The Warmest December by Bernice L. McFadden Read Free Book Online Page A

he’s home,” Glenna said and gave me an apologetic look.
    My stomach turned over and I grabbed Malcolm’s hand.
    I rang the bell and waited. I didn’t have keys like the rest of my friends; Hy-Lo wouldn’t allow it. Wednesdays were the only days we didn’t have problems trying to get into the house. He would still be wide awake and only a quarter of the way into his vodka. All of the other days we stood in the hallway ringing the bell for such long periods of time that the round black dot left its impression on the tips of our index fingers.
    Many times, Delia would come home to find us sitting on the floor in the hallway, our books spread out around us as we struggled to do our homework amidst the traffic of our neighbors and the squeals of playing children that sailed in from the backyard.
    We dared not move from the hallway. We never knew when he would wake up from his drunken slumber and open the door, and if we were not there, it would be the belt for sure.
    Delia would slam open the apartment door and rush into the bedroom to find Hy-Lo fully clothed and sprawled out across the bed. His mouth would be open, drool sliding down the side of his face, as he snored loud enough to drown out the curses my mother unleashed above him.
    “The pillow,” I stated timidly one day as I stood behind my mother while she called out my father’s name in between the Damn you ’s and I hate you’ s.
    Delia turned to look at me. “What?” she asked, perplexed. “What did you say?”
    “Pillow,” I repeated and pointed at the pillow that lay at my father’s feet. Her eyes opened wide and a look of disbelief spread across her face, but just for a second, long enough for me to know that she understood what I was suggesting.
    “Go take off your school clothes,” was all she said before she pushed past me.
    I didn’t have to ring the bell today. The door was propped open by Malcolm’s baseball bat. Jimmy Smith’s “Midnight Special” sailed out on the seasoned scent of mashed potatoes and baked pork chops. Malcolm shot me a worried look and we stepped hesitantly inside.
    Our apartment was always dark. Hy-Lo kept the drapes drawn and the shades down. Looking back now, I think maybe he needed his dwelling to match his emotions. Black. The only parts of the apartment that held any natural light were the kitchen and bathroom. He hadn’t figured out a way to keep the sun out of those rooms yet.
    When we walked in we saw that Hy-Lo was in the kitchen, sitting at the table, his body hunched over, hands clasped together, forearms resting on his lap. This was his thinking position. An empty pint of Smirnoff sat ominously on the table. I rolled my eyes and braced myself.
    “Good afternoon,” Malcolm and I mumbled.
    We stood there waiting for the first order of the afternoon. It was early fall and we wore heavy cable-knit navy blue sweaters. On our backs we wore book bags heavy with textbooks and binders.
    Hy-Lo said nothing.
    Ten minutes turned into twenty and still we stood there waiting for an order. The apartment was warm and it fed the heat that was building up beneath our clothes. Sweat trickled down our armpits and tickled our sides before dissolving into the cotton material of our shirts. Our backs ached with the weight of our book bags and our legs began to wobble from standing in one place too long.
    “Midnight Special” had ended long ago and the needle made a steady scratching noise on the black nothingness at the end of the album.
    Hy-Lo sat and stared at his hands.
    I looked at the clock and it said one. Malcolm’s bladder was full and he stepped to cross his legs.
    “Stand up straight.” The sudden sound of Hy-Lo’s voice startled us and we jumped.
    “Daddy, I—” Malcolm tried not to whine, but he was only seven and that was hard not to do when you had to pee.
    “Shut up,” Hy-Lo said in a low voice.
    “But—” Malcolm began again. His hands were between his legs holding on tight to his penis as he