The Orphan Train Saga book five!
The journey continues with Loyal, book five in The Orphan Train Saga.
Percival’s journey is one wrought with emotion when, after his mother dies unexpectedly, he finds his sheltered upbringing has left him lacking survival skills.
Lucky for Percival, there are plenty of people to help educate him about the ways of the world. After Percival is sent to Detroit via the orphan train, he is taken in by Louis Gianetti – a kindly Italian restaurant owner who wishes only to make his new son proud.
A difficult task when previous mistakes put them both in danger from men who wish to strip them of everything they have.
Loyal will reunite the reader with past favorites such as Paddy, Mouse and the gang, and new characters, such as Big Joe, the boxer who helps teach Percival AKA Slim to use his legs to his advantage, and Mr. Thornton, who encourages him to use his brain to fight his battles.
Will Percival be able to use his education to see his mother’s dream fulfilled, or will he succumb to the dark lifestyle that surrounds him?
Percival’s journey is one wrought with emotion when, after his mother dies unexpectedly, he finds his sheltered upbringing has left him lacking survival skills.
Lucky for Percival, there are plenty of people to help educate him about the ways of the world. After Percival is sent to Detroit via the orphan train, he is taken in by Louis Gianetti – a kindly Italian restaurant owner who wishes only to make his new son proud.
A difficult task when previous mistakes put them both in danger from men who wish to strip them of everything they have.
Loyal will reunite the reader with past favorites such as Paddy, Mouse and the gang, and new characters, such as Big Joe, the boxer who helps teach Percival AKA Slim to use his legs to his advantage, and Mr. Thornton, who encourages him to use his brain to fight his battles.
Will Percival be able to use his education to see his mother’s dream fulfilled, or will he succumb to the dark lifestyle that surrounds him?
Chapter One
Cindy woke to the sounds of birds chirping merrily outside her bedroom window and lay there gathering her thoughts. Two months had passed since Frank’s funeral, and she hadn’t been able to shake the funk of knowing she’d never see him again. It didn’t make sense, as she’d known his time to be near, but here she was still trying to find her new normal. You’re not going to find it here. She pulled herself from the bed, tugging on yesterday’s clothes.
“Good morning, Sunshine,” Linda said when she slogged into the kitchen.
“What’s so good about it?” Cindy groaned.
Linda looked at the clock. “Well, for starters, you’re out of bed before noon. Would you like breakfast or lunch?”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Lunch it is,” Linda said, turning to the stove. “I thought we’d start back into the journals today.”
“I’m not sure I’m ready,” Cindy said with a sigh.
“You’ll never be ready with that attitude. I’m going to start reading. You can join me or not, but I want to read what Slim has to say.”
“Is this some kind of tough love?” Cindy said, dipping a spoon into the bowl of vegetable beef soup Linda sat in front of her.
“You know as well as I do that Frank would tell you to knock off the moping and move on with your life.”
She was right, but it still didn’t make his being gone any easier.
“They’ll make you feel better,” Linda told her.
“How can you be so sure?”
“Because they helped me after your father passed.”
Oops, how could I have forgotten that? “I’m sorry, Mom.”
“Nothing to be sorry about. I seem to remember a time when you had to nudge me to get on with my life. God knows I needed it. I think focusing on someone else’s troubles made me forget about my own.”
Her mother had a point. Besides, she didn’t like the thought of Linda reading the journals without her. It was something they shared, and she was happy her mother had been patient enough to wait for her. “Okay, Mom. I’ll give it a try.”
They finished their soup and went to the living room, which they’d officially named their reading room, as it had both read and waiting-to-be-read journals stacked about the room. Linda went to the end table, selected two piles, and handed her one. The second she felt the weight of them in her hands, she knew her mother to be right. Tucking her feet under her bottom, she began to read.
I’m writing these journals at the request of my good friend Paddy, who, for reasons unknown, thinks someday someone will be interested enough in the children who rode the trains that they’ll wish to know how we came to ride them and further wish to know what became of us. I did not have it as bad as some of the others as I had people in my life who were eager to see me succeed. Why they chose me, I do not know. A wise man—small in stature but abundant in knowledge—once told me that my mother, who’d been overly protective during her life, had somehow found a way to watch over me after she died. I found comfort in those words, which sounded as logical as any reason I could ever come up with on my own, so I like to think it to be true. Anyway, since I don’t have any words of wisdom of my own, I will tell my story as it happened in my own words.
***
August 1916
Percival circled his arms around his legs, grasping his ankles to keep his legs from moving and giving away his presence to the visitor in the outer room. From the sound of things, he wouldn’t have to stay hidden much longer. He ached to release his legs and use his hands to cover his ears to muffle the sounds coming from his mother’s bedroom, but the last time he’d interrupted, it hadn’t ended so well. His breathing increased as he remembered that evening.
