Free The Uninnocent by Bradford Morrow

uneven concrete slabs of sidewalk, the unforgettable vision of that pony’s eyes planted in my father’s head by his sickness—pitiful, liquid, pleading—returned to me. Nothing in the world I could do to help him, any more than I could have saved those people in the lifeboat. But I could do what my mother asked, because I knew where Cutts, Des, and the gang were hiding.
    Cutts didn’t like to see him, see his father now that he was ill. He didn’t like to be around anyone who was weak or sick. Besides, my dad and his oldest son never got along. Desmond would want whatever his brother wanted, no doubt, but he too ventured into the master bedroom only when Mama made him, to kiss his cancered father good night, or to say good-bye before taking the bus over to Grand Island to visit Uncle Tune.
    When I got back home, I silently entered by the back porch. Mama was still in Father’s room. She was reading to him aloud,
    â€œâ€¦ shall come forth a rod out of the stem of Jesse, and a Branch shall grow out of his roots, and the spirit …”
    in a singsong.
    Once safely past the half-shut door, up the stairs and down the hallway, I groped for the cord in the growing darkness and could already hear them stirring upstairs in the attic. It was one of their sacred places. I knew I was breaking an unspoken rule, but my mother’s request and my own curiosity overrode that concern. A crack of yellow light, excited by shadows, thrown from a candle flame, flickered above me when I pulled down on the cord, releasing the ceiling ladder. The silence that accompanied this broken pattern of light seemed strange, and I had the sensation of being like Alice tipped upside down and dropped heavenward into a dreamy, maybe unfriendly, Wonderland.
    I climbed the ladder, eyes fixed on each rung, where foot over foot I placed my weight. I had never been up to the attic before. Why was it they were all so quiet? I wanted to look up but was afraid I’d lose my footing. I was too terrified to scream when hands and arms came down suddenly around my body and I was lifted away free into the near-pitch air, too shocked as I gave in, my legs kicking and wheeling uselessly, these strong, strange fingers that hoisted me by my hair and my dress tight under my neck just starting to tear and my hips and arms into the horrible with hands all over my down in my—
    Someone whispered, “No.” Someone hit me.
    Crazy old dead bitch, well it’s over now. Jesus, what a pigsty. Sixty years and more with never so much as a tatty housecoat fed to the incinerator, never one single burned-out toaster tossed in the trash. Here’s a milk carton filled with plaster of paris. Why? Here’s a birdcage. Cockatoos, canaries, we never had any. Sight of a bird she’d be covered in hives. Allergic to everything, so was Des. What’s it doing here for godsakes? And this tittied mannequin, purse-lipped, bobbed nose, always a faithful mistress to us and how we loved her, so indulgent, how many times did I? Dressed her, undressed her. Crazy kids. Good days, those, the best. Holy place this was for us, secret society, hallowed be thy shame. Wonder did dear old Ma ever wonder. Watch out, the joist. Oh, pint-size bike, tires—the rubber hard, flat. King of hearts, jack of spades, Grandma’s canasta cards still there on the rim, too, clothespins over the spokes ready to go snappety-snappety-snap. Crazy. Mueller with his half arm. Rode better than any of us, feet on the butt saddle, remember? How’d he lose it? Never asked. Born that way, was it? That little nipple on the end of the stump, murder at tetherball. Menace to the prudes, freak show. Clem and Jimmy were scared of him, but a lamb he was. Wonder who, what he’s sticking it into right now. Nice guy, but whacked. Might be pushing up roses, the Mule might. Skin white as a factory-fresh softball. Those red basset eyes blown straight down the pike from his