The Cape Ann Read Online Free PDF Page A

hurtled ahead.
    Now the sidewalk disappeared and I was stumbling down a rutted path between deserted, crumbling houses. And what was this—snow? Drifts of it were in my path. The giant black dog would tear me to pieces and eat me. And I would go to hell because I hadn’t made my first confession yet.
    The dog was at my shoulder. “Oh, my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended thee,” I prayed. “And I detest all my sins…”
    But it was only a hand at my shoulder, shaking me. “Lark, Lark.” It was Herbie Wendel. “We’re having homemade turtle soup. Would you like some?”
    I was filled with such relief, I had to go to the bathroom. When I emerged, Mr. Wendel handed me Donald’s cereal bowl filled with steaming turtle soup. Little rabbits danced around the outside of the bowl. I was glad to have it in my hands because I was shivering. The house had grown cold while I slept.
    Papa wasn’t at the poker table. “Where’s my papa?”
    “He’ll be right back. He had to go out for a few minutes. Sit down here on the couch and have your soup. I’ll bring you some crackers.”
    So Papa
had
left. It was almost like my dream. Where had he gone? It must be very late. Where would you go at this time of night? Mr. Wendel returned with a plate of soda crackers, which he set on the couch beside me.
    “Do you like the soup?” he inquired.
    I nodded.
    “I made it myself.”
    “Really?” I’d never heard of a man cooking. None of them in our family did.
    “Caught this big old snapper out in Sioux Woman Lake. Fishing for bullheads and landed this instead. Donald’s ma doesn’t like to clean turtle, so I’m in the habit of making the soup.”
    “It’s good,” I assured him. “When do you think my papa’ll be back?”
    “Any minute.” He patted my knee and returned to the dining room.
    A few minutes later, Papa came through the door carrying abrown paper bag. “Damned old fool charged an arm and a leg,” he told the others. Then, noticing me eating soup, “What’re you doing up?”
    “Mr. Wendel gave me some turtle soup he made himself. Where did you go?”
    “Out. You haven’t been pestering Herbie, have you?”
    “No. What time is it?”
    “I don’t know.”
    “What does your watch say?”
    “None of your business, Miss Nosy.”
    “Did you call Mama?”
    He didn’t answer, but headed toward the kitchen with the bag. I finished my soup, which was as good as Campbell’s. Setting the empty bowl and the cracker plate on the floor, I lay down again and once more fell asleep, this time slumbering deeply and not waking till Papa carried me out to the truck. The sky was light. The first gold peeped through the trees and between the houses on our left. The cab smelled of whiskey.
    When we were close to the depot, Papa turned off the engine and we coasted into the little parking lot. Before we climbed out of the pickup, Papa whispered, “We’ve got to be real quiet. We don’t want to wake your ma. Do you understand?”
    “Yes,” I whispered, noticing that Papa’s face was red, and his eyes, too. Did they hurt? Suddenly I remembered something. “Who took care of the late freight train?” I asked, worried that he’d forgotten.
    “Art took care of it,” he rasped impatiently. “Now keep quiet. I’ll come around and open the door. Just wait.”
    He lifted me down to the gravel, and we tiptoed toward the platform, stones crunching softly beneath our feet. As we rounded the corner of the depot, a pair of grackles, loud and angry, flew down, lit on the semaphore, and starting yawking at us.
    “Goddamn,” Papa whispered under his breath, turning the door knob slowly, stealthily, and pushing the door open just enough for us to slip through.
    At the kitchen table, Mama sat waiting.

4
    “GO TO BED, LARK,” Mama directed in a too-calm voice, never taking her eyes from Papa, who was at the stove checking the coffee pot, feigning innocence, stalling.
    When Mama was preparing to fight, she sent me