His mother was entertaining a visitor, her laughter turning to screams as the man with her slurred phrases that made Percival’s cheeks burn. He put his hands to his ears, but it did nothing to drown the sounds coming from outside his boxed enclosure. He knew he wasn’t supposed to open the door, but when she cried out once again, he gathered his courage, pushed open the closet door, and rushed to his mother’s side, his small hands balled into fists as he demanded the man leave her alone.
An image of the half-naked man came to mind, and Percival closed his eyes. A mistake, as the image gave way to the chaos that had ensued. His mother screaming for the man to leave him alone. The pain as the bottle hit him alongside the head, followed by the brilliant flash of light just before everything grew silent. He’d spent over a week in the hospital. That his mother never left his side the entire time he was there nearly made the pain worth it. She’d sobbed as she ran her slender hands alongside his bandaged head, uttering apologies for not keeping him safe. Further promising that things would change. They had for a while, but there were bills to pay, and since his mother wasn’t married and he too young to work at the time, things soon returned to normal. Normal for them anyway. Then one day, the landlord knocked on the door. Reeking of alcohol, the man practically drooled as he swayed in the doorway demanding the rent. His mother handed the man some bills, but the landlord shook his head, telling her it wasn’t enough. His mother had insisted it was the same amount she always paid, but he smiled a wicked smile and told her he’d found someone who could pay more. He’d then sneered at Percival and said the person he was speaking of didn’t have a snot-nosed kid.
Percival had taken exception to that, as his nose wasn’t snotty. His mother had silenced him before turning to the landlord, asking what she was supposed to do. His smile turned menacing as he looked Percival’s mother up and down, then whispered something only she could hear. His words must not have been very pleasant, as Percival saw her trembling as he spoke.
After a moment’s hesitation, she’d pulled herself taller, then turned to Percival and told him she had to go out for a little while. He’d begged her not to go with the man, but she’d told him to mind his place. When she’d returned, he could tell she’d been crying. Later that day, the landlord had knocked again. This time, she’d refused to open the door. After he went away, she announced they would be moving as soon as she could find a place for them to stay.
It hadn’t taken long. Within a week, they’d moved to a small one-room apartment not far from the club where his mother worked as a dancer. The room held a bed, a small round table with two chairs, and the closet, which his mother had brightly declared Percival’s new bedroom. At first, he’d thought her to be jesting, but she’d lined the enclosure with blankets and given him a pillow for his head. Since that day, he’d spent a lot of time in the closet, mostly hiding while his mother entertained visitors.
The noise on the other side of the door subsided, and Percival began to relax. He listened for the click of the outer door before releasing his ankles. Shoving off the floor, he silently pushed open the door to the closet. His mother stood on the far side of the room with her back to him.
“Momma.” The word came out in a whisper.
She gathered her robe together, pulling the tie into her waist as she turned, greeting him with a smile. “Percival, come give Momma a hug.”
He walked to where she stood and sank into her arms, wrinkling his nose against the smell of musty cigars and unwashed bodies.
She released her hold then used her robe to wipe the sweat from his face. A frown fleeted across her face as she lifted a towel from the hook beside the door. “Your supper is on the table. I’m going to the washroom. When I come back, you can tell me about your day.”
Percival felt the heat creep across his face as he stood staring after her. Had she guessed his secret? Did his mother know he’d waited long enough for her to leave before sneaking upstairs and sitting in the shade of the adjacent building? While still hot on the tar rooftop, it was decidedly better than the stifling confines of the small room.
He walked to the small table and opened the cloth to reveal a hunk of bread. Beside the bread sat a small green bowl filled with pasta and sauce. He dipped a finger into the sauce, grabbed a plump tomato, and plopped it into his mouth. It was cold, and not nearly as tasty as the food his momma once cooked, but it was food, and for that, he was grateful. There had been many days when there was nothing but a few crumbs. That had changed after he and his mother had moved. A feat, as the small room they now called home didn’t actually have a kitchen. Shortly after moving in, his mother started entertaining visitors when she wasn’t working at the club. Though he wasn’t pleased his mother had so many guests, he was happy when they started bringing her food. She’d told him that was why she was so nice to them. He never let on that he knew the men also left her money on the bedside table.
Tearing off a chunk of bread, he dipped it into the sauce then shoved it in his mouth, enjoying the tang. Watching the door as he chewed, he waited for his mother to return.
He was nearly finished when she came floating into the room in long, confident strides. His mother was a dancer, and it showed. She even taught him to dance, something he’d been much better at before the blow to the head. Now his legs seemed to have a mind of their own, dancing even when he didn’t want them to. If he wasn’t holding on to his legs, they were hopping around like someone had spilled hot coals down his pants. The movements didn’t hurt so much, but they were bothersome all the same. It was as if his legs were now wired into his head, matching his mood. If he was upset, they’d move all the more.
