“You call me sir.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You are a slave and you can be replaced and don’t you forget it.”
Sitting down, Justin mumbled, “Yes, sir,” to his plate.
“As a matter of fact you’re too big and it’s high time I oughta ditch you and get what I wanted in the first place.” Stoat’s fingers gave a pop like gunfire, he snapped them so hard. “Look at me!”
The boy obeyed with hatred well disguised but still just barely visible, at least to me.
“Are you my personal favorite asshole?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Louder!”
“Yes, sir!”
Stoat transferred his glare to me. “What’s this all about? You been making trouble?”
The pervert was no fool, damn him, but years of marriage and part-time jobs had made me a good liar when necessary. Motioning that my mouth was full but maintaining earnest eye contact, I shook my head.
His stare moderated from sharp to sour. “Damned if I know why I’m spending my hard-earned money feeding you.”
Swallowing my mouthful of food, I said pleasantly if unwisely, “Because you are such a nice person.”
I thought there was no trace of sarcasm in my voice, but Stoat stood up, glowering. “You got a mouth on you, bitch.”
By which he meant a brain in my head, I suppose. “Just joking,” I said meekly, and, like Justin, unsuccessfully.
“Shut up. That gag was out of your mouth when I come home. Who took it out?”
I said nothing.
He stepped toward me, fists menacing. “Who took it out?”
“You told me to shut up.”
He struck so fast I didn’t even see it coming. Next thing I knew, I hit the kitchen floor, sprawling and unable to move because things were spinning around and fireworks seemed to be going off inside my eyes. I took mental notes, because I’d never been clouted on the side of the head before. Or on any part of my body, for that matter.
Fist raised to strike again, Stoat yelled, “Who took the gag out of your mouth!”
“Nobody,” I mumbled reflexively, like a child.
Stupid answer, when you think about it.
Certainly Stoat didn’t care much for it. He punched my face again. “Who!” he shouted inches from my ear.
“I did, myself,” I told him. “I pushed it out with my tongue. I have a very strong tongue. See?” I stuck it out at him.
Luckily I got it back inside my mouth and out of danger just before his fist struck so hard I felt my teeth loosen and my lip split. Stoat howled, “Damn it, don’t bleed on my clean floor!”
Oddly, none of the above particularly hurt. Yet. Bemused, I explored my bloody face with my fingertips.
He kicked me in the gut. “Up! Get up!”
This made no sense. The man wore scruffy cowboy boots with metal doodads on their pointy toes. He kicked me, and then he kicked me again, in the ribs, and he expected me to get up?
I lay limp instead. Now, in a sort of delayed reaction, parts of me were starting to hurt badly enough so that playing possum wasn’t hard, except I had to keep from moaning.
Swearing fluently, Stoat shoved a paper towel into my mouth, then ordered Justin to help him carry me back to the bed. The poor kid had seen the whole thing, of course, and as he lifted my shoulders, I felt him shaking. He slipped his elbows under my shoulders to lift me, and I felt his chest heaving as if he was trying not to cry. He had that kind of heart. I think it hurt him more to watch somebody else get clobbered than if he had taken the beating himself.
They dumped me on the bare mattress, shackled me—Stoat snarling orders, Justin mutely doing as he said—and left me there in the dark. After I heard the door close, I opened my eyes, spit out the paper towel, and tried to comfort my lips with my tongue. No gag. Ironically, Stoat had forgotten all about it. Even more ironically, now that I had more reason than ever to cry, I did not feel like weeping. Oddly, I felt triumphant.
SIX
Justin came for a stealth visit in the middle of the night, as I had expected he might. He brought plastic bags of ice, laid one on my swollen lips, and held the other against my cheek, whispering, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
What for? He hadn’t done anything wrong. I shook my head emphatically, the ice bag slipped off my mouth, and I mumbled, “Did he beat you too?”
“No.”
“Good.”
“Why didn’t you tell him I forgot about the gag, it was my fault?”
“Justin, none of this is your fault.”
He put the ice back on my mouth, so I didn’t say any more. But I wished I could get it through his head that he was the victim in this scenario, not the scapegoat. I wished I could sit up and demonstrate. I wished I could bash a bedpost into pieces, then ask him whether it was the bedpost’s fault that it was broken, whether the bedpost had made me hurt it.