Free House of Secrets - v4 by Richard Hawke Page A

his bladder released during the beating, some of the stream spraying onto his father’s trousers. The anointing further enraged his father, and in due course a trickle of blood began running from one of Robbie’s ears.
    The day after Robbie’s beating was a Wednesday. But there was no visit to see the angels. Instead, his mother remained in her bed all morning and into the afternoon, weeping copiously. Robbie slipped into the room silently and sat and watched. He was fascinated, though not especially moved. He had never really noticed before how his mother was also a little soft herself, in the same fashion as the Venus lady in the painting at the museum. He left the room once, to go fetch his sketchbook, then returned and sat in the chair working on his endless conch shells. Eventually, his mother’s weeping subsided somewhat and she noticed her son seated across the room. She summoned him to the bed; dutifully he came to her. She wrapped the boy in her fleshy arms and told him in a soft cooing voice what a bad, bad man his father was. How mean. And how ugly. Robbie didn’t disagree. His father
was
bad. But so was his mother. The both of them were ugly and foul. Robbie marveled that he could be the child of such people. He nestled in closer to his pathetic mother. She was as pliant as the pillows. Her milky skin was clammy. He felt as if he could sink deeply into it.
Vile
. Finally, his mother fell asleep, and soon after, so did Robbie. His dreams were black and bloody.
    His dates with the angels had ended.
     
     
    R obert Smallwood leaned down to plant a kiss on his aunt’s cheek. The cheek was wet with the poor woman’s tears. The light tang of salt transferred to Smallwood’s lips.
    “Oh, Robbie. Our
Joy
. I just don’t understand the world we live in anymore. A beautiful young woman like that. My God, what in the world do you…?”
    If she even actually knew her question, she was unable to line up the words to complete it. Smallwood took his aunt’s small hand in his own — the very hand that had delivered the necessary blows to Cousin Joy — and massaged her knuckles gently. What could he say to his aunt?
    She deserved it
.
    The world is better off
.
    He remained mute. His aunt used her captured hand to lead Smallwood over to the pair of easels near the foot of the closed casket. The easels were covered with photographs depicting Joy Resnick on her thirty-four-year journey from birth to death. Smallwood released his aunt’s moist hand while he gazed at the photographs. It was all there. Baby Joy. Little girl Joy. Elementary school Joy. Teen Joy. College Joy. First real job Joy.
    Whore Joy
.
    Smallwood moved closer to the casket. He placed his fingers on the lid and let them travel lightly along the wood as he stepped toward the head of the box.
    She was
there
. Mere inches below his hand. Sweet. Dead. Joy.
    Later, Smallwood parked himself against the wall to observe Cousin Joy’s former colleagues, who had turned out in full force. Joy’s boss was among the mourners, an imposing bald man in an elegant smoke-colored suit. He was holding forth to a semicircle of sycophants, going on and on about Joy this and Joy that. The man was all praise and bullshit. But he was not the one who had been with Joy that night on Shelter Island. He was too tall. And the man with Joy had not been bald. He thought,
He fucked her, too. Smug, owl-headed hustler. Big bald cootch-sniffing prick
.
    Smallwood inventoried Joy’s other colleagues to see if any of the men showed signs of a recent wicked encounter with an iron pipe. None of them did. Smallwood knew for a fact that his blows would have required medical attention. Most likely there’d been stitches. None of these particular cretins appeared to have so much as a scratch on them.
    As he stood looking over the gathering, Smallwood’s eye snagged on a smallish woman who was standing off — seemingly by herself — near the rear of the room. She was somewhere in her mid-