Retribution Read Online Free

our place to Winnie’s, Mom was edgy, excited. She kept slipping in her little pointy shoes and Jim had to hold her up. “Why did you have to spill the beans, Mikey?”
    I said, “I don’t want to talk about it in front of him.”
    She fell, and Jim picked her up. “Ouch! Ouch!” she said. Then she looked at me. “I don’t think you’re acting very grateful.”
    When we got to Winnie’s, Mom said, “Ha! We beat him. We got here first.” We were standing on the front porch in a halo of snowy light when Winnie answered the door. She was a skinny woman with curly dark hair and high cheekbones. “Bill’s coming for the Mustang,” Mom said.
    Winnie Howell flipped on the yellow garage light, and the waxy red paint of the Mustang glowed as our nervous shapes glinted and slid across it. It was kind of miraculous how the car was still there, untouched, recoverable. “This is a beautiful car,” Jim said. He was sort of caressing it. Jim had that newscaster look, like the orthodontist—aging, slim, and knowledgeable. He probably kept a decent bank account, too. Mom’s new hairstyle was weird, cut close to her head, feathery and mulchy, so that her face seemed larger, crisp with makeup. She had been spending all sorts of money—for clothes, jewelry, hairstyles—on the strength of what the Mustang would bring in. Every time I glanced at her that night, I was shocked by how odd and different she looked, and I turned away again.
    Mom slid into the driver’s seat and started the car. Winnie said, “I don’t want to be here when he arrives.” She was shivering in the yellow light. At the mouth of the garage, the storm made a sucking sound.
    â€œGet in,” Mom said. “We’ll all go out for a drink or something.”
    Mom craned into the windshield as she drove. “I can’t see anything,” she said. Normally, she wouldn’t have driven in this weather, but she was determined to get the car out of the neighborhood, out of Dad’s reach.
    â€œDrop me off at home, please,” I said. “I don’t want to go for a drink.”
    â€œParty pooper.” Mom’s voice sounded mean. She slowed down and came to a stop in front of our home.
    â€œSarah’s been calling,” I said. “She says someone she owes money to is going to hurt her.”
    â€œShe’s just crying wolf,” Mom said. Then her tone changed. She was trying to be nice, I guess. “Mikey got his braces on today. Show Jim and Winnie your braces, Mikey. Give us a smile.” Jim and Winnie looked at me. Mom’s face was a weird green color from the glow of the dash. I didn’t want to show these strangers my teeth. But I did.
    â€œVery handsome,” Winnie Howell said in this fake voice.
    *   *   *
    On New Year’s Day, three days after I’d had my jaw corrected, Dad showed up on the doorstep. Mom was at work. Sarah had already taken off, and I wore this huge bit in my mouth, with a space in it for a straw. My mouth would be wired shut for more than two weeks. I ate mostly thin milk shakes and soup and drank a lot of fruit juices, even though it hurt to suck on a straw. I couldn’t talk. I carried around a pad and pen and I tried to communicate with these things. The world seemed extremely loud to me, full of noise and words, as if I had become some kind of silent focus where all this sound gathered and blared. It was strange to be home alone and hear the phone ring. Sometimes I answered it and heard the voice on the other end say, “Hello … hello. Is anybody there?” At these times, my mouth felt large and muzzled. “Helloooooo,” the caller would say. I felt pushed away from them in this insulated world of silence and injury. Eventually they or I hung up.
    I told myself that this would make a difference, that this would change something. I would have a