Control Point by Myke Cole Read Free Book Online Page B

mild, but Britton could feel the judgment just below the surface. “You get yourself into some kind of trouble?”
    “Stop it, Stanley!” she scolded.
    Stanley waved his hand as if brushing away a fly. “What are you doing here?”
    “Dad, can’t I just come home? Can’t a son visit his family?” Oscar asked.
    “That’s crap. You never come home unless you want something,” Stanley replied.
    “No, Dad,
that’s
crap. I never come home because it’s like walking into a freezer.”
    “Come on, you two.” Desda intervened. “Oscar’s home for five minutes, and…”
    But by now the familiar pattern was already playing out; both of the Britton men had their dander up.
    “You’ve had a standing invitation!” Stanley said through gritted teeth. “I invite you to First Baptist every Sunday, and…”
    “Oh, that’s a great idea! I can sit next to you while you pretend to be Christian.”
    “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Stanley asked, the cords on his neck standing out.
    Britton held his mother close. Years and bruises had taught him that just about anything could set Stanley off. Better not to risk opening his mouth. But the events of the last few hours, and his one hope of refuge evaporating, made him careless.
    “Where in the Bible does it tell you to hit your wife? Where does it tell you to hit your son?” Oscar asked.
    “Oscar, please!” Desda’s voice was pleading.
    But the magical tide didn’t care. It surged with Britton’s fury and sadness. He pushed against it, but it was useless. The air in the kitchen archway shimmered, folded in on itself, and resolved into the static light of an open gate.
    Stanley’s eyes shot wide, but Desda continued to look at her son.
    “I’m sorry, Mom,” Oscar said quickly.
    “Sweet Jesus,” Stanley said, backing away.
    “What’s wrong?” Desda asked, turning. She froze as she saw the gate.
    “Oh my God,” Stanley breathed. “You’re one of those…one of those damned Selfers. This is un-friggin-believable!” He invoked his single response to all unexpected events—anger, but still moved backward, bumping the front door. He fumbled for the handle.
    “My God, Oscar,” Desda whispered, “are you doing that?”
    “I’m sorry, Mom,” Oscar said, his eyes wet. “I love you.”
    “I don’t understand,” she whispered. “This isn’t right. I’m your mother, Oscar, I would have known.”
    Stanley tore his eyes off the gate. “For Christ’s sake, Dez! Get the hell away from him!” he shouted, reaching for her but not daring to come closer.
    Oscar could hear faint keening from the gate. The demon-horses were not far away.
    Desda didn’t move. “No, no. This isn’t right. Not right.”
    “It’s just a thing, like acne or chicken pox,” Oscar said with a certainty he didn’t feel. “I don’t have a choice. It’s going to be okay.”
    She continued to shake her head.
    The gate flickered, snapped shut, reopened deeper into the kitchen, then disappeared.
    With the gate gone, Stanley found his fight at last.
    “Get your damned hands off her!” he shouted, leaping forward and grabbing Oscar’s arms, shouldering Desda out of the way and knocking her to the floor. For all the strength in Stanley’s callused hands, he might as well have grabbed an oak.
    Oscar ignored his father, reaching for his mother. Stanley snarled, pounding against his son’s massive chest. Oscar stepped back, raising his hands. “Stop, Dad. This is stupid.”
    Desda pulled at her husband. “No! No! No!”
    “Shut up!” Stanley screamed. “Get out of here! Leave us alone!”
    Oscar tried to move to the door, but Stanley blocked his way.
    Oscar backpedaled. Was Desda screaming at him or Stanley? He tried to see her face, but Stanley punched him in his mouth, rocking his head back. He took another step backward, caught his heel on the staircase, and went down hard, bruising his back. Stanley followed, punches raining down.
    Desda screamed, the sound