Chapter 7 - Uncle Marcus Arrives
The morning sun hit the frozen windows of Grandma’s house with a pale, watery glare that didn't do much to warm the air inside. I woke up wrapped in wool blankets, the smell of instant coffee drifting from the kitchen.
Mom was already up, wearing an old oversized sweater of my grandmother's over her clothes, talking in low, urgent tones on the landline phone.
“No, Marcus, I’m serious,” she was saying as I walked slowly into the kitchen, holding my cast against my stomach. “He’s already broken a door frame and threatened us. The police have the report. I need you and your truck here by ten o'clock before he gets back from wherever he’s hiding.”
A deep, rumbling voice crackled through the old receiver—a voice I recognized instantly as Uncle Marcus. Even through the static, he sounded furious enough to punch through a brick wall.
“Clara, why the hell didn't you call me last night the second that bastard touched the boy?” Marcus’s voice boomed through the kitchen. “I swear to God, if I’d known—never mind. I’m hooking up the trailer right now. I’ve got two of my guys from the framing crew coming with me. We’ll clear out everything that belongs to you and the kid in twenty minutes flat, and if Richard shows his face, I’ll personally introduce him to my table saw.”
“Just bring the truck, Marcus. No violence,” Mom sighed, though there was a faint ghost of a smile at the corner of her mouth. “Meet us at the subdivision road at ten. We’ll follow you in.”
By ten o'clock sharp, the old green pickup truck with Vance Construction emblazoned on the door rumbled down the icy lane, pulling a large utility trailer behind it. Uncle Marcus was behind the wheel, wearing his signature flannel jacket and a quilted vest, his thick beard peppered with gray. Two younger guys from his crew sat in the cab, both built like lumberjacks.
Mom drove her sedan, with me in the passenger seat, keeping a safe distance behind Marcus’s truck as we made the twenty-minute drive back toward our subdivision. My stomach tightened into a hard knot as we turned down our familiar street, the neat brick houses looking entirely normal under the cold winter sky.
Our house sat at the end of the cul-de-sac. The driveway was empty. Richard’s gray sedan was nowhere in sight.
Marcus pulled his truck right up into our driveway, blocking the garage door, while his two crew members hopped out of the bed with a stack of large cardboard moving boxes they had brought along.
“All right, Clara,” Marcus said, walking over to our car and opening my door with surprising gentleness. He looked down at my fiberglass-cased hand, his jaw clenching so hard a muscle twitched in his cheek. “You and Leo stay in the car. My boys and I will pack up your clothes, your personal papers, your computer, and anything else you point out. If Richard shows up, I’ll handle him.”
Mom nodded, unbuckling her seatbelt and stepping out to walk with them to the front door. Because the door frame had been splintered the night before, Marcus didn't even bother knocking; he just tested the knob, and with a sharp shove from his shoulder, the broken latch gave way completely.
For the next thirty minutes, the house was a whirlwind of motion. Through the living room windows, I watched Uncle Marcus and his crew carry out boxes of clothes, my school books, family photo albums, and Mom’s personal belongings, loading them rapidly into the utility trailer.
Just as they were carrying out the last box, a car engine roared down the cul-de-sac.
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My heart hammered against my ribs. It was Richard’s gray sedan. He slammed on the brakes right at the edge of the driveway, the tires screaming against the asphalt, and threw the car into park before flinging the door open.
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