The Legend of Mickey Tussler Read Online Free PDF

series of crooked slats of threadbare wood rested precariously. Molly watched from the window through tearful eyes as the man and the boy schlepped a metal box of tools down the path, with Clarence barking at Mickey the entire way.
    She didn’t want to look anymore. She just couldn’t. Whenever she felt this way, her chest hurt. Tightened up as if someone had wrapped a rope around her ribs and were pulling at both ends. She had to busy herself, the same way she always did whenever the dreadful reality of her existence enveloped her this way.
    She placed her hand on the closet doorknob, turned it, and reached inside. She pulled out a broom and swept feverishly, raising a tiny cloud of dust. After that, she scrubbed the countertops and washed and rewashed every plate and glass she could pull from the cabinets. As she worked, her thoughts wandered to a better time—a time when she was young, and life was effortless. She drifted past weathered red barns, sleepy cornfields, and wide, clovered pastures filled with grazing cows. She saw rustic farmhouses with wraparound porches and flower boxes bursting with brilliant reds and yellows. She heard children, herself included, playing ring-a-levio on a lush green lawn that stretched out endlessly like a thick, beautiful blanket. She also heard the clink of horseshoes and the gentle drone of a crop duster scraping the sky. She smelled honeysuckle and wisteria, and all of a sudden she could taste the wood reed in her clarinet. It was all there. So vivid. So real. Harlequin images of life in its purest form. But the life depicted wasn’t her life. Not anymore. The emptiness mastered her. She sat down for a moment, let her head fall limp into her open palms, and just wept.
    The discordant song of crickets and katydids clashed on the cool breath of early evening. Darkness was pulling the sun down beyond the distant treetops. She had all but arrested the unavailing flight of her heartbreak when suddenly there broke from the somber silence the most horrible cry she had ever heard. It began softly, but soon swelled, louder and louder, escalating into a plaintive wail of pain and fear and anger all mixed together in this one dreadful shriek. She rushed to the window. Peering out, she was aghast at what she saw. It was Mickey. He was on his knees, chin pressed tightly to his chest, eyes closed and hands firmly placed over his ears. He was rocking back and forth and screaming. Clarence was standing over him ominously, wielding a freshly cut two-by-four while firing spontaneous invectives at the child before finally breaking a piece of wood over the boy’s back.
    â€œYou lousy, good-fer-nothing moron! Get your ass up off the ground. I’ll learn ya to hammer nails like a sissy.”
    The boy continued to scream. His father’s voice was a dull, roaring sound crashing in his ears. His stomach tightened and his chest heaved. Then he lost control of his bladder and wet himself. It infuriated Clarence even more.
    He fired another two-by-four across the yard and looked skyward in exasperation. “What the hell did I do to deserve this horseshit!” he thundered. “Jesus Christ!” With his hands on his hips, he turned to face the other direction. His eye followed the gravel path back to the farmhouse, where it caught Molly in the window, cowering behind a thin blue-and-white curtain, drying her eyes with a damp handkerchief.

MILWAUKEE
    Murph introduced Mickey to the team on a day when faces were long and expectations at an all-time low. They were mired in a thirteen-game skid, and their descent in the standings had been well publicized in all the newspapers. It had them all on edge. “Listen up, fellas,” Murph announced. “I want you all to meet Mickey. Mickey here is gonna be doing some pitching for us.”
    George “Lefty” Rogers, the team’s star hurler and only southpaw on the staff, was the first to fix his narrow eyes on Mickey.