of the chairs around the kitchen table, choosing one that faced the window.
Her mother positioned herself behind Becky Lynn and began, with long, smooth strokes, to pull the brush through her daughter’s hair. Familiar with the ritual, Becky Lynn wasn’t surprised when her mother began to tell a story about her own childhood. The only talks they’d ever had, the only moments of mother-daughter comradeship, had been while her mother ran the brush through her hair.
Becky Lynn had often suspected that she was her mother’s favorite, although she never understood why. Perhaps because her father hated her, perhaps because she looked so much like her mother’s father or because she reminded Glenna Lee of someone else she’d once known, someone who had been kind to her. Whatever the reason, she held that suspicion to her as if it were the most prized possession on earth.
“It’s the color of strawberry soda pop,” her mother murmured after a moment. “You get it from your Granddaddy Perkins. You never met him, he died just after you were born.”
About the time Daddy lost the farm, Becky Lynn thought. Because of his drinking. And laziness. But she didn’t say that. “What was he like?” she asked instead, even though she already knew. Her mother had talked about Granddaddy Perkins many times before. He had adored his only child. And Randall Lee had despised him.
She sensed her mother’s smile. “He was a nice man. A good husband, a good daddy.” She laughed lightly, the sound faraway and youthful. “He called me his little princess.”
A lump formed in Becky Lynn’s throat. How, after being someone’s princess, had she ended up with a man as base and cruel as Randall Lee? Why had she married him?
And why did she allow him to treat her and her children so badly?
Becky Lynn wanted to ask her mother, the questions teased the tip of her tongue. She swallowed it. She couldn’t ask; her mother had been hurt enough. “He sounds nice, Mama.”
“Mmm. He was nice.” Her mother continued brushing, but Becky Lynn knew her thoughts were far away.
After a moment, the older woman murmured, “Did I ever tell you about the dress I wore to the prom? It was white and dotted with these pretty little pink flowers. The most delicate pink you ever saw. I felt like a princess in it.” She laughed softly. “And my date looked like a prince. He wore a tuxedo and brought me a rose corsage. It was pink, too.”
A rose corsage. Becky Lynn imagined her mother, a blushing teenager, wearing that frilly white dress, the cluster of roses pinned to her chest, and tears flooded her eyes. She fought the tears back, fought the emotion from clogging her throat. “Your date, who was he, Mama?”
Her mother hesitated, then shook her head. “Nobody, baby. I forget.”
She’d