BlackWind (8 page)

Sean nodded. “Go to bed, Ma. I'll be all right.”

She looked at Sean's bruised face, the dark circles that had formed under his eyes. “Is it broken?” she asked, her eyes tearing as she took in his swollen nose.

He shrugged. “Probably. Don't worry about it. There ain't much that can be done.”

Tears slid slowly down her face. “I am sorry, lad.”

"Dorrie! Where are you, woman?"

The bellow startled her. She jumped, stepping back to shut Sean's door before her husband realized what she was doing. As the latch engaged against the strike plate, Sean stretched out on his bed. He knew before Tymothy Cullen passed out, he would subject his wife to another round of degrading sexual demands.

Turning to his side, Sean pulled the pillow over his head to blot out the sounds of rutting that would soon echo through the small house.

The next morning at school, Bronnie was not close enough to speak to Sean when they passed in the hallway, but she was close enough to see the livid bruises across his nose and under his eyes. Her mouth fell open, her eyes filled with tears, and her hands clenched into fists. She would have gone to him, but the slight shake of his head warned her away. She lost sight of him when he went into his chemistry class.

“Looks like old man Cullen did a number on lover boy,” David remarked from her side.

She trembled. “That bastard!”

“I'll be damned if I'd let my father beat the hell outta me like that,” Bobby Thompson, Dave's friend and Bronnie's cousin, scoffed.

“And just what would you do to stop him, Bobby?” Bronnie demanded. “Uncle Mike's twice your size and three times your age! How would you stop
him
?”

“I'd handle it.” Bobby jerked his chin toward the chemistry lab. “Cullen could, also, if he was of a mind to!”

Bronnie stepped close to cousin and glared at him. “Is that so? And after he beats the crap outta his father, where does he go after that? Who will take him in to live with them?”

He shrugged disdainfully. “I dunno.”

“You sure don't! And what do you think would happen to his mother if he went after his father? Who would protect her after he left? Where would
she
go?”

“He's afraid of what could happen to his mother?” Dave asked.

“No, he knows what
would
happen to her,” Bronnie insisted. “That's why he takes the beatings and doesn't fight back. But one day, that will all end!”

The bell rang, cutting off Dave's rebuttal. He looked worriedly at Bronnie. “Cool it, McGregor,” he whispered, but she was already striding away.

“Uncle Dermot is mad enough as it is about this whole situation,” Bobby commented as the two young men walked to their first class. “He wouldn't like Bronnie defending Cullen like that.”

Dave sighed. “I don't like it, either.”

“Then what are we going to do about it?”

“I don't know that there's anything we
can
do.”

Bobby looked into the chemistry lab as they passed. His eyes were hard and his mouth tight. “Oh, I don't know about that...”

Sean frowned when he saw Bronnie walking purposefully toward him. He lifted his bike out of the rack and angled it away from her. Determined to leave before she could reach him, he threw his leg over the seat and pedaled only a few feet before her angry shout brought him to a stop.

“I'll follow your ass to work, Cullen! We
are
gonna talk!”

Cursing beneath his breath, he slid his feet from the pedals and stood bracing the bicycle between his legs, waiting for her to join him. He turned an annoyed face to her. “Why don't you tell the whole school, Bronwyn?” he snapped, his nasal tone making his voice sound mean.

She ignored his waspish remark and reached out to touch his injured face. When he jerked his head away, she lowered her hand. “Why are you mad at me?” she asked, embarrassment clouding her face.

He sighed heavily. “I'm not mad at you, but you know we can't be seen talking together! You know what your father said.”

“I don't give a rat's ass what Daddy said!”

“Well, you won't be the one going to jail, will ya?” he returned with more heat than he intended. At the look of hurt on her face, he cupped her chin in his hand. “This isn't good, Sweeting.”

She smiled at the endearment. “I had to talk to you. I had to see how you were.” She scanned his battered face. “You look awful.”

“Hey, don't mince words, now,” he teased, letting go of her. “Tell me exactly how you feel.”

She rolled her eyes. “Will you be serious?” She extended her hand to his face once more. When he didn't pull away, she lightly touched his swollen nose. “That looks like it hurts.”

