her knees before it, she lifted her head off the cushion and tried to push herself up.
Barnes was already behind her. “Too good for me, is it?” He swatted the back of her head. “You ‘n’ your scurvy whelp!” He smacked her head again and she cowered against the chair, burying her face in her arms.
Barnes clutched the nape of her neck with one hand. With the other, he tore the back off her blouse.
“No!” Mother gasped. “Rolfe! Please! The boy!”
She tried to raise her head, but he cuffed it again. Then he tugged her underthings down to her waist, baring her back entirely.
I was not so stunned by the several blows that I didn’t flush with shame and outrage.
“Stop it!” I yelled, trying to get up.
Ignoring me, Barnes snatched the heavy belt from around his waist. He doubled the leather strap and swung it. With a crack like a gunshot, it lashed my mother’s back. She let out a startled, hurt yelp. Across the creamy skin of her back was a broad, ruddy stripe.
He got in two more licks.
I had tears in my eyes as I swung the fireplace poker with all my strength. The iron rod caught him just above the ear and sent him stumbling sideways, the belt still raised overhead in readiness to strike another blow against Mother. He shouldered a wall, bounced off it, and dropped like a tree.
I pranced around for a bit, kicking him. Then I realized he was knocked out and in no condition to appreciate my efforts, so I figured to finish him off. I straddled him, got a good grip on the poker, and was all set to stove in his skull when a shout stopped me.
“Trevor! No!”
Mother, suddenly standing before me, threw out an arm to ward off the blow.
“Stand back,” I warned.
“Leave him be! See what you’ve done to him!” With that, she fell to her knees at the scoundrel’s head and hunkered over him.
I gazed at her poor back. The thick welts were blurry through my tears. Here and there, trickles of blood made bright red threads along her skin.
“Thank the Lord, you haven’t killed him.”
“I jolly well shall.”
She looked up at me. She said not a word. Nor was a word needed. I hurled the poker from my hand, then stepped away from the still body and wiped my eyes. I sniffed. The sore, wet feel of my nose got me to look down, and I found the front of my shirt soaked with blood. I dragged out a handkerchief to stop my nose from bleeding, then dropped into a chair. I would’ve liked to tip back my head, but I dared not take my eyes off Barnes.
Mother came to me. She stroked my hair. “He hurt you awfully.”
“He whipped you, Mum.”
“It was the liquor, no doubt. He’s not an evil man.”
“Evil enough, I should say. I do wish you’d let me spill his brains.”
“Such talk.” She ruffled my hair in a manner that seemed rather playful. “It comes of reading, no doubt.”
“It comes of watching him whip you.”
“Novels are wonderful things, darling, but you must remember they’re make-believe. It’s an easy matter to dispatch a villain in a story. He isn’t flesh and blood, you see, he’s paper and ink. Spilling a bloke’s brains can be rather a lark. But that’s not life, m’dear. If you killed Rolfe, it would weigh on your soul like a cold, black hand. It would trouble you all your life, keeping you awake at night and tormenting you every day.”
Well, she spoke in such an earnest, solemn manner that I was suddenly mighty glad she’d stopped me from dispatching Barnes. Though I was sure she’d never killed a person, she knew deep in her heart about the burden of it.
Since that time, I’ve sent many a fellow to Hell. I’ve lost more than a trifle of sleep over it. But the greater burdens on my soul don’t come from those I killed. They come because I didn’t kill some rascals soon enough.
Anyhow, Barnes was still among the breathing. It’d be wrong to polish him off, or so we were both convinced at the time, but I got to worrying about what might befall us if he should wake up.
When her lecture ran down, I got off my chair and said, “We’ve got to do something about him, you know? He’s likely to be at us again.”
“I’m afraid you’re right.”
We both stared at him. So far, he hadn’t stirred. But