Free The Whiskey Sea by Ann Howard Creel

girls by placing himself between them and the hard-judging reach of the world, but still letting them step into it on their own two feet. All to have it come down to this. She shook her head, admonishing herself, realizing that one of the last things she’d said to him before his stroke amounted to complaining.
    From the beginning he’d told them the truth about their mother. Frieda had always known that her mother had lived on the edges of proper society, but as soon as she was old enough to ask in more detail, Silver had spelled it out in full, never once attempting to sugarcoat the facts. He had, of course, told them that their mother’s history had nothing to do with the girls she and Bea had turned out to be. This despite the fact that he knew the things that had happened to Frieda.
    It had started early, when parents of her classmates didn’t want their children to get too close to the bastard child, as if she carried an infectious disease. Then the boys had offered her a penny if she would let them look up her skirt, saying, “Like mother, like daughter.” The girls had been even more evil, because they were conniving in their insults. The final straw came one day when the girls had invited her to a party in the park; when she arrived, however, no one was there. After discovering a number of the girls hiding in the bushes, obviously there to witness and relish her confusion as she waited anxiously for a party that would never happen, her first thought had been to ignore them. But then something twisted inside her gut, and she chased those girls down, caught them, and pulled their hair hard. They left her alone after that. Bea had fared better. Perhaps her classmates had been nicer; perhaps the story had gotten stale, the years pushing the story to the backs of people’s minds. Plus Bea’s tactic had been to kill them all with kindness, and it had worked.
    Silver had handled both Frieda’s bitterness and Bea’s extreme friendliness with the same amount of humble grace, keeping them in rein with his love rather than with any shows of force. He’d admonished them to sit up straight and keep their room clean from time to time, but never did he lift a hand or raise his voice against them.
    He looked at her now as if he could see the buzzing bees of her thoughts; as if he knew everything and still understood what was happening around him; as if he wanted to console her . He might have lost control of some of his body, but Frieda knew that his mind was still there in full. The light of understanding still shone in his eyes. But when he opened his mouth to speak, it was like a fish gasping for life as it lay on the docks, and his face folded in on itself. His sad gaze told her that all the words he wanted to say lay in scattered piles in his mind, and that picking them up and putting them in order so they could make their way out of his mouth was beyond his bidding.
    She took his paralyzed hand and worked the fingers, already beginning to curl upon themselves like a claw. He had small hands with large knuckles and leathery, chapped skin. After rubbing each finger, she spread them out straight and then watched them curl back again. She swallowed back her sadness and stared hard into his eyes, where she could see the apology: I’m sorry I hurt you. I shouldn’t have sold the boat. But even stronger, there, again, was that plea—focused, querying.
    “Don’t you worry,” she said. “I’m going to take care of everything.”
     
    A week later she hired a maid who had some experience with general nursing to stay with Silver during the day. She also went to the bank and applied for a loan against the house. Though she needed to supply some papers to the banker about her work income, she’d been assured that the loan would likely be approved. Silver was proud of owning the house free and clear, but a loan was the only way to pay for his care now. The doctor had come again, saying that Silver had high blood pressure,