He shook his head, smiling a sad, trembling smile. He was as crazy as his mother.
Shed never stopped believing in Mad Dog either.
Silently Jake followed Mad Dog to a secluded spot over by the springhouse. There, Mad Dog stopped.
"Okay, kid, well start with the basics. How much did your old man teach you about fighting?"
The question caught Jake off guard. "Huh?"
"Your father, how much did he teach you about fighting?"
"N-Nothing," he stammered. Then he realized he could use the question as a beginning. There was so much about his father Jake didnt know. "Did . . . your dad teach you how to fight?"
Mad Dog stiffened. An uncharacteristic bitterness hardened his eyes. "I suppose you could say that. "
Jake saw something on Mad Dogs face he didnt expect, didnt understand, and it reeled him in. He took a cautious step toward him. "What did he teach you?"
Mad Dog laughed, but it was a hard, humorless sound. "My old man taught me how to take a punch. " He cleared his throat, and blinked, and the moment was over.
Grinning again, he cocked his head to the left. "Okay, stand over there. Feet apart, back straight, arms at your sides. "
Jake tried to do everything Mad Dog asked of him.
"You look a little tense, kid. Trying jumpin around a little, loosen up. "
Jake hopped once, feeling foolish.
Mad Dog grinned. "Ill close my eyes, okay? Jump till you feel relaxed. "
Jake felt a surge of relief when his father closed his eyes. He hopped around, wiggling his arms until the tension hed felt earlier melted away. "Okay," he said at last, "Im relaxed. "
Mad Dog opened his eyes. "Great. Now bring your fists up like this. "
Jake copied his dad, bringing his fists up to his chest.
"Okay, well start with your reflexes. When I punch, you duck. "
Jakes eyes bulged. "Were going to start right out with punching?"
"Its fighting, Jake. Not brain surgery. Hittings all there is. "
"Oh. " He started to feel a little sick to his stomach. "Will . . . it hurt?"
Mad Dog arched one eyebrow. "It will if you dont duck. "
Mariah sneaked up the stairs, wincing every time the floorboards creaked. "Rass,"
she whispered harshly, "are you up here?"
Nothing. No answer.
She came to the top of the stairs and peered into the hallway. It was dark and silent.
Her fathers bedroom door was closed.
She crept around the corner and moved silently down the corridor, past her bedroom, past her fathers office and his bedroom, to her mothers sewing room.
Every step felt weighted and painful. There, at the closed door, she paused.