What woke me in the middle of the night was the sound of Daddy’s truck, the low rumbling of its engine, pulling up to the house. As much as I wanted to hear how Mama was, it was still dark out and I was tired enough to shut my eyes and doze off again.
Next thing I knew, I woke in the morning. When I opened my eyes I looked right out the window. The sun rose on the other side of the house, but I could see the pink and orange glow on the bare naked trees and the otherwise stark white snow in the back of our yard. It must’ve been a real pretty sunrise. I had half a mind to run over to Ray’s room and watch it out his window.
But when I rolled to my other side and saw Daddy sitting on my bedroom floor, his back against my bed, I forgot all about the sun and Ray’s window.
Daddy was breathing in and out through his mouth like he couldn’t get enough air or push it out fast enough. He had his knees bent up and an elbow rested on one of them, his hand holding up his head. If I hadn’t known any better, I might have thought he was crying.
Daddy’d told me more than once that if he could, he’d have taken all the hurt in the world so I wouldn’t ever have to feel it. I did believe he spoke true. It hadn’t been a year before that he’d given himself over, almost getting killed so I could live.
There in my bed, I blinked away the picture of Eddie DuPre, his gun pointed right at Daddy. And I wished I could plug my ears so I wouldn’t hear Daddy telling Eddie, “I don’t want her to see this.”
My daddy would’ve done anything for me, I knew that was true.
Just then, though, I wished I could take whatever sadness he held and push it right into my own heart.
I put my hand on his back. “Daddy?”
He breathed in through his nose and wiped at his eyes with the heel of his hand before turning toward me.
“Hey there, Pearlie,” he said, his voice sounding pinched like he wanted to steady it. “You can go back to sleep. I just didn’t think I should be downstairs. Opal’s sleeping on the davenport.”
“You can stay in Ray’s bed,” I told him. “He’s at Bert’s house.”
“Might just do that, darlin’.” He tried at a smile, but it didn’t stay on his face but a second.
“Did you see Mama?” I asked.
He nodded and bit at his lower lip. “I did.”
“She doing all right?”
He nodded again. Then his face scrunched like he was about to break into a crying fit. But he didn’t. He held strong.
What I wanted to tell him right then was that it would’ve been okay with me if he’d wanted to cry, that it wouldn’t bother me one bit. And I wanted him to know that I’d never tell a living soul if he did.
But men didn’t like crying, especially in front of their little girls. I knew it might’ve ruined his pride for me to say such a thing.
“I tried getting her to come home,” he said. “Thought she was going to. But she just couldn’t.”
“Why not?” I asked.
“I’m sorry, darlin’.”
“Why wouldn’t she come back?”
“You’ve just lost so much. I never wanted that for you.”
“Is she mad at me? Is that why she won’t come home?”
“No, darlin’,” he said. “It’s me she’s mad at.”
He turned toward me and used one of his trembling hands to move a wisp of hair off my forehead. Even in the low light of the room I could see his knuckles were swollen and an angry shade of purple.
Then I moved so I could see his face closer. His lip was fat and his eye was blackened.
“Daddy?” I said, my voice a whimper.
“I’m all right, darlin’.”
“Did you get in a fight?” I pushed myself up so I was sitting, looking down at him. “Who’d you fight?”
“It wasn’t right,” he said. “I shouldn’t have.”
“Did you fight Abe Campbell?”
I knew I was right on account he didn’t answer me, but instead looked away.
“I hope you whupped him, Daddy,” I said, my voice hard and icy. “I hope you clobbered him something awful.”
“Pearlie …”
“He stole Mama.”
“Nobody stole her, darlin’.” He licked at his sore lip and winced. “She went on her own.”
Still, I hoped he’d broke Abe Campbell’s nose. It would’ve served him right.
The next day I tried no less than a half dozen times to write a letter to Mama. In them I either asked her to come home or told her I never wanted to see her again. I begged her to call or used every cuss word I knew how to spell to let her know I no longer cared what she did.
I tore every single one of them into shreds and tossed them into a fire Ray kept going in the living room. The paper curled before turning to flame to ash to dust. Mama would’ve said it was a waste of perfectly good paper, burning it like that.
She’d have been right. It was a waste.
There was no making somebody come home when they’d just rather stay gone.