Good Day to Die by Stephen Solomita Read Free Book Online Page A

morning, Becky arrived alone. She seemed in no hurry, staying for several hours, chattering happily even when Lorraine failed to respond.
    The implication that Daddy had complete faith in his ability to control Becky was obvious. But Lorraine had to wonder if Becky was really the automaton she appeared to be. Or if Daddy’s faith sprang from a bloated ego.
    Becky showed no remorse for the things she’d done, yet she claimed to be doing them only for Daddy.
    “Daddy has needs, Lorraine, and, well, I am not one of those man-women who try to keep their husbands down. I was raised to serve my man. To love, honor, and obey. That may not be popular up here in New York, but it is dearly held in Atherton, Mississippi. If there’s one thing we Johnny-rebs are not, it’s quitters.”
    But suppose Becky fell under a second obligation. Suppose she felt the need to protect her little girl. Suppose it became clear, even to Becky, that Daddy was going to hurt (or kill) her little girl. Would Becky put her child into the back of the van and smuggle her to safety? Would she drive Lorraine back down the road that wasn’t a road at all? That had tossed Lorraine about like she was a sack of flour?
    Lorraine sighed, reached into the covered pot that held the last of the food. She dug out a wrapped sandwich and sniffed at it. Peanut butter and jelly. The perfect choice for a young child.
    “I should have paid attention. On that damned road. I should have paid attention.”
    This time, Lorraine wasn’t startled by the sound of her own voice. She decided that speaking aloud was helpful, because it let her control the flow of her thoughts by slowing them down.
    “I was terrified when we drove up to the cabin,” she began. “I don’t know if we drove through the forest or over some abandoned road. I seem to remember branches whipping the sides of the van. I seem to remember driving through a stream. Can a van go through a stream? Don’t you need some kind of Jeep for that?”
    She was thinking, not for the first time, about going down the road. Of following the track made by the van. She knew that it had to lead to another road somewhere. To houses and people and help. She felt she could endure almost anything if it led to escape. But what if the track ran directly to their house.
    Lorraine imagined herself struggling, naked, along a narrow track, finding her way by following the faint impressions made by the van’s tires. Her arms and legs are scratched and bruised, her face swollen by insect bites, her bare feet slippery with blood. Finally, after hours and hours of suffering, she hears a distant radio and stumbles forward. Only to find Daddy perched on the porch swing; Becky toiling at the kitchen stove.
    They would kill her for sure.
    A sudden gust of wind slammed a fusillade of raindrops against the cabin window. Lorraine shivered and pulled the blanket over her bare feet.
    “What I need to do first,” she said, “is get some little concession from Becky. It doesn’t have to be much, as long as it’s done without Daddy’s permission. Another blanket, maybe. Or a T-shirt or a pair of socks. The trick is to get Becky in the habit of making her own decisions.”
    Lorraine, having made her decision, sat in the chair. Waiting was what she seemed to do best. She listened to the rain for a moment, then felt a cold hand pass over her flesh as the fear returned.
    They can’t let me live, she thought to herself. “They cant.” The second single word began to echo in time to the drumbeats of rain. Can’t, can’t-can’t, can’t, can’t-can’t.
    There’s only one real question, she finally decided. And that’s whether I’ll go insane before they kill me.
    Sometime later (she had no way to calculate any unit of time smaller than a day), she heard a vehicle drive up to the cabin. A door opened, then slammed shut; running feet slapped across the muddy yard.
    As she did each day, Lorraine indulged a brief rescue fantasy. A rescue