'Gloria Rarebell'... Part One

A
I wasn’t supposed to hear. Father’s voice though, came through their bedroom wall, clear as if he never left the breakfast table. He wasn’t shouting or anything. My Father just didn’t know walls. Not like my Mother did. He knew how to build them—he built that one. But he didn’t know how to keep his voice on one side, or leave his eyes and his ears on the other. Not like my Mother did.

     “He’ll be more trouble than he’s worth,” my Father said.

     Up till that morning, I thought that all seven year olds were worth about twelve hundred dollars. That’s what it cost to bury Patrick Hammond, after he drowned last summer in the flood. Runts must be cheaper, ‘cause I don’t figure it cost a whole lot to let a kid walk along beside a hay wagon.

     The door opened and Mother came out. “Fine then,” she said. She was looking at me, but I knew she was talking to Father. Father was behind her, gathering his pocket things off the bureau.

     “You can ride along with me, Honey,” Mother said. She was driving to Davenport, to look in on a lady there whose daughter was sick. “We’ll take the Electra,” Mother said, and smiled.

     Father looked up. I’d only ever seen him drive the Electra, and only on Sundays. He didn’t say anything though. I guess I wasn’t worth any more arguing.

     “You behave why your Mother’s drivin’ now,” Father told me, when he came through the kitchen. “I don’t want to hear about any monkey business in that car. You hear me?”

     My runt skeleton must have been made of wood and plaster, too, ‘cause Father’s voice always went right through it. Right down into my belly.

     “Yes sir.”