Sean looked past her and saw Bobby Thompson watching them from the corner of the gym. He met Thompson's narrowed gaze for a moment, then looked at Bronnie. “It looks worse than it is. I gotta go. I'll be late for work.”

“You're sure you're all right?” she asked, biting her lip.

“Yeah.” He glanced at Thompson again, then lowered his voice. “Don't do this again, okay? We're being watched.”

Bronnie turned and snorted. “I can handle Bobby.”

Sean didn't reply. He could feel Thompson's open hostility like a slimy wet coat plastered to his back. He absently shrugged, the feeling wearing on his nerves. “Gotta go.”

“I like that shirt,” she said, as if stalling for time, trying to keep him there. “Is it new?”

He looked down at the pale yellow shirt. “Yeah, I bought it myself.”

“It looks good on you.”

“Coach Hie said only queers wear pastel shirts.”

“Most of your shirts are pastels, aren't they?”

“I like light colors,” he defended, glancing around.

“Doesn't make you queer, though. So why do you wear blue and yellow shirts?

He stared at her. “Because dark colors depress me. Where is this going, Bronwyn?”

“Grownups say a lot of things that make no sense. Just ‘cause they're grownups doesn't mean they're always right.”

“Oh, I see,” he said with a grimace. “We're back to not paying any attention to what your father said.”

“Remember what I said, Sean. Try to come up with a way we can see one another without prying eyes being there to spy.”

He nodded. “That's all I ever do.”

“Don't forget you promised to take me to the prom.”

“Ah, Bronnie, no. That wouldn't be...”

“You promised!” she said, her eyes flashing. “And I'm holding you to that promise!”

“We'll see.” He glanced one last time at Bobby Thompson. “I gotta go, Bronnie.”

Before she could say anything else, Bronnie watched the man she loved pedal away. He didn't turn to wave or acknowledge her presence in any way. With her heart aching, she headed for the gym.

Bobby was leaning against the brick wall, his arms crossed over his wide chest. At his cousin's approach, he cocked his head to one side. “Living dangerously, eh, Bronwyn?”

“You tell Daddy you saw me talking to Sean and I'll tell Uncle Mike about the girl over in Colquitt.”

His face paled. “You won't if you know what's good for you.”

She smiled nastily. “Stay out of my business and I'll stay out of yours.” She waited for him to say something else, and when he didn't, she headed for her car.

Bobby pushed away from the building. His head throbbed with anger, but it wasn't directed at the little cousin for whom he had a vast amount of affection. His rage was aimed at Sean Cullen. To Bobby's way of thinking, few men would ever be worthy of Bronnie's hand and Cullen was on the lowest rung of the ladder.

With a brutal look of vengeance, Bobby hunched his shoulders and headed across the parking lot to football practice. But before taking his anger out on the tackling dummies, he had a few words to discuss with a couple of his teammates.

It was dusk before Sean finished vacuuming the last car on Griffin's lot. He was sweaty and tired and his nose ached miserably. Zeke had left for the day and Andy was making sure the cars were locked. When Andy came out back to lock the storage shed, he found Sean inside, putting away the shop vac.

“You need a ride home, son?” Andy inquired. “You can stick your bike in my trunk.”

“No, thank you, sir,” Sean replied as he left the shed.

Andy followed Sean outside and turned to padlock the shed. “I live only a couple of blocks from your house. It ain't no bother.”

“I appreciate the offer, but I kinda like the solitude.”

Andy looked at him. “Seems to me you have more solitude than you need, son.” He smiled sadly. “Or that's good for you.”

Sean ducked his head. He dug his hands into the pockets of his jeans and shrugged.

“Well, any time you wanna talk or such, you just let me know,” Andy said gruffly. “Okay?”

Sean nodded. “Yes, sir.”

Andy patted him on the back. “See you tomorrow.”

“Yes, sir.”

As Andy backed out of the car lot, the sweep of his headlights played over the tree where Sean had padlocked his bike, then left it in darkness. Sean wished there were security lights illuminating that section of the lot. As it was, he had to strain to see the barrel lock. Just as the last pin disengaged, he heard a rattling in the bushes that bordered Griffin's property and the empty lot behind it.

