Chapter 17

It was tedious. More than tedious, it was painstakingly slow.

Annie winced as a wood splinter jabbed into her already bleeding fingertips then returned to pulling yet another thin, amber strand of wallpaper away. One shred after another joined the growing, sticky pile at her feet. A second sliver caught the edge of her fingernail. She gasped at the pain then popped the hurt finger into her mouth. After a moment, she lowered her hand and shuddered at the ache that coursed from her fingers to her hand to her arm. Teeth clenched, she reached for another uneven pull at the wallpaper.

Layer covered layer that covered yet another. She dug a broken nail into a teal blue edge and pulled. Her finger went numb. That was good; maybe the pain would be a little more bearable now. Another edge, this time it was a rectangular piece of olive green wallpaper.

Behind all the wallpaper would be the door to the widow’s walk. That is unless her pain and drop-by-drop spilling of blood proved there was no door, but a crack in an otherwise impenetrable wall.

She leaned back to survey the puzzle pieces of wallpaper. Behind all this, there had to be a door to the widow’s walk. By the layout of the house, the walk would be just about over her head. A little curve to the steps from here, around the back end of the kitchen and the dining room, then outside to the bay view. The widow’s walk.

It had to be here. And if it was, that meant Winston Mann had been wrong in telling her there was no way up. It would mean he had lied to her. What else would he keep from her?

Stroking her bloodied fingers absently across her jeans, she stopped at the sudden thought. Winston Mann had just now dropped in unexpectedly. Before this one, he had always made a point of planning visits, either his or those of his young cohort, Richard. This time it was different. He just appeared, with no warning. Richard seemed an impulsive sort, in a nice kind of way. He even smelled nice, definitely male, and natural, not covered up in expensive cologne and a strange woman’s perfume like David always was. Bits of paper stuck to her clothes and her tennis shoes. She rubbed a sore hand through her uncombed hair. Better it was Winston Mann showing up instead of Richard. The young man would undoubtedly question her strange state, but Winston Mann wasn’t the type to pry.

Here she was, pulling paper off a wall like some kind of a madwoman, but since the voice told her it was okay, that was all she needed to hear. A flicker of confusion stopped her train of thought.

Unless scraping wallpaper piece by puzzle piece was a crazy, stupid thing to do.

What if someone figured out what she was up to? A growing panic gnawed at her insides. Her stomach twisted.

Winston Mann had to have noticed, and he would want her to stop. He might even evict her back to the depressing house in Atlanta, and to her more depressing life with David. No. She wouldn’t leave now. She couldn’t leave.

But if he saw, if he knew…

She pulled a piece of wallpaper from her clothes. “I’m crazy.” Another piece. “I’m crazy, not.”

Maybe Winston didn’t know.

The knot in her stomach loosened a notch. That was a possibility, too. He might have thought she was deep into some kind of a hobby or something.

Sure, that was it, a hobby.

She kicked the wall as hard as she could. A cracking sound split the air. A flake of plaster floated effortlessly to the floor, followed by a strip of wallpaper. The door creaked open ever so slightly. Her eyes widened, a gasp caught in her throat.

The door to the widow’s walk opened.

She reached out to nudge it a little more.

“Mom?”

His voice stung. She turned, fell against the open door to cover it, and glared at her son. There was a question in his eyes.

“Mom?” His voice was unsure, tentative. His thumb went to his mouth.

Thumb-sucking was for babies, not fifth graders. Didn’t she have enough on her mind without thumb-sucking as an additional trial?

“What is it, Charlie?” She was sure her voice translated a calm and patience she didn’t feel.

He looked away, the thumb firmly in his mouth.

“Charlie? You came here for a reason. What is it?”

He shrugged ever so slightly.

She forced her voice to soften. “Baby, Mommy’s busy. What do you need?”

Another shrug.

Anger welled in her. She closed her eyes against the surge and tried counting, taking deep breaths, and all the other things that worked in the past. But he was testing her patience on purpose, trying to make her blow up at him. It was malicious on his part and a premeditated attempt to make her lose what little sanity she had left. Couldn’t he see she was busy? Of all the hours in the day, why right now did he have to nag her and bother her with some petty little problem?

“I’m hungry, Mommy.” His words were quiet, simple, and barely audible.

She contemplated his statement as if it were a foreign language that needed translation then glanced out the bay window for a hint at the time. Dusk. Where had the day gone?

She studied her son, his eyes downcast, standing a safe distance away. He had gone as long as he could without bothering her, longer than he ever should have. It was his right, by birth, if nothing else, to come to her when he needed something.

Her mandate was to provide for him, yet he waited until a gnawing pain of hunger in his little stomach finally forced him to do the unspeakable—interrupt his mother in the act of peeling away a house.

Annie would have found this strange scenario amusing if it wasn’t so tragic, so heart-wrenching to see the fear in his eyes.

It was there, clear as the pile of wallpaper lying before her. Hiding in the shadows behind the balcony struts was a symptom of his fear.

She had felt him there, lurking at the top of the stairs, watching, waiting, and almost gave in to him until the voice spoke and she listened.

Two could play that game.

He toed the floor with a foot covered in a too-big sock, shifted the thumb in his mouth then peered up at her. A single tear crept down his face, lingered at his chin then fell away. He stood still, prepared for whatever she had in mind for him.

She tried to stand, but the numbing weakness from squatting for hours held her back, so she opened her arms to him from the floor.

“Come to me, Charlie. Give me a hug. Charlie…”

He hesitated, withdrew into the darkness of the adjoining room then tentatively reappeared. He was checking her sincerity to see if she meant it. And she did mean it.

Didn’t she?

He was just a little boy, one that warranted a watchful eye, perhaps, but still a little boy. She crawled a step, tried to stand again and cried out with pain.

“Please, forgive me,” she said, her words flat and emotionless, but it was enough.

Suddenly he was in her arms crying until there was nothing left but dry sobs followed by a silence broken only with an occasional hiccup. Annie waited patiently for him to stop.

“Would you like a little something to eat? You’ll be happy again, and Mommy can get back to work?”

She felt him nod against her shoulder.

“Good.” Annie squeezed him tight, tighter than she meant to. “Okay, then.”

She stroked his hair harder then caught sight of the door leading up and out.

The widow’s walk.

She smiled.

Two could play that game.

“It’ll be better, Charlie. You’ll see.”