BlackWind

by Boyett-Compo

  Sean spread the flap of the envelope and glanced at the check inside, which he had expected to find.

  “Then I asked myself why under God's blue sky this fancy doc would be giving my son five thousand dollars.” Cullen took a long swig of beer. Wiping the back of his hand across his lips, he pointed the bottle at Sean. “Know what I answered myself that time, Seannie, me boy? I says to myself—that fancy doc don't want no Cullen wigglies a'growin’ in his little gal's belly and I can't say that I blame him. Seems to me, though, it's worth more'n five grand to see that don't happen, don't you?”

  “I have no intention of cashing this.”

  “You don't want it, I'll take it.”

  “I'll be sending it right back to Dr. McGregor.”

  Cullen's mouth turned hard. “You ain't gonna do no such thing.” With a speed that surprised Sean, the older man leapt to his feet and snatched the envelope from him.

  Sean's hands doubled into fists at his side, but he knew it would be useless to argue with his father. When Tymothy Cullen drank, he got junkyard-dog mean and usually either his wife or son paid the price for that anger. Sean also knew that would not always be the way things would work.

  “This will help pay for next month's bills,” Cullen asserted as he stuffed the envelope into his pocket.

  “Do whatever you want with it,” Sean said, knowing full well his father would forge his signature on the back of the check and cash it. He hoped Dr. McGregor would find out and have the fool arrested.

  “Good boy,” Cullen sneered. He sat on the step and stared up at his son with one eye squeezed shut. “How come you're so agreeable?”

  “I didn't ask for the money and I don't want it.”

  “Stupid little bastard,” Cullen said. “Throwing away perfectly good money.”

  Sean shrugged, picked up his bike, and wheeled it under the carport where he locked it to one of the wrought iron roof supports. He walked to the carport door and went into the house. Inside, the aroma of meatloaf filled the kitchen. He grimaced and went to the stove to see what his mother had prepared for herself and him. Lifting a pot, he was relieved to find succotash, a stewed tomato, okra, onion, and corn mixture that was one of his mother's specialties.

  “There is baked macaroni and cornbread in the oven,” his mother told him as she came into the small room. “Fix me some tea, will ya, laddie?”

  Sean's lips moved into the smile he reserved for his mother and Bronnie. “This stuff is gonna give you diabetes one of these days,” he said as he poured her a metal tumbler of the thickly-sweet brew.

  “At least I'll die a happy woman,” his mother countered, taking the tumbler from him. She looked deeply into his eyes. “You all right, laddie?”

  “Aye, Ma,” he lied.

  Dorrie Cullen sighed. “As all right as you're gonna be, I'm reckonin'.” She turned to the stove. “Call your Da in and let's hope he don't find no fault with my meatloaf tonight.”

  “How long's he been drinking?”

  “Since he closed up shop early and came home.”

  Sean tensed. The last time his father had closed the shop early. a savage punch had sent his mother to the hospital with a broken jaw. That had been when Sean was nine. “What brought this on?” he asked, glancing worriedly at the back door.

  His mother lifted her thin shoulders. “He's been gamblin’ again with them darkies what run the barbeque place two doors down. Shootin’ the craps, I suppose. Lost a hundred dollars or more.”

  Sean's jaw tightened. “Did you give him the letter from Dr. McGregor?” He knew that wasn't the case, but wanted to know how his father came in possession of the missive.

  “You know I didn't, laddie,” his mother answered in a hurt voice. “He went through your room lookin’ for loose money and that's when he found it.” She twisted her hands together. “It came this morning and I put it in your room knowin’ you didn't want him to see it. I asked him not to open it, but you know how your Da is.”

  “That I do.”

  “When he opened it, he let out an almighty whoop.”

  “I'll bet.”

  “What was in that letter, Seannie?”

  “The solution to his problem, Ma. At least for the time being.”

  She pulled open the oven door, took up a pair of potholders, and reached for the meatloaf, the sight of which made Sean queasy. “Call him on in, now.”

  Sean went to the screen door. “Supper's ready!”

  “Put this ungodly concoction on the table for him and I'll get us the macaroni,” his mother ordered, placing the sizzling meatloaf on a hot pad on the counter.

