"Carter Swart - Uncle John" - читать интересную книгу автора (Swart Carter)

Trudy's voice was low-key, but I could sense the fear in it when she murmured, "Anyway I'm afraid to leave him. He's gotten so mean and sly. We try to run, he might kill us."

There was another protracted silence, then mom hissed, "The answer is obvious. We take this to the sheriff."

"No. John and the men will just say it was consensual; it's their word against ours. And afterward we'd really catch it."

"But the sheriff might believe us."

"The sheriff? Not likely."

"Why?"

"Remember the perverted fella with the bad teeth and that big shiner?"

"Yeah."

"That's Hawg, the sheriff's deputy."

"But --"

"No buts. Ain't nothing Hawg does that sheriff Tom don't know about. Forget it, it's a dead end."

"Well, what can we do?" Minutes passed and they considered their options as the first heavy drops of rain hit the tin roof like grapeshot.

"I won't let him have Claire," snapped mom, finally. "I'll kill him first."

My aunt's response was phlegmatic, slow to form: "Be like killing a sick animal," she drawled coldly.

"What?"

"Somethin' John's always preachin'."

The silence that followed deepened, and I took that opportunity to skin out and run back to the house. Upstairs I lay on my bed and sobbed, a boy in shocked isolation, his kindly role model destroyed in a nanno-second. Uncle John, a sick animal. This was certainly a new perspective for me to consider. Was it possible?

The next morning, angered by something my aunt said, John reached across the table and smacked her hard in the face, drawing blood from her nose. His overnight "guest," a stupid lout named Smitty, laughed. Shocked, Claire and I rushed upstairs. The thing sickened me and absolutely terrified my sister. She couldn't stop trembling. We huddled together on my cot. Downstairs we could hear John raving about my unappreciative mother and Trudy, his faithless wife, threatening in a thunderous voice to pack his grip, clean out the accounts, move to the city, and leave them destitute.

Trudy rushed by my door sobbing and grumbling, "I'll murder that bastard."

That night a sharp scuffle occurred outside my door. I woke up to hear mom screaming hysterically, "You stay away from her."

"Get out of my way, bitch," My uncle shouted.

Trudy's thin voice piped in, "John Crandle, stop it this instant!" There followed more shouts, grunts, slaps and screams. Then came the sound of a door being kicked in; it shook the house. I hid under the covers. After awhile John went away. But I couldn't sleep the rest of the night.

I was a believer. My uncle was an animal.

In the morning John was gone. Mom and my aunt sat at the breakfast table and dawdled over coffee, talking in monosyllables. I sat on the stairs and listened, finding that mom had wisely hidden Claire that night in the attic under a pile of rags. John hadn't touched her -- at least not physically. Nevertheless she was in a terrified state.

I eased up to the table and sat down. "Morning."