A Place to Call Home by Deborah Smith Read Free Book Online Page A

bare-chested, the waistband of his tan trousers hanging unfastened beneath his hairy beer gut. He was huge and black-haired and had a jaw like a bulldog’s. His bloodshot eyes settled on me and I froze. “Don’t need no Maloney starin’ at me,” he said loudly. “Hymn-singin’, Bible-thumpin’ hypocrites—don’t you look at me, you little fluffball.”
    I backed against Aunt Dockey’s car and gaped at him. He staggered down the steps toward me.
    “Leave her be, Big Roan,” Daisy ordered. “She’s just a little girl.”
    “Shut up.” He limped forward, swinging his arms. “See that youngun over there?” Big Roan swung a hand toward a barefoot baby boy with light brown hair. Sally must have seen him from the other house, because she bolted outside and snatched the baby up.
    “Big Roan, you stop!” she yelled. “He ain’t yours. Don’t you mess with him!”
    He grunted at her. “I ain’t got nothin’ to mess with, you bitch. Gov’ment sent me off to fight and left me poor.” Big Roan swung toward me again. “Your daddy and his kind—gov’ment sent them where they’d be
safe
. I done their dirty work for ’em.” He slapped his metal leg. “I come back, what do I get? A little piss-wad of gov’ment money and a free shithole for a home. You quit lookin’ at me! Quit it!”
    Roanie ran out of Daisy’s house and down the warped wooden steps. He got between me and Big Roan. “Go on,” Roanie shouted. “Get in the truck.”
    “Get out of my way, boy!”
    “It ain’t her fault she’s rich,” Roanie said. “She ain’t done nothing to you.”
    “Boy, when I want you to talk to me, I’ll beat some talk out of you!” Big Roan pointed at me, then at the baby boy in Sally’s arms. “Cain’t let a poor girl alone, can you? Cain’t even admit you done it. Just shit on her and her kid and pretend he ain’t worth nothin’.”
    “You’re just mad ’cause he’s too good to be
yours
,” Sally screamed.
    I thought I’d swallow my tongue. My knees shook. They were all crazy. Big Roan jabbed his finger toward the little boy. “That youngun, you know what he is? You ask your Uncle Pete. That there’s your fine Uncle Pete Delaney’s thrown-off bastard!”
    My Uncle Pete’s
? Daisy got between Sally and Big Roan. “Big Roan, keep quiet!” she mewled. “You want to git us all in trouble?”
    Roanie made a sound like a wounded dog and shoved his daddy. Big Roan lost his lopsided balance and sprawled on the ground. Roanie stood over him. “Git up,” he said between clenched teeth. “Git
up
.”
    “Don’t gimme no orders, boy!” Big Roan swept one thick arm out. He caught Roanie around the ankles and jerked his feet out from under him, and Roanie went flat on his back. The breath gushed out of him and he gasped. Big Roan rolled onto him in a flash, pinning him by the throat. “Don’tcha gimme orders, boy!”
    Roanie coughed and struggled, latching both hands around Big Roan’s wrist. “Let him go!” Daisy shrieked. “You’re chokin’ him to death!”
    “Ain’t gonna gimme no orders!”
    I had a mean arm. A strong arm, honed by baseball-playing brothers who’d taught me to throw. I didn’t think, I didn’t breathe, I was blind with sheer rage and terror. I snatched a hard-boiled Easter egg from my basket and drew back like a major leaguer. I beaned Big Roan right between his shoulder blades.
    He kept one hand on Roanie’s throat but twisted on one hip and glared woozily at me over his shoulder. I drew back another egg and edged toward him. “
You let him go
!”
    “Whadtha hell?” Big Roan mumbled.
    I hit him right between the eyes.
    They don’t call them
hard
-boiled eggs for nothing. If he hadn’t been drunk, it might just have dazed him. As it was, his eyes rolled up and he slumped backward.
    I had killed him. On Easter. I was sure.
    Roanie got up slowly. His face was tinged with blue and the skin of his throat was dark red. He gasped for air and hunched over. A