Mason did as he was told.
“Charlotte!”
His father’s roar bounced off the walls of their little house. His mother jerked him forward.
“This way.”
She dragged him toward the back door.
“Charlotte!”
Mason heard his father’s footsteps following, pounding through the living room.
“Charlotte!”
His mother ran around the side of the house to the front, her grip pinching his hand. She stopped at the curb. Tilting back her head, mouth agape, she stared skyward, as if willing herself to fly into the night.
For a moment, Mason thought they might rocket upward.
He followed her gaze to heavens, seeing nothing but blackness.
His mother took a step back and lowered her chin to stare at his good shoes dangling from her right hand. With one motion, she jerked her left hand from his, squat, thrust upward, and flung his favorite sneakers skyward.
“No!”
Mason watched his sneakers twirl through the air until the laces caught on the telephone wire. The lower shoe arced in a loop to secure a hold on the lines. The pair remained there, swinging like a pendulum.
He gaped at his mother, his eyes so wide he could feel the skin around them stretching. He’d waited months for those shoes. She’d complained about the cost of them as if he’d asked her for a sports car.
“Why would you—”
“Don’t tell Daddy they’re yours.”
“But why—”
She squat and again grabbed his face, staring deep into his eyes. “Don’t tell your daddy those are your shoes up there. No matter what.”
He looked away. “He’ll know.”
“No, he won’t. He don’t pay attention to your stuff. Don’t tell him.”
She squeezed his cheeks with her thumbs and he jerked from her grip. “I won’t.”
Behind them, Mason heard the familiar sound of the back door screen slamming against its frame.
Daddy’s coming.
His mother straightened and took his hand again. She turned to face their home.
“Where are they?” shouted his father, rounding the corner of the house, striding toward them, his white t-shirt glowing beneath the porch light.
“Hm?” asked his mother. She sounded calm. Almost sweet.
Mason could tell she was trying to smile but her lips trembled, making it hard for her expression to hold its shape.
His father thrust his face inches from his mother’s, screaming, spittle flying.
“Where are they?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
His father grabbed his mother’s arm and glared at Mason when he moved to stop him. Her hand tore from his grip. She whimpered.
Mason stood.
“Go inside,” said his father.
Something hard rose in Mason’s throat. “Don’t hurt her.”
“What you say to me?”
“Don’t hurt—”
The slap came too fast for him to duck. He stumbled sideways, his head ringing. When he opened his eyes, he saw his father’s finger pointing at him, nearly touching his nose. The man spoke through gritted teeth, his breath heavy with alcohol.
“Get in the house and don’t sass me again.”
Mason looked at his mother.
She thrust out her chin, looking defiant. She looked beautiful, moonbeams glistening through the wisps of her hair around her head, creating a sort of golden halo.
His father raised his hand, but before he could slap again, his mother stepped between them.
“Go to your room.”
It took Mason a moment to register her command.
“Me?”
“Yes. Go to your room.”
“But you said—”
“Go to your room!” She screamed so loud Mason stumbled back and bolted for the house. He ran through the kitchen to the living room and stationed himself at the window where he could watch his parents outside.
They screamed at one another. His father shook her. Slapped her. The neighbor’s front porch light sprang to life and his father’s head swiveled in that direction.
“You mind your business!” he roared at someone Mason couldn’t see. He pulled his mother toward the side of the house to hide from the neighbor’s meddling.
Mason ran back to his room to peer through the side window. His father pushed his mother into the passenger side of his truck and shut the door so fast he couldn’t believe he didn’t catch her leg.
From inside the Ford, his mother placed her open palm on the glass. She looked at his window.
He yanked open the shutters and put his own hands on the glass.
“Momma!”
She smiled.
The truck roared to life. Mason heard the gear pop out of park. His father rumbled from the driveway, the red rear lights growing smaller until they disappeared at the end of the block.
The house fell quiet, but for the steady ticking of the scratched grandfather clock in the hall.
Mason padded to the back door and pushed the hanging screen door open. He walked around the house and stared up at his favorite shoes dangling from the telephone lines in the moonlight.
&&&
Mason awoke in his own bed, his eyelids stiff and swollen from crying. Licking his fingers, he pulled them across his long, salt-crusted lashes and glanced at the clock on his bedside table.
Three o’clock in the morning.
A fog of despair enveloped him. He hated three o’clock. Anytime he saw that number on his clock, trouble followed.
He listened for the argument he guessed had woken him.
Nothing.
The memory of his father roaring out of the driveway with his mother returned to him.
Did they come back?
Mason swung his legs over the bed preparing to drop to the ground.
Heavy footsteps thumped in the hall outside his door.
He jerked his knees back and whipped the blanket over him, slamming his head to the pillow so hard it bounced. Turning his face away from the door, he stared at his clock, the glowing red three taunting him.
I hate three o’clock.
A sliver of light cut across his bed to the opposite wall as his door opened.
“Mason?” His father’s voice sounded strange.
Tired? Usually,
