Chapter Nine
posted in Novel |
Finally coming down after the weekend. What weather we had here. The colors were great — the temps were nice and warm — got tons of yard work done — and now it’s back to the weekday routine. Did a slew of FaceBook posts this morning and will make this the last one so I don’t drive folks away.
I was surprised and pleased to hear from so many folks yesterday who are reading Lost and Found online. Everyone had good things to say. Please do feel free to spread the word. I know it may sound like I’m maneuvering for attention, but I truly do want to encourage people to read it. You-all are the reason I’m motivated to get this book finished. I am doing some rewrites on the next few chapters today, but will get another chapter out this week.
Be well — be in peace,
Ron Rink
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The next morning after the police caught me, my father had gone to work as usual. He still hadn’t said a word to me. My mother and I were alone in the kitchen while I was having my breakfast.
I wasn’t hungry but I still nibbled at my cereal. My mother was busying herself with some dishes in the sink. She kept rattling the dishes and with her back to me she said, “Roland, you are not to go away from this house for the next two weeks. Not for any reason. Do you understand?”
“Can’t I go outside at all?” I asked.
“Not away from here,” she answered. “You must stay in the house or in the yard. That means no riding your bike or playing with your friends. You can work in the victory garden, but that’s all the further you can go.”
She still had her back to me and I kept my eyes down and stared at my cereal as I stirred my spoon back and forth.
“You will also start practicing the piano for two full hours each day instead of just one. You need something to keep you busier than you have been,” she said. Her voice was growing stronger as she continued, “Your father said he wants you to go back to the bowling alley after the two weeks is up to see if they’ll take you back.”
I waited to see if she was going to say anything else, but she just continued to wash dishes.
After she had described my punishment, I gathered up my courage, crossed my arms across my chest and asked, “Mom, do you know why I ran away?”
“No, and I don’t want to hear any of your excuses,” she replied with a very nervous, tight tone of voice. She turned to face me and I could see that her face was red and splotchy, which was normal whenever she was in a difficult position like this.
She closed her eyes, put her hands on her hips, and continued, “What you did was wrong, and you must be punished for it. This is your home and you will have to learn how to behave according to our rules.”
I stood up from the table and put my hands on my hips as a way of mimicking her. I could feel my jaw jut out in what was, for me, a rare display of defiance. “But, Mom, it’s Dad that makes me want to run away. When he takes me up into the attic, he’s really hurting me, and you don’t seem to be trying to stop him,” I said.
“That doesn’t matter. He is your father and you will just have to learn to behave like a good Christian boy. When you do bad things, he has to punish you!”
“But, when he takes me up there, I haven’t been bad.”
She turned away from me again and went back to her dishes. This was one of her ways to avoid eye contact when she was arguing. I had watched her do this at times when she and my father were having an argument.
“All children do things wrong. You are committing sins every day. He is actually being kind to you when he doesn’t punish you every day. Now, stop arguing and go to your room until I find some things for you to do.”
I left my unfinished cereal on the table and went to my room.
There wasn’t anything further to be gained by arguing with her. I could see that I wouldn’t be able to find any protection from her as long as she felt the way she did. My mother was not a forceful woman; in fact, she was probably quite typical for the women of those times. It wasn’t in her nature to stand up to her husband or to voice her own opinions about anything. She was raised in a large family that was under the iron rule of her father. There were nine children in her family, four boys and five girls. Her sisters looked just like my mother—short, buxom and sort of square in their body shapes. A good way to sum up their general appearance would be “matronly”.
Neither she nor my father ever said anything further about my running away.
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