The Article - Jackie Zufall (a court of thorns and roses ebook free .txt) 📗

Prologue


The leaves made soft, rustling sounds, as I walked across the yard to the house that I had grown up in. It was only the second time in 15 years that I had been to this place, the last time was when my mother had died and only the death of my step-father brought me back now, all those years, wasted, living far from here trying to forget about this place. For this is a place where nightmares were created, brought on by a stepfather who was an alcoholic. Once he was drunk, all hell would break loose. I remember well the beatings my mother suffered at the hands of this monster, yet when I tried to get her to leave him, she would cry that she could not, for what would she do. She had never worked a day in her life, she did not know if she would be able to take care of the two of us. So eventually, I gave up and got out. Because no matter how much I tried to convince my mother that I would take care of her, she refused to leave him. Eventually she did though, by committing suicide at least that is what the autopsy report said. I, of course have had my doubts for the last 10 years since she died.
With the death of my mother, the house I had grown up in was left to my stepfather, and now that he was gone, it was passing on to me.
I had mixed feelings about whether or not I wanted to keep the house at this point in my life, after all, I have a life in Dallas as a reporter, where I had been since leaving all those years ago. After leaving home, I hitched to Dallas, where I eventually signed up for night classes in Journalism finishing in the top three percent of my class, I was offered a job at the local paper even before I had graduated. However, to leave what I had worked so hard to accomplish and come back to what and where I had worked so hard to forget, could I do that? At this time, my thoughts are on clearing out the house and putting it on the market as soon as possible and turning my back one last time, and forget that this place ever existed. Little did I know that fate had something much more intriguing in store for me.


Chapter One


Summer 1977


The yelling had begun again, what it was over was anybody’s guess, which was the way it always was with my stepfather. Sometimes it was because something of his was misplaced, when, in fact, it would be right where he left it. Other times it was because someone ate something that he had put his invisible name on. Then other times it would be just because someone down at the local bar had said something to make him mad, so he would take it out on my mother or me.

Nevertheless, this time I decided was going to be the last time, one way or another I am going to get my mother to leave the maniac, somehow, someway, but I knew deep down she would not go. It was not the first time I had tried to convince her to leave, but she never would. She was afraid I guess more of the outside world than of my stepfather.

“Mom, please just pack some clothes together and let’s get out of here before he ends up killing you.” I asked her two hours later, when the ole man passed out finally in his recliner.
“Paul, you know I can’t do that, how would I support the two of us, how would we live?” “I have never worked in my life, your father would never hear of it when he was alive, Bless his soul.” “He felt it was a man’s job to provide for his family.”
“But mom, I can take care of us now, I am out of school, and I can get a job, we’ll be fine, you’ll see.” I pleaded.

“No, Paul.” she replied. “A wife’s place is with her husband, good or bad.” “Even if he is going to end up killing you?” I asked.
“He won’t do that Paul, he just gets upset sometimes, and I bring it on myself when he hits me, if I would just learn to steer clear of him when he comes home drunk.”

So that had been the last conversation that I ever had with my mother, later that night I took my duffle bag, threw in what few possessions I had that I could not part with, slipped out my bed room window hours after they went to bed so as not to alert my step-father. Moreover, I never glanced back down that gravel road that leads to the house. Once out on the road, it was easy to get away, I just kept going until I reached the main highway, then hitched a ride with the first person I found heading for Dallas. I was 17, and had just graduated high school.

