@paranormaljunction Asked:
" Mama and Daddy aren't home yet, are they, Grandma ? I got sent home 'cause I got into a fight at school. Don't tell them, please ? I don't want them to get mad at me. " ( Little Luke to Mary, can take place in an alternate human verse where everyone is alive ? )
Mary sniffed. ❝ Shoes off, Luke. You're tracking sand from the field all over my clean floor. ❞ Not a question or a request, but an unyielding command. ❝ Go put your bag by the heater. ❞ The living room was golden with afternoon light, the crocheted things on every surface catching it in lacy shadows. On the coffee table, the jigsaw puzzle lay half-finished, sky pieces spread in a blue mess. ❝ You know what happens to little boys who get into fights, Luke ? ❞ she said. ❝ They get old before their time. ❞
Mary snorted from the kitchen. ❝ At least tell me you didn’t start this fight ? ❞ Kitchen noises: ice cubes in a glass, water running, the thump of the cabinet. She came in with two glasses of ginger ale, handed him one, & sat on the armchair with the orange doily. Her hair was up in its usual cloud, bee pins shining. Her eyes scanned him, sharp as always, & she tilted her head like a blue jay deciding whether to peck or flee.
She looked at his hand. ❝ Let me see. ❞ The skin was split & pink, like earth under a ripped-up weed. Mary clicked her tongue & left the room. Mary reappeared with the little tin from the bathroom, took his hand, & dabbed ointment with a tiny dab of green salve. Mary’s fingers were cold & precise. She dug into the tin again, spreading more goo. ❝ Even if it doesn’t hurt, still gotta keep it clean. ❞ The bandage she wrapped was pink, left over from when she broke her toe last spring. ❝ You punch with your arm all loose, it’s gonna split like that every time. Next time, hit with the base of your palm. Or don’t hit at all. ❞
