The Ninth Step by Barbara Taylor Sissel Read Free Book Online Page A

wondered when Delia had last seen a doctor. She wondered if anyone besides herself looked in on Delia. As far as Livie knew, she had no family other than Cotton and his older brother Scott, whom Livie had only heard of. Scott had broken with the family and left home years ago. Delia had had an older brother, too, who’d died of a massive stroke.
    Jim Beaulieu had lived in Slidell, Louisiana, near New Orleans. He’d run the family-owned construction business there. Run it into the ground , Livie had heard Delia say. But Cotton had been close to his uncle; he’d worked for him summers while he was growing up. Cotton said he’d learned more from his Uncle Jim in a week than he’d ever learned inside a classroom in a year. Livie’d met Jim once in a country bar in Slidell. She’d been worried that he’d be bitter and difficult like Delia, but instead he’d been rollicking and huge, three hundred pounds at least.
    So heavy Livie had been nervous when he’d asked her to dance and then astonished by his grace. He’d wheeled her along with such delight and expertise, she’d been sorry when the music ended. She had thought Jim was charming, a man who was full of joy, who loved to laugh and to dance, a man who, like Cotton, found peace in working with his hands. Cotton had said Jim was drunk.
    Cotton had stared into a place Livie couldn’t see and said his uncle and his mom were both drinkers. The difference was that the booze didn’t make his mom as happy.
    Now Livie cleared her throat. Why had she come? Kat was right. She didn’t owe this woman anything.
    “It’s disgusting what people will do to get attention.” Delia was looking at the television.
    Livie glanced at the screen. She recognized Maury Povich sitting with a man and a woman and a younger girl who appeared to be sobbing into her hands. Livie asked, “What’s the problem?” because she didn’t see how it was possible that she could pull Cotton’s letter from her purse and hand it to Delia.
    “That girl is thirteen and all she wants is a baby. The mother’s mad because the girl keeps having sex with her mother’s boyfriend--that’s him on her other side--trying to get pregnant.” Delia stubbed out her cigarette, picked up her highball glass, finished off her drink. Her mouth was distorted through the thick bottom. If Livie asked her what she was drinking, Delia would say water.
    Livie looked at the television. She thought of Ed McPherson. McPervert, Kat had called him. She’d have to tell Kat what they’d missed. They should have been on Maury Povich alongside their mom and McPervert.  
    Delia picked up the remote and switched off the set. People ought to keep their dirty business to themselves,” she said.
    “I’ve heard from Cotton,” Livie said.
    #
    I’ve tried writing this a hundred times, a hundred ways. . . .
    The words popped from the screen of her laptop. Livie hadn’t meant to sit, the sink was full of soapy water, her dishes from breakfast and dinner, but she dropped into a chair as if she’d been grabbed, as if Cotton had reached out and pulled her into it. She didn’t need a signature to know the message was from him. She’d been expecting another one; she’d been waiting, anxious, ever since the letter had come.  Now her eye bumped over the words, caught them in clumps, as if she couldn’t stand taking in the whole of their meaning.
    . . .  I wrote before . . .  an apology . . . half-assed . . . so damned wrong  . . . had to try again.  I figure you’re . . . well, hell, I don’t know what to figure. . . .
    Livie bit her lip to the point of pain, scanning to the end.
    I pray for so much more than I deserve . . . that you’ll write back to me, that somehow you’ll agree to meet me. I would come anywhere . . . want to explain, make it right, if I can . . .  I need to see you . . . know I can’t force myself . . . God, I owe you . . .  so much . . . .
    Cotton.
    Livie sat back, her palm pressed hard over her