  Sean retrieved another set of potholders from the drawer and, with his lips pursed tightly, he carried the meatloaf to the table and placed it in front of his father's plate. He avoided looking at the gray-brown meat.

  “The succotash smells great, Ma,” he said as he watched her ladle their main course into a soup tureen.

  “Smells like crap to me,” Cullen grunted. He let the screen door slam behind him as he plopped down at the table. “Get me another brew, boy.”

  Sean exchanged a glance with his mother, but he did as he was told. After fetching the ice-cold bottle for his father, he brought the cornbread to the table for his mother, pulled her chair out for her, then took his seat, ignoring the snort of disgust from his father at the courtesy.

  “Always puttin’ on the Ritz, ain't you, Seannie? Where does such highfalutin’ crap getcha?” Cullen popped the cap from the bottle with a church key.

  “He's just showin’ his Ma some respect,” Dorrie said quietly.

  Sean tensed. It was such innocuous remarks that, for whatever reason, set his father off. But the old man seemed not to have heard, for he was swilling down a long drag of beer. He grimaced as the man gave a loud belch, then another for good measure.

  “Will you say Grace, Tymothy?” Dorrie asked.

  Cullen shook his head. “Let His Holiness do it.”

  Dorrie reached for her son's hand. Her tired, sad eyes locked with Sean's and she lowered her head.

  “Bless us, Oh Lord,” Sean prayed, “and these thy gifts that we are about to receive from thy bounty.”

  “Bless us, Oh Lord, and these thy grits that we are about to receive from the county.” Cullen giggled as he ladled a big slice of meatloaf onto his plate.

  Dorrie's mouth tightened at the sacrilege, but she made no comment. She passed the macaroni to Sean. “Would you slice me a piece of cornbread, laddie?”

  “Just a minute,” Sean said, realizing he would have to leave the table to get a knife. Before he could, a powerful backhanded blow from his father's left hand slammed into his face and knocked him out of his chair. He hit the floor hard on his left hip, his nose gushing blood.

  “When your Ma tells you to do something, you'd best hop to it, boy!” Cullen shouted.

  Dorrie gasped and started to get up, but her husband's furious bellow kept her in her seat.

  “Leave him be, Dorrie!”

  Sean lay where he landed, attempting to staunch the flow of blood with the heel of his palm. He knew his nose was broken and his upper lip had been split from contact with his father's heavy signet ring.

  “Get your lazy ass off the floor and clean up that mess,” Cullen demanded, “before I have to drag you up.”

  His nose throbbing, the smell of the blood, and the taste of it in his mouth making him sick, Sean pushed up from the floor. He knew if he made one sound, said one word, his father would be on him like a tiger on a wounded gazelle. He dared not even look the older man's way for fear the vicious temper would erupt and someone would suffer the consequences.

  “Lily-livered little pantywaist,” Cullen mocked. “Not man enough to stand up for himself and too damned stupid to even try.” He stabbed a chunk of meatloaf and crammed it into his mouth.

  Stumbling to the sink, Sean pulled a handful of paper towels from the rack and, with his nose still bleeding, went back to clean up the splatters on the floor.
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  Sean sensed his mother wanted to help him, but she knew better than to try. Things would be worse for him, and more so for herself, if she dared. She sat still, her head bowed, her lips trembling.

  “Eat your damned food, woman!” Cullen demanded.

  Dorrie reached for her fork and gently slipped the utensil beneath a pile of macaroni. She moved the pasta from one side of her plate to the other.

  “Good meatloaf for a change,” Cullen pronounced around a glob of the mixture.

  “Thank you, Tym,” Dorrie said automatically. She flinched and her eyes went wide when he grabbed her hand. His strong grip tightened brutally around her wrist.

  “I said eat your damned food, not push it around!”

  “Aye, Tym,” she agreed, her head bobbing. She lifted a forkful of macaroni to her mouth.

  “When you get that floor spotless, go to your room,” Cullen told Sean. “No food for you tonight, boy.”