Straightening up from his crouched position, Sean looked into the shadows. He stood still, listening, but there was no further sound. Still, the hair on the back of his neck stirred, and there was a tight sensation in the pit of his stomach, the taste of lead filling his mouth.

All his life Sean had felt and heard things he could not explain. Able to “read” other people's minds had at first frightened, then confused, then later irritated him. Most of the time he pushed aside the thoughts and ignored them. With Bronwyn, he often gave in to listening to her inner thoughts, but always hated himself for doing it. On rare occasions, the ability had served Sean well when his father had made up his mind to take his frustrations out on him. At times like that, Sean was quick to put distance between himself and Tymothy Cullen. Rarer still were the times when Sean sensed danger heading his way from an unknown source.

Just as he sensed it now.

Never taking his eyes off the bushes at the edge of Griffin's property, Sean backed his bike away from the tree. He never saw the person behind him, but he heard the swoosh of air a second before something hard connected painfully with his spine. He fell sideways, over his bike, gasping with agony as the right pedal jabbed into his groin.

Bobby Thompson watched from the protection of a huge live oak as his buddies went to work on Sean Cullen. He grinned as they jerked Sean up from the ground and hustled him behind the storage shed so no passers-by would see what was happening.

“Don't hit him in the face!” Bobby hissed.

Two burly linebackers held Cullen's arms while two other members of Bobby's team took turns using the helpless prisoner as a punching bag. The sound of fists landing brutal blows, then sneaker-clad feet slamming into unprotected flesh as Cullen dropped heavily to the ground, could not be heard over the homeward-bound traffic that passed out front on Broad Street. Cullen's grunts were drowned out by the soft, vehement curses of his assailants as he lay curled on the ground in a vain attempt to protect himself from the savage beating.

With one last vicious kick, his attackers ran, leaving him in the dirt behind the storage shed. Bobby joined his teammates as they ran past, laughing with them at the carnage they had left behind.

Sean moaned as he tried to push up from the ground. Though they had landed no blows to his face, he hurt in a dozen places and was sure a rib or two was cracked, if not broken. He wretched, his body shuddering with the effort, as pain flowed through him. His groin was on fire; his kidneys throbbed with terrible agony; his back hurt so badly he could barely move. He tried once more to get up, but the pain proved too much to bear.

He pitched over into the darkness that reached up to embrace him.

Bronwyn pushed open the door to the church, then walked to one of the middle pews, genuflected, and took a seat. She sat for a moment, staring at the huge crucifix behind the altar, then lowered the kneeler. Slipping to her knees, she made the sign of the cross and clasped her hands together. With elbows braced on the bench in front of her, she lowered her head to her hands.

“Hail Mary, full of Grace...”

From his place beside the statue of Joseph, Father Felix Connelly watched the young woman. Her family had been among the first to welcome him as the new priest of St. Teresa's a few months earlier. The kindly priest had sensed the girl's turmoil and had been trying for a week to have a private talk with her. A meeting of the C.Y.O. board of officers that evening had given Fr. Felix the opportunity; but Bronwyn had left the meeting as soon as it was over. He had not expected to find her in the church when he came from the rectory to lock up for the night.

Bronwyn looked up as she felt a presence beside her. She smiled. “Hi, Father.”

“May I sit with you, dear?”

“Yes, sir.” Bronwyn slid over on the pew.

Fr. Felix took a seat beside her. “Is everything all right at home?”

“More or less.”

“Typical home with a teenager in it, eh?”

She grinned. “Yes, sir.”

He sat in silence for a moment. “How do you like your junior year in high school?”

Bronwyn shrugged. “It's okay,” she said, looking down at her hands clutched in her lap.

“Grades good?”

“Straight A's.”

“I heard you're president of the junior class. I'm sure you have a lot of friends who voted for you.”

“I do.”

“Your teachers like you, I'll bet.”

“I hope so.”

“Not having a problem with one of them, are you?”

Bronwyn shifted in the seat so she could look at his gentle face. “I'm having boy trouble, Father.”

Fr. Felix sighed. “Nothing serious, I hope.” His pale blue eyes searched hers.