Secret Keepers and Skinny Shadows: Lee and Miranda by Mary A Russell Page A

pen sailing across the room where it bounced off the dirty white wall leaving big blue ink splatters before hitting the floor and rolling to a stop against the paint chipped baseboard. She screamed and on instinct wrapped her arms around the back of her head waiting for him to smack her.
    When she realized he wasn’t going to hit her, she looked up at him. It was at that moment she realized what he was about to do. Her mouth gaped open in disbelief, she begged.
    “Please don’t do this George. Please don’t.”
    His big meaty hands crumbled the pages into a ball as he rushed across the room to the fireplace tossing the wad of paper into the flames.
    “There,” he said planting his hands on his hips whirling his upper body around his bloodshot eyes looking directly into hers. “That’ll take care of that. I don’t want to see you doing anymore writing Lillian. Do you understand me?” He hissed between clinched, rotted teeth.
    She jumped as a strong gust of wind smashed a tree branch against the living room window, she watched a new crack start to grow in one of the panes.
    Her eyes narrowed to slits as she fixed them on George, water leaked from the corners, running like rivers down her cheeks she wiped them on her dress sleeve, soon they were gushing, she was unable to control them, watching the flames lick and devour her papers until there was nothing left but ashes.
    George glanced in her direction, then tilted his head back, as he laughed and snorted at her.
    “You’re a dumb one, you are. I don’t want you writing about that murder and making me look bad,” he said. “What’s done is done. Forget about it. That old drunk got what he deserved.” He stomped into the dark kitchen, jerked open the refrigerator door, and grabbed another cold Bud from the shelf.
    She could see him from where she was sitting. The bulb from the opened refrigerator door was like a spotlight, illuminating his fat, pig-faced head. She hated him. She hated him even more than when he was slapping and kicking her around.
    Lillian watched George shove his stubby fingers into his baggy pants pocket, she could see his hand moving around inside, when he pulled it out his fingers were gripping the church key he always carried.
    All the while he ignored her as she sat at her desk holding her head between her hands, sobbing in soft, hushed, uncontrollable whimpers, watching him out of the corner of her eye as he locked the flat hook on the waffled edge of the metal bottle cap and flipped it.
    “Ah,” he said, “I love that sucking sound the lid makes as it releases the smell of fresh beer.”
    He stuck his nose up into the air, breathing in the droplets of beer still hanging there.
    His eyes shifted down, watching as the bottle cap slid, bounced, and rolled across the kitchen floor. It wobbled and came to rest against the other five in a round shallow spot worn into the old linoleum. She watched him with hatred in her eyes, as his pig lips locked around the opened bottle. Sucking and snorting, he swigged the beer as fast as he could swallow it. Some of the froth running out the sides of his mouth, creating white rivulets that streamed through his whiskers. When the foam reached the front of his dirty T-shirt, it expanded the wet circle that was already there.
    He pulled the bottle from his lips, breathing hard.
    “Don’t bother me anymore, Lillian. I’m going to finish watching The Red Skelton Hour.” He belched wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, while waddling back into the living room he plopped his wide body down into the big faded blue velvet chair.
    Outside the wind had died down as fast as it puffed up.
    She watched as George fell into a drunken slumber in front of the TV.
    It was as though her body would only move in slow motion. She forced herself to get up from the desk chair and into her bedroom, locking the door she fell across the bed crying herself to sleep.
    The next morning through tear-swollen eyes with