Page 95 of The Formation of Us
Someone knocked on the door at nine-thirty, and Faith’s heart nearly stopped when she found Doc Milton on her porch.
“Larry Levens is dead.”
“Dear God . . .” Faith pressed trembling fingers to her dry throat. “Is Duke . . . is he all right?”
The doctor nodded. “Anna and Dahlia are at Boyd’s house. You’ll have to ask Duke what happened,” he said, then offered to walk Millie to Boyd’s to be with Anna.
Shaken and shivering, Faith grabbed a lantern and followed them outside. Alone with her worry, she buttoned her sweater against the chill, then sat on the porch swing, listening to dry leaves scuttle across the ground and praying for Duke and Dahlia to hurry home.
When they finally approached the house, Duke’s stride was shorter, his shoulders stiff. He wore a deep scowl and had his thumb hooked in the front of his gun belt, a sign that his shoulder was hurting. Dahlia was limping, and she pressed her hand to her hip as she slowly climbed the steps ahead of Duke.
“Thank goodness you’re all right!” Faith leapt from the porch swing and threw her arms around her aunt. “I was worried sick about you two.”
“I’m not all right.” Dahlia stared across the porch, her face ravaged by grief or pain or both. “I killed a man.”
Faith’s heart stopped, and then she saw the anguish in Duke’s eyes and the strain around his compressed lips. Something awful had happened.
“I had to.” Dahlia clamped her lips together, but couldn’t hold back her tears. “He wouldn’t have stopped,” she cried. “They never stop.”
Faith pulled Dahlia onto the swing and sat beside her. “What happened?”
Breathy sobs shook the woman’s shoulders. “I begged Daddy to let me come home. He said, ‘Obey your husband.’”
Faith frowned, confused by Dahlia’s rambling.
“I tried, God help me I did. But Carl wouldn’t stop.”
As understanding dawned, sickness washed through Faith. Dahlia was telling her own story. She said she’d witnessed a woman being beaten by her husband, and that a minister refused to give her refuge. But that beaten woman was Dahlia, and the minister was her own father.
“Oh, Dahlia. . . .” At a loss for words, Faith rocked her aunt.
“I didn’t want any man to touch me ever again.”
“I don’t blame you.”
“Your mother let me stay in her house anyhow, and it was a whole year b-before I could work upstairs.”
Faith’s heart contracted, and she pulled Dahlia close. “Shhh . . . ,” she whispered, comforting her and warning her not to divulge any more in front of Duke, whose bleak expression had changed to a sickly, suspicious scowl.
Dahlia stiffened and sat up by degrees, as if she knew she’d said too much. “I want go home.” She wiped her palms across her cheeks and looked at Duke. “Unless you’re taking me to jail.”
“What? Why would he?” Faith pressed her hand to her churning stomach. “Are you arresting her, Duke?”
His somber look terrified her.
“You can’t . . . that mankilledpeople.”
“I know, Faith, but . . .” He released a hard, shuddering breath. “Go home and rest, Dahlia.”
The torment in his eyes killed any relief Faith expected to feel. Whatever had happened at Anna’s was torturing him.
Dahlia got to her feet. “I’m sorry about everything,” she said, but Faith didn’t know if she was apologizing for saying too much, or for what she had done at Anna’s.
She walked Dahlia across the street. Tansy was out with Cyrus, but Aster fixed Dahlia a cup of tea, and Iris rubbed balm on her sore back. When Faith returned home, Duke was waiting on the porch. She gave him a hard, thankful hug, needing to touch him to know that he was okay.
“I was so worried about you,” she said. She sensed he wouldn’t talk about what happened at Anna’s, so she simply held him and listened to the peepers.
“Faith, what kind of work did Dahlia do upstairs at your mother’s house?”
