Unfortunately, Harley had been in trouble at school most of his senior-high years. He had been suspended three times and almost expelled for fighting. He had been accused of vandalism and stealing, but that couldn't be proven.

Harley was far from being an unintelligent boy, and he was even far from being lazy, especially when he was doing something he liked. He had artistic abilities. He liked to draw, but mostly buildings and bridges. Mrs. Longo, his art teacher, wanted him to pursue a career in architecture. but Harley acted as if that was the same as telling him to pursue becoming a NASA astronaut.

Uncle Roy wanted him to enlist in the army, even though his own experience with it had been a failure. He had been court- martialed for going AWOL right after Mommy had fallen from the horse and become a paraplegic. He was in Germany at the time, and he wanted to come right home to her but he had violated a leave once before and he was on probation. As a result he received a dishonorable discharge after serving some time in a military prison, which was something Harley threw back at him whenever they got into a bad shouting match.

It amazed me how fearless Harley could be whenever he had to face Uncle Roy. Harley was a slim, six-foot tall, dark- complexioned boy with hazel eyes spotted with green. He wasn't as handsome as Chase, but he had a certain look that reminded my girlfriends of Kevin Bacon, especially when he smiled with disdain or mockery, which he often did these days. He made fun of all the boys at Sweet William. even Chase, calling them and my girlfriends "mushy kids." because of their privileged lives, their money, their sports cars and clothes and what he termed their "fluffy thoughts."

He refused to categorize me the same way, however, claiming I was somehow different even though I came from a family with money and attended the same private school.

"Why am I different?" I asked him. "You just are," he insisted.

"Why? I do everything they do. don't I? Few of them have more than I have."

"You just are." he repeated.

"Why?"

"Because I say so," he finally blurted and wal

ked away from me.

He could be the most infuriating boy I knew, and yet... yet there were times when I caught him looking at me with different eyes, softer eyes, almost childlike and loving eyes.

It was all so confusing.

That was why I sometimes thought that Mrs. Geary might be right about my being too young for the jewels of womanhood I was blessed with.

I looked toward Uncle Roy's house, I was disappointed. I had hoped Harley would be almost as excited about my party as I was and would be out here by now.

"Maybe I'll go see if he's at breakfast." I said.

"Don't waste your time." Uncle Roy advised. "Hey!" he screamed at one of the workmen. "You're putting that in wrong. It's a tongue and groove."

He walked away and I started for his house. Uncle Roy had built a modest sized two-story home with a light gray siding and Wedgwood blue shutters. It had a good sized front porch because he said he had always wanted a house that had a porch on which he could put a rocking chair and watch the world go by. He got his wish, but there wasn't much world to watch go by here except for the birds, rabbits, deer and occasional fox. With any main highway a good distance away, there were no sounds of traffic either. A car horn was as distant as the honk of a goose going north in summer.

Uncle Roy claimed he had always hated city life anyway, and when he had lived in Washington. D. C., he had gotten so he could walk in the streets and shut out everything. He did look like a man who could pull down shades and curtains and turn his eyes inward to watch his own visions and dreams stream by.

Above their front door. Aunt Glenda had hung a bronze crucifix. Once a week, she brought out a stepladder and polished it. The front door was open, but the screen door was closed. I knocked softly on it and then called to her. I could hear her recording of gospel songs which was something she played while she worked in the kitchen or cleaned. She obviously didn't hear me. so I opened the door and stepped into the house.

There was always some redolent aroma of something she was cooking or baking. Today. I smelled the bacon she had made for breakfast. I called to her again and then looked into the small living room. She had turned it into a shrine to Latisha. There were pictures of her everywhere, on the mantel above the fireplace as well as on the tables and on the walls. Spaced between them were different religious items, pictures of saints, cathedrals, and icons of Christ. Usually, there were candles lit, although there were none lit this morning. The room itself had a dark decor, furniture made from cherry wood, oak and walnut with a wood floor and area rugs. Mommy and Daddy had bought them a beautiful grandfather clock as a house gift, but no one bothered to wind it and have it run.

"Every day now is the same as the one before it." I once heard Uncle Roy tell Daddy when Daddy had asked about the clock.

"Especially for Glenda. Why bother with time?"

There was no one in the dining room so I went down the hallway to the kitchen. The music was playing on a small CD player. but Aunt Glenda was nowhere in sight, However. I saw through the pantry and back door that she was out hanging wash on a clothesline. She liked it better than a dryer because she said the clothing smelled sweeter from the scents of flowers in the air. As usual, she was wearing a faded housecoat and slippers. Her dark brown hair streaked with prematurely gray strands was down to her shoulders. and I could see from the way her mouth moved that she was either talking to herself or saying some prayer to her dead daughter.

I retreated to the stairway and listened for some sounds from above to indicate Harley was up. All I heard was the faint drip, drip of a bathroom faucet.

"Harley," I called. "Are you awake?"

"No," he immediately shouted back. It made me smile.

"Talking in your sleep again?"

"Yes," he said. "Don't wake me up."

"It's late. Harley."

Tags: V.C. Andrews Hudson
Source: readsnovelonline.net