  * * * *

  Sean lay staring at the ceiling, his hands behind his head. He could hear his father's angry mumbles as he moved about in the bedroom next door. With the scrape of a chair across the wooden floor came a piercing yelp. Sean knew the man was falling-down drunk again. He turned his head and looked at the clock.

  Ten o'clock—unnaturally early for Tym Kullen to take to his bed. The man liked to sit in front of the television and curse the eleven o'clock news team. That he had forgone his nightly ritual meant the old man had consumed more than normal and hopefully would pass out before too many more minutes ticked off the clock.

  When a light scratching came at his door, Sean sat up. “I'm awake,” he said softly.

  His mother opened the door and stood there, her work-reddened hands gripping the door's edge. “He won't be conscious too much longer,” she whispered. “I left you a plate in the oven.”

  Sean nodded. “Go to bed, Ma. I'll be all right.”

  She looked at Sean's bruised face, the dark circles that had formed under his eyes. “Is it broken?” she asked, her eyes tearing as she took in his swollen nose.

  He shrugged. “Probably. Don't worry about it. There ain't much that can be done.”

  Tears slid slowly down her face. “I am sorry, lad.”

  "Dorrie! Where are you, woman?"

  The bellow startled her. She jumped, stepping back to shut Sean's door before her husband realized what she was doing. As the latch engaged against the strike plate, Sean stretched out on his bed. He knew before Tymothy Cullen passed out, he would subject his wife to another round of degrading sexual demands.

  Turning to his side, Sean pulled the pillow over his head to blot out the sounds of rutting that would soon echo through the small house.

  CHAPTER 6

  The next morning at school, Bronnie was not close enough to speak to Sean when they passed in the hallway, but she was close enough to see the livid bruises across his nose and under his eyes. Her mouth fell open, her eyes filled with tears, and her hands clenched into fists. She would have gone to him, but the slight shake of his head warned her away. She lost sight of him when he went into his chemistry class.

  “Looks like old man Cullen did a number on lover boy,” David remarked from her side.

  She trembled. “That bastard!”

  “I'll be damned if I'd let my father beat the hell outta me like that,” Bobby Thompson, Dave's friend and Bronnie's cousin, scoffed.

  “And just what would you do to stop him, Bobby?” Bronnie demanded. “Uncle Mike's twice your size and three times your age! How would you stop him?”

  “I'd handle it.” Bobby jerked his chin toward the chemistry lab. “Cullen could, also, if he was of a mind to!”

  Bronnie stepped close to cousin and glared at him. “Is that so? And after he beats the crap outta his father, where does he go after that? Who will take him in to live with them?”

  He shrugged disdainfully. “I dunno.”

  “You sure don't! And what do you think would happen to his mother if he went after his father? Who would protect her after he left? Where would she go?”

  “He's afraid of what could happen to his mother?” Dave asked.

  “No, he knows what would happen to her,” Bronnie insisted. “That's why he takes the beatings and doesn't fight back. But one day, that will all end!”

  The bell rang, cutting off Dave's rebuttal. He looked worriedly at Bronnie. “Cool it, McGregor,” he whispered, but she was already striding away.

  * * * *

  “Uncle Dermot is mad enough as it is about this whole situation,” Bobby commented as the two young men walked to their first class. “He wouldn't like Bronnie defending Cullen like that.”

  Dave sighed. “I don't like it, either.”

  “Then what are we going to do about it?”

  “I don't know that there's anything we can do.”

  Bobby looked into the chemistry lab as they passed. His eyes were hard and his mouth tight. “Oh, I don't know about that...”

  * * * *

  Sean frowned when he saw Bronnie walking purposefully toward him. He lifted his bike out of the rack and angled it away from her. Determined to leave before she could reach him, he threw his leg over the seat and pedaled only a few feet before her angry shout brought him to a stop.

  “I'll follow your ass to work, Cullen! We are gonna talk!”

  Cursing beneath his breath, he slid his feet from the pedals and stood bracing the bicycle between his legs, waiting for her to join him. He turned an annoyed face to her. “Why don't you tell the whole school, Bronwyn?” he snapped, his nasal tone making his voice sound mean.