Fall 2002

As I stood in the front yard looking at the rundown building that at one time had been a happy home, back when my real father had been alive, I noticed for the first time that the old clapboard house looked worse for wear with its peeling paint, sagging porch, some busted out windows long since boarded up. I walked up the two worn steps, one of which had a hole in it, using the key I still had from years ago, I unlocked the front door and walked through, reeling back as suddenly before my eyes, I imagined my mother and stepfather standing in the kitchen doorway in the mist of one of their constant battles. Just as suddenly, as the image appeared, it disappeared and I was looking in what were the remnants of my child hood home. There were empty beer and liquor bottles everywhere and the carpet was littered with trash and dishes from long ago left over meals. The carpet around my stepfathers’ recliner had numerous burn holes from dozens of dropped cigarettes from the man passing out with a lit cigarette in his hands, as I looked upon the site, I marveled at how he had not managed to burn the house down around him. No unlike my mother, he had not managed to kill himself, instead, he had been in town drinking, again, and started something one time too many with the wrong people. That was what the town marshal had said when he called to notify me as the next of kin. Apparently, justice for all the years of abuse heaped upon my mother had finally been served, for my step-father had been beaten to death, the funny thing was, although there were lots of witnesses in the bar, no one person was ever charged in his death. As he had been attacked by five or 6 men, there was no way of knowing who had struck the final blow that ended his life, and there was no one there willing to testify and name the men involved.

Hours later, as I watched the last dying embers of the bonfire I had built of every scrap of trash, every broken piece of furniture, including the recliner that my step-father had once beaten me for sitting in and all the clothing belonging to my step-father, I finally had a sense of peace, if you could call it that. By getting rid of everything belonging to the man, I could try to forget he had ever existed, try, but not quite managing to. I hosed down the embers one final time to assure that there would be no flair up later, then walked back into the house and began the task of making a list of things needed done in order to make the house decent enough to put on the market.

Hours later after scrubbing down everything in the whole house, dusting and vacuuming floors, I finally fell into a restless sleep.


Chapter Two

The next afternoon I went into town to gather supplies to work on the house. As I drove down Main Street, I saw the old movie house, long ago closed down, where I had spent many a weekend with friends, escaping the realities of my world, I would imagine myself as one of a long list of characters from all the movies I had seen. Across the street from that was the old soda shop where we would all congregate after school and on weekends, as there was not much else for a kid to do in this town. We did not have a mall, or bowling alley, or anything else for that matter, like in the bigger cities; after all, we were a town of about 2500 people, at least back then, now there are closer to 5000 people in the area.

I pulled into the parking lot of the hardware store, where as a teenager in high school I had worked part-time. I walked into the store and there behind the counter was Mr. Miller, my old boss.

“Paul,” cried Mr. Miller. “We heard you were in town, it’s been too long.” As he walked towards me with his hand outstretched to shake mine.
“Mr. Miller, it’s good to see you again sir, how’s Mrs. Miller?” I asked. “Well, Paul, the Mrs. Passed on bout two years ago now, cancer, you know.” he replied. “I’m sorry Mr. Miller, I didn’t know.” “So how have you been getting along?” “Oh you know me Paul, long as I’ve got my store and my friends, nothing much gets me down.”

“So what can I do for you Paul?” he asked. “Well, I’m gonna need quite a few supplies to get the house in shape to sell, Let’s see, I’m going to need some lumber for the porch, the roof and the shed, then I’ll probably need bout two gallons of white paint, two gallons of primer, and couple quarts of yellow for the shutters.’ “Nails, hammer, and a saw”. “That should do it for starters I guess.”
“Well,” said Mr. Miller, “Sure planning to do a lot of work up there aren’t you?” “How long you figuring on being in town?” “Well, I took a months leave of absence, cause I kind of figured I’d have a lot to do to get the house on the market, and boy was I right, I don’t think that man has taken out a lick of trash since the day my mother died, nor cleaned house, or tended to the yard.”

“As I live and breathe, if it isn’t Paul Zimmerman in the flesh,” came a voice from behind me, a voice I recognized as though it was just yesterday I had heard it last, not 15 years. I turned around to see Abby or rather Abigail Miller, the daughter of my old boss. I had not seen her since the day I left. We had been high school sweethearts and when I left that day I also never looked back to her, I just left without so much as a note. When I had been here 10 years ago for my mother’s funeral, Abby was living off in some city somewhere, married with two kids, or so Mrs. Miller had made a point of telling me, even though I had not asked.

“Abby,” I stammered out, “How are you?” “Been a long time.” “Is that all you