sweetie.” He tried to rub the frozen muscles loose, but the more he rubbed the more it hurt.
Charlie suddenly looked serious. “Daddy, did you sleep in the living room?”
“Just for a few hours,” he answered through gnashed teeth.
“How come?”
“I don’t know, baby. I came out here to read and fell asleep in my chair.”
Charlie’s eyes drifted across the room before returning to her father.
“What book?”
“A boring one.”
“But you just woke up, and there’s no book…”
“I put it back.”
“But you said you fell asleep.”
“I put it back before I fell asleep.”
“Then how come you didn’t go back to bed with Momma?”
There were cons to raising a smart kid.
Jack’s patience was short. His nerves were frayed. He didn’t respond to Charlie’s question, kneading his neck instead.
“Daddy, did you put the table upside down?”
He blinked at the oversight. The table was still in its place, legs stabbing up into the air, unmoved. They hadn’t bothered trying to flip it over, knowing their efforts would be useless. Jack would have to call Reagan for help.
“Yes,” Jack said after a moment. “Yes I did.”
“How come?”
“Because one of the legs was loose. I didn’t want it to fall on top of you or your sister. What’s your mother doing?” An attempt to change the subject.
“She’s making breakfast. How come the leg got loose?”
Jack sighed. “I don’t know, Charlie. Why don’t you go help your mom in the kitchen?”
“Help her do what?”
“I don’t know, honey. Just go ask her if she needs some help, would you?”
Charlie didn’t move for a few seconds, sizing him up, before abruptly dashing down the hall to the kitchen. A second later she ran back into the living room with a message from Aimee.
“Momma says you better get ready.”
“Get ready for what?”
“She says you gotta take a shower and get dressed because we’re going to church.”
Jack was completely caught off-guard. Of the years Jack and Aimee had been married, they had gone to church all of three times. Two of those times were in the first year of their marriage—Christmas and Easter. Patricia, who liked to think herself a God-fearing Catholic, insisted that if he wanted to marry her daughter, he’d be attending church the way Aimee had her entire life. The third time was for Abigail’s baptism two months after she was born—another one of Patricia’s demands. Charlie hadn’t been baptized.
“You’re inviting the devil into that girl,” Patricia had warned. Six years ago, Jack called it bullshit. Today he wondered how he could have been so stupid.
Jack reluctantly pushed himself out of his chair and shuffled into the kitchen. Aimee stood over the stove in a blue polka dot dress, an apron tied around her waist. She had curled her hair in 1950s style—June Cleaver poised over the stove in high heels and full makeup. Sensing his presence, she glanced over her shoulder at him, the crackle of bacon completing the morning’s soundtrack.
“We’re leaving in half an hour,” she said.
“I heard.” Jack still couldn’t believe it. Aimee had been the one who had given up on the idea of religion in the first place for no reason other than to declare war on her parents. For her to turn to God for answers—something she knew would overjoy her mother—was unlike her. She was stubborn, and she’d do just about anything it took to make sure she had a foothold over Patricia’s head.
Aimee gave Jack a look— Don’t question it —and turned back to the stove. Jack turned to make his way to the bedroom, stopped when he saw Charlie sitting dead center in the middle of the overturned table.
“Daddy,” she said. “None of these legs are wobbly.”
“Oh good,” Jack murmured to himself. “I must have fixed it in my sleep.”
In towns as small as Live Oak, folks were tightly knit. They knew who attended church and who didn’t; and those who didn’t were in desperate
Charlie suddenly looked serious. “Daddy, did you sleep in the living room?”
“Just for a few hours,” he answered through gnashed teeth.
“How come?”
“I don’t know, baby. I came out here to read and fell asleep in my chair.”
Charlie’s eyes drifted across the room before returning to her father.
“What book?”
“A boring one.”
“But you just woke up, and there’s no book…”
“I put it back.”
“But you said you fell asleep.”
“I put it back before I fell asleep.”
“Then how come you didn’t go back to bed with Momma?”
There were cons to raising a smart kid.
Jack’s patience was short. His nerves were frayed. He didn’t respond to Charlie’s question, kneading his neck instead.
“Daddy, did you put the table upside down?”
He blinked at the oversight. The table was still in its place, legs stabbing up into the air, unmoved. They hadn’t bothered trying to flip it over, knowing their efforts would be useless. Jack would have to call Reagan for help.
“Yes,” Jack said after a moment. “Yes I did.”
“How come?”
“Because one of the legs was loose. I didn’t want it to fall on top of you or your sister. What’s your mother doing?” An attempt to change the subject.
“She’s making breakfast. How come the leg got loose?”
Jack sighed. “I don’t know, Charlie. Why don’t you go help your mom in the kitchen?”
“Help her do what?”
“I don’t know, honey. Just go ask her if she needs some help, would you?”
Charlie didn’t move for a few seconds, sizing him up, before abruptly dashing down the hall to the kitchen. A second later she ran back into the living room with a message from Aimee.
“Momma says you better get ready.”
“Get ready for what?”
“She says you gotta take a shower and get dressed because we’re going to church.”
Jack was completely caught off-guard. Of the years Jack and Aimee had been married, they had gone to church all of three times. Two of those times were in the first year of their marriage—Christmas and Easter. Patricia, who liked to think herself a God-fearing Catholic, insisted that if he wanted to marry her daughter, he’d be attending church the way Aimee had her entire life. The third time was for Abigail’s baptism two months after she was born—another one of Patricia’s demands. Charlie hadn’t been baptized.
“You’re inviting the devil into that girl,” Patricia had warned. Six years ago, Jack called it bullshit. Today he wondered how he could have been so stupid.
Jack reluctantly pushed himself out of his chair and shuffled into the kitchen. Aimee stood over the stove in a blue polka dot dress, an apron tied around her waist. She had curled her hair in 1950s style—June Cleaver poised over the stove in high heels and full makeup. Sensing his presence, she glanced over her shoulder at him, the crackle of bacon completing the morning’s soundtrack.
“We’re leaving in half an hour,” she said.
“I heard.” Jack still couldn’t believe it. Aimee had been the one who had given up on the idea of religion in the first place for no reason other than to declare war on her parents. For her to turn to God for answers—something she knew would overjoy her mother—was unlike her. She was stubborn, and she’d do just about anything it took to make sure she had a foothold over Patricia’s head.
Aimee gave Jack a look— Don’t question it —and turned back to the stove. Jack turned to make his way to the bedroom, stopped when he saw Charlie sitting dead center in the middle of the overturned table.
“Daddy,” she said. “None of these legs are wobbly.”
“Oh good,” Jack murmured to himself. “I must have fixed it in my sleep.”
In towns as small as Live Oak, folks were tightly knit. They knew who attended church and who didn’t; and those who didn’t were in desperate
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