DOMINION Bentley Little (accelerated reader books .TXT) 📖

She was in her late fifties or early sixties and was wearing a tight brightly colored dress inappropriate for both her age and the era. Her dyed blond hair was frozen in an unattractive beehive, and even in the dim light he could see the thick texture of her makeup. She winked at him.

He thought uncomfortably of his mother. It was too easy for him to see her as this old woman, alone and desperate, trying pathetically to recapture days that had long since passed her by.

“Young man!” the woman repeated. Her voice was high, hoarse.

Dion turned to go.

“She’s talking to you,” Penelope said. “Go see what she wants.”

“No. She’s talking to someone else.”

“Young man!”

“Go see what she wants. Be nice.”

Dion walked across the carpeted floor of the darkened room to the old woman’s table. She was wearing no bra; he could see her large breasts and the points of her nipples beneath the tight material of her dress.

He was disgusted at himself for noticing.

“Sit down,” the woman said, gesturing toward the chair next to her.

He shook his head. “We have to go.”

This close he could smell the liquor. It hung about her table like strong, cheap perfume, permeating everything, and when she spoke it doubled in intensity. The woman grabbed his arm with bony fingers. He saw liver spots on the wrinkled flesh beneath her bracelet. “See that fish up there?” the woman asked. She pointed to an oversize plastic marlin mounted on the wall behind him. He was aware that people at the tables nearby were looking at him, giggling. His face felt hot.

“See that fish?”

He nodded dumbly.

“The owner of this restaurant caught that fish.”

He looked toward Penelope for help, but she was merely looking at him, her face unreadable.

“He caught that fish on the wall.”

“Yeah,” Dion said.

“The owner caught that fish.”

“Well, I have to go now.” He tried to pull away.

The woman’s grip tightened on his arm. “That same fish right there. The owner caught that fish.”

And suddenly he wanted to smack her, to hit her in the face. The old woman continued to babble drunkenly, inanely, her eyes glued in their fixed position, her mouth opening and closing like that of a ventriloquist’s dummy, and he wanted to punch her hard, to feel his fist connect with the bone beneath her skin, to hear her cry, to hear her scream as he beat her.

The smell of the alcohol was making him dizzy. He pulled away. “That fish is plastic,” he said.

“The owner caught that fish!” The woman sounded as though, she was about to cry. Her breasts shifted beneath her tight dress. “The owner didn’t catch that fish. That fish is plastic. And you’re drunk.” He hurried across the room to Penelope. He heard people at the tables behind him giggling.

“He caught that fish! That same fish there!”

“Come on,” Dion said. He took Penelope’s hand and pulled her toward the front door.

“Have a nice night,” the hostess said as they hurried past her and outside.

The night air was cool and crisp, fresh and clean. The sounds of the restaurant were cut off as the heavy wooden door closed behind them.

“What was that about?” Penelope asked.

Dion shook his head, taking a deep breath. “The old woman was drunk.”

“I know, but I mean why did you overreact like that? I thought you were going to hit her.”

“Did you?”

“It looked like it.”

“It was just… I don’t know, claustrophobia, I guess. I have a slight headache. I had to get out of there.”

She looked concerned. “Are you all right?”

“Yeah, I’m fine.” The cool air was already making him feel better. “I don’t know what came over me. I just couldn’t stay in there.” He shook his head, smiled at her. “Let’s go. It’s a school night, and I need to get you home.”

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

“I’m fine.”

Hand in hand, they walked down the sidewalk to the parking lot, the sound of their heels loud in the quiet. Dion glanced at the news rack as they passed by.

And stopped, holding his breath.

On the front page of the paper was a photo of a man with a mustache.

The man who had spent the night with his mom.

He did not have to read the headline to know that the man had been murdered.

“What is it?” Penelope asked.

He realized that he was squeezing her hand, and he lessened his grip. He licked his lips, which were suddenly dry. “Nothing,” he said. He stared at the picture, thought of meeting the man in the hallway at night, thought of seeing his mother in the kitchen the next morning.

Thought of the blood on her sleeve.

He took a quarter from his pocket, dropped it in the machine, and opened the cover to grab a copy of the paper.

“What is it?” Penelope asked, reading the headline. She looked at him.

“Do you know that man?”

Dion folded the paper, put it under his arm. He shook his head. “No,” he said. “I don’t.”

He led the way across the parking lot to the car.

His mom was gone when he came home, and there was no note left for him on the refrigerator. All of the lights in the house were off, which meant that she’d left while it was still light outside, probably only a little after he had.

He deliberately placed the paper on the front table—folded, photo up—where she would be sure to see it.

He went to bed.

He was half-asleep when she bustled into his room, drunk and crying, sitting down heavily on the side of his bed. He sat up. Through blurry, half-focused eyes he could see that the digital clock said one-something.

His mom hugged him close, and he could feel beneath her blouse the softness of her body. She smelled sweetly of wine, sourly of breath, and he thought of the old woman at the restaurant. One of her hands massaged his bare back, and he tried to pull away, backing against the headboard.

She let him go, stopped crying, and suddenly turned