Free The Five Pearls by Barry James Hickey

is ready.”
“What about our stray cat?”
“She comes when she is hungry. At least we have that.”
The old man stretched and rose from his seat. “It is her mother’s fault. She never should have left her. And those things on her neck. Those boys… They are animals.”
“They are called hickeys,” grandmother said. “You gave me one once.”
“No!” Grandfather said.
“Yes,” she said. “When we were fifteen.”
He scratched his head trying to remember so long ago as he followed his buxom, round wife inside for dinner.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
    Marie sat brooding on the old log. “School on Monday, already. A new teacher. Ha! See if he can teach me! See if I even go.”
    Her grandparents had made her furious, calling her a whore. She knew they saw the hickeys. But that was all the boys did to her – suck on her neck.
    But no lower.
Marie picked up a stone and bombed it in the creek. Matt and Amber appeared on the footbridge above. “Have you heard, Marie?” Matt called down. “We got a
    teacher!”
“I heard,” she called back up.
Matt and Amber slid down the trail and joined her. “Why can't these old people just leave us alone?” Marie
    asked.
“Leave us alone to do what?” Amber asked.
“To have fun. Mess around.”
“I’m not having any fun,” Matt said.
“Neither am I,” said Amber.
“Then I suppose I’m not either,” Marie realized.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
    After his short walk around the block, John Battle was surprised to find that an early supper was being served in the dining room. Mrs. Powell had polished her silver and dusted off the fine China.
    “I thought a nice Yankee Pot Roast with potatoes and carrots was in order,” Mrs. Powell said. “Comfort food from my Dutch oven to celebrate the start of something new.”
    She removed the lid from the pot.
John’s eager eyes followed the aromatic steam as it rose towards the giant chandelier hovering over the center of the big table. The food smelled delicious.
“I haven’t eaten in here since my husband passed away,” Mrs. Powell admitted. “Such a beautiful room to entertain in, but so few friends left.”
“Have you considered taking up bridge or some other inhouse social entertainment?”
She carried the pot from her end of the table to his. “I already tried that. My first partner went blind, my second missed too many tournaments due to a hip replacement surgery gone bad, Another drank too much and played silly. Besides, old women talk too much about the past and I have no time for idle chitchat and gossip. And you? Did you enjoy your walk through the neighborhood?”
“Very much so,” John said.
“Nothing too strenuous, I hope?”
“Just far enough.”
“Shall I fix your plate?”
“Yes, please. Easy on the onions.”
She scooped out a large helping. “Is this too much of a meal for your stomach?”
“Mrs. Powell, everything you prepare is wonderful. My brain isn’t connected to my stomach.”
“It’s just that…” she admitted, “I don’t want to burden you with anything out of the ordinary, anything that might go wrong…”
“What is it, Mrs. Powell? You seem upset.”
“Oh, John,” she declared, dropping her serving spoon and fork in the pot, “I don’t want to meddle. I promised not to interfere, but this, this teaching business, it smacks of absolute insanity!”
“Perhaps it is,” he said in a low voice.
“Please, John. Please tell me why you’re doing this. You only have a few months to live. Why this?”
John picked up the cutlery and spooned out a small portion of pot roast, then led Mrs. Powell to her own seat where he served her a similar-sized dish.
“It’s simple, really. Quite simple. I committed a terrible sin fifteen years ago and now I must reconcile things.”
“What are you running from, John?”
He returned to his seat, sat and remained very still.
“Please, John. There is a secret in you. Dark and brooding. Share it with me. Perhaps I can help.”
John locked his hands together, closed