BLANKING III

Photo Credit: BFF




Hide. Hide, hide, hide. The voices lectured. Act like they do. Never tell. Never show yourself. Carole kept her eyes closed, pretending she was still sleeping. They knew she was faking, they always knew. How she hated those voices, maybe more than the black dreams that showed what would happen if she didn’t listen. Thoughts of black dreams about being hurt by tools, like those in Mr. Thatchers’ shed, made her shiver. Breathing dirty water up her nose or being set on fire would be worse than the voices, if those things really happened. She shivered. It happens, you know it happens. Something warm sat on her leg, despite the unfamiliar bulk in the dark Carole knew it was Duke’s head. Sharing her meals with Duke and Earl had won their loyalty, that and the fact that she never pulled their tails or teased. Reaching down she put her hand near the dog, his nose immediately slid beneath it, tossing it onto his head for scratching. Everything had to be Duke’s idea, or he didn’t like it, except food.            Pushing her awareness through the house, Carole’s mind searched, making certain that all were asleep. The Thatcher family was tucked quietly in their beds upstairs. Earl slept on the floor near his master’s bed. Carole couldn’t see them, but she could sense the dog’s quicker breathing and his furry body near the slower breathing and slightly less furry body of Mr. Thatcher. The four foster boys were downstairs in the big bedroom just across the hall from her, a sheet hung where a door belonged. Mr. Thatcher said boys couldn’t be trusted behind closed doors. Considering that every night poor Joyce was forced to sleep on the floor, Carole thought Mr. Thatcher might be right. In her room, the other two foster girls – sisters – were cuddled together on their shared cot. It wasn’t necessary to use the inside of her head to feel for the even breathing of the girls. Their soft breaths were so close Carole knew that Liz, the eldest, had sneaked to bed without brushing her teeth again.
            Duke moved. He always knew when the timing was right. Carole rolled onto her side and reached beneath the bed and pulled out her shoes. Running in her black and white saddle shoes was ruining them, but running in the desert barefoot was impossible. Fortunately plenty of shoe polish hid the scuffs. Despite ten children and a house to tend to, Mrs. Thatcher didn’t miss much. Carole slid silently across the wooden floor and crawled out the open window, hauling Duke’s willing and eager body right behind her for their evening run.
***Copyright 2013 S. R. KarfeltAll rights reserved