Page 32 of Always to Remember
She strolled to the house, stepped on the porch, and, unnoticed, peered around the open door. Clay was crouching before the hearth. As though they were matching bookends, the twins squatted on each side of him.
“Did Miz Warner’s husband kill people?” one twin asked.
Clay took a deep breath. “Yes, he did.”
“You reckon he liked killin’ people?” the other twin asked.
“He didn’t like it at all.”
“Did he tell you that?” Meg asked from the doorway.
Clay shot straight up, banged his head on the stone mantel, swung around, jerked off the apron he was wearing, and waved the poker at her. “I had a tool in my hand!”
The twins rolled on the floor as though they were little bugs that curled into a ball whenever they were touched. Their guffaws echoed around the house.
“I couldn’t see beyond your back. I didn’t know you had anything in your hand. Besides, I thought you were referring to carving tools. I didn’t realize I needed to make certain you had nothing at all in your hands before I ever spoke to you.”
One twin stopped laughing. “Hey, Clay, you’re bleedin'.”
Blood trickled slowly along Clay’s temple. He touched his fingers to his head and winced. “I’m all right.”
Meg walked into the house. “Let me see.”
He wadded the apron and pressed it against his head. “I’m fine.”
Both twins stared, concern clearly reflected in their young faces. “Let her look, Clay. We don’t want you to die on us.”
“I’m not gonna die.” Scowling, he moved the apron away from his head.
“You’re too tall. You’re going to have to bend down so I can see,” Meg said.
“Maybe you’re just too short.”
“No one’s ever complained about my size.”
“No one’s complained about my height.”
“How many people talk to you?”
He bent his head but not before Meg saw that her teasing had cut him deeper than she’d intended. She’d assumed that he wasn’t bothered by people in the area shunning him. He continued to attend church, but other than that he kept to himself much as he had before the war.
Kirk’s mother had always used silence as her weapon whenever she was angry at anyone. Meg remembered how much it hurt the first time the woman refused to talk to her. She would have preferred yelling to the ominous quiet. She had assumed that the pain ran deeper because it involved family.
Perhaps Daniel was wrong. Clay didn’t need to have their fists pounded into his face to feel their hatred. Their silence pummeled him just as effectively.
Gently, Meg parted his hair until she could see the wound. “That’s some gash. Do you have a needle and thread? I could sew it up.”
He straightened. “It doesn’t need to be sewed.”
“You could use the needle and thread Clay was usin’ to fix the hole in my shirt,” one twin offered.
“It does need stitches,” she insisted.
He tightened his jaw. “Fine.” He walked across the room, dropped into a chair at the table, crossed his arms over his chest, and sat unmoving as though he’d become one of his statues.
The twin rushed to a sewing basket beside a chair and proudly produced the needle and thread.
“Which one are you?” Meg asked.