  She ignored his waspish remark and reached out to touch his injured face. When he jerked his head away, she lowered her hand. “Why are you mad at me?” she asked, embarrassment clouding her face.

  He sighed heavily. “I'm not mad at you, but you know we can't be seen talking together! You know what your father said.”

  “I don't give a rat's ass what Daddy said!”

  “Well, you won't be the one going to jail, will ya?” he returned with more heat than he intended. At the look of hurt on her face, he cupped her chin in his hand. “This isn't good, Sweeting.”

  She smiled at the endearment. “I had to talk to you. I had to see how you were.” She scanned his battered face. “You look awful.”

  “Hey, don't mince words, now,” he teased, letting go of her. “Tell me exactly how you feel.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Will you be serious?” She extended her hand to his face once more. When he didn't pull away, she lightly touched his swollen nose. “That looks like it hurts.”

  Sean looked past her and saw Bobby Thompson watching them from the corner of the gym. He met Thompson's narrowed gaze for a moment, then looked at Bronnie. “It looks worse than it is. I gotta go. I'll be late for work.”

  “You're sure you're all right?” she asked, biting her lip.

  “Yeah.” He glanced at Thompson again, then lowered his voice. “Don't do this again, okay? We're being watched.”

  Bronnie turned and snorted. “I can handle Bobby.”

  Sean didn't reply. He could feel Thompson's open hostility like a slimy wet coat plastered to his back. He absently shrugged, the feeling wearing on his nerves. “Gotta go.”

  “I like that shirt,” she said, as if stalling for time, trying to keep him there. “Is it new?”

  He looked down at the pale yellow shirt. “Yeah, I bought it myself.”

  “It looks good on you.”

  “Coach Hie said only queers wear pastel shirts.”

  “Most of your shirts are pastels, aren't they?”

  “I like light colors,” he defended, glancing around.

  “Doesn't make you queer, though. So why do you wear blue and yellow shirts?

  He stared at her. “Because dark colors depress me. Where is this going, Bronwyn?”

  “Grownups say a lot of things that make no sense. Just ‘cause they're grownups doesn't mean they're always right.”


  “Oh, I see,” he said with a grimace. “We're back to not paying any attention to what your father said.”

  “Remember what I said, Sean. Try to come up with a way we can see one another without prying eyes being there to spy.”

  He nodded. “That's all I ever do.”

  “Don't forget you promised to take me to the prom.”

  “Ah, Bronnie, no. That wouldn't be...”

  “You promised!” she said, her eyes flashing. “And I'm holding you to that promise!”

  “We'll see.” He glanced one last time at Bobby Thompson. “I gotta go, Bronnie.”

  * * * *

  Before she could say anything else, Bronnie watched the man she loved pedal away. He didn't turn to wave or acknowledge her presence in any way. With her heart aching, she headed for the gym.

  Bobby was leaning against the brick wall, his arms crossed over his wide chest. At his cousin's approach, he cocked his head to one side. “Living dangerously, eh, Bronwyn?”

  “You tell Daddy you saw me talking to Sean and I'll tell Uncle Mike about the girl over in Colquitt.”

  His face paled. “You won't if you know what's good for you.”

  She smiled nastily. “Stay out of my business and I'll stay out of yours.” She waited for him to say something else, and when he didn't, she headed for her car.

  * * * *

  Bobby pushed away from the building. His head throbbed with anger, but it wasn't directed at the little cousin for whom he had a vast amount of affection. His rage was aimed at Sean Cullen. To Bobby's way of thinking, few men would ever be worthy of Bronnie's hand and Cullen was on the lowest rung of the ladder.

  With a brutal look of vengeance, Bobby hunched his shoulders and headed across the parking lot to football practice. But before taking his anger out on the tackling dummies, he had a few words to discuss with a couple of his teammates.

  * * * *

  It was dusk before Sean finished vacuuming the last car on Griffin's lot. He was sweaty and tired and his nose ached miserably. Zeke had left for the day and Andy was making sure the cars were locked. When Andy came out back to lock the storage shed, he found Sean inside, putting away the shop vac.

  “You need a ride home, son?” Andy inquired. “You can stick your bike in my trunk.”