“Not much of a breeze today. I’m sorry you had to stay inside all day,” his mother said, then moved to the window and grabbed hold of the curtains, twisting them into a knot to allow more air. “Someday, we will have an apartment with more than one window where the wind can flow through to create a nice breeze. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
Percival was glad his mother hadn’t looked at him as she spoke. If she had, he felt sure she would have seen the guilt on his face. “Yes, Momma.”
She lowered to the floor and sat with her arms resting on the windowsill, her face staring out as if drinking in the fresh air. She sighed, her shoulders dropping as she exhaled.
“You’re thinking of Papa.” He knew it to be true, as she always grew sad when she thought of him.
She turned, and he could see the moisture in her eyes. “There isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t think of Armano.”
Percival walked to where his mother sat and kneeled beside her. Sitting like this, with his legs anchored underneath, helped to keep them still. “I wish I could remember him.”
Her brows knitted together, then she smiled, lifting his chin with the tips of her fingers. “You only need to look in the mirror to see your papa’s face.”
“You’ve said that before. But I wish I remembered what he was like.”
She picked up the paper fan used to cool them on days such as this and moved it back and forth to create a breeze. “Your papa was a good man. He loved you so very much. He would put you on his shoulders and parade you through the streets. He’d point to all the buildings that he helped build, telling you that someday you’d be big enough to help him. He’d toss you into the air, and you would giggle when he caught you.”
“And you were afraid he’d drop me and tell him to stop.” He knew, as she’d told him so many times before.
“I did, but I needn’t have feared. Your papa, he was a strong man with solid arms.” She drew her arms into her body and closed her eyes, the sweat glistening on her face.
“But he wasn’t strong enough.”
Her eyelids sprang open. Instantly, Percival regretted his words. He was just about to ask her to tell him the story when she waved the paper fan and began speaking of her own accord.
“It was July of 1911, and you’d nearly reached your fourth year. The heat had been growing for days and didn’t let up at night. The air…it was so thick and foul. Day or night, it didn’t matter. It was so hard to breathe.” Her hand went to her throat as if remembering. She swallowed, then looked out the window and sucked in another breath of air. “Horses pulling carts would fall to the ground dead, leaving their owner to walk the rest of the way home. The horse would lie where it fell, festering for days because it was much too hot to move them. Oh, the smell…I don’t think I’ll ever forget it.”
Percival watched her face grow pale, her nostrils flaring as she spoke.
“Mothers would put their babies to bed, only to have them never to wake. Word of the deaths spread, and mothers took to taking their babies out into the night air instead of laying them in their cribs. You were older, but I was so afraid of losing you. I took you outside each night, walking the streets with the others. When we were too weary to walk, we would go inside, make our way through the stifling stairway to the rooftop, and fall asleep under the stars. It was so hot, the factories shut down. The steel was too hot to touch and your papa couldn’t go to work. Nobody could.
“On the tenth day of the heat, your papa kissed us both then told me he was going to the rooftop to get some air. It was the last time I saw your papa alive. Two days later, a great storm arrived, its booms heard throughout the city as buckets of rain did its best to wash the stench from the streets. With the thunder came cooler temperatures…if only your papa could have waited a couple more days.”
She’d told him the story so many times that she could tell it without tears. The pain etched on her face let him know how deeply she felt the loss, though it didn’t stop him from requesting her to retell the events. He enjoyed his alone time with his mother, loved hearing her tell him stories about his papa. Even the ones that ended with his papa going up to the rooftop and never coming down. Sometimes he would imagine his father sitting all alone with the sky overhead, just waiting for Percival to come to see him. He’d often snuck up the stairs to look for the man, but he was never there.
The only memories he had of his papa were those given to him by his mother. He liked that his mother never spoke ill of his papa. With the exception of the story she’d just told, she would smile and regale him with tales of how happy they were when his papa was alive. It was just the three of them then. There were no visitors sharing her bed, no landlords pushing them from the apartment where they had once lived with his papa, and most importantly, no closets used as bedrooms. Percival longed to remember when they were a family. Now it was just he, his mother, and countless strangers drifting in and out. He didn’t mind the strangers so much. Most of them never stayed long enough to pay him any mind. What he minded was having to hide in the closet turned bedroom listening to things a child should not hear.
“It’s hot. Do you want to sleep on the roof tonight?” his mother asked as she pushed the sweat away from her brow.
He studied her for a second, wondering if she’d read his mind. She hadn’t. But the sadness in her eyes told him that when they climbed the stairs to the rooftop, he wouldn’t be the only one hoping to find his father there.
Cindy woke to the sounds of birds chirping merrily outside her bedroom window and lay there gathering her thoughts. Two months had passed since Frank’s funeral, and she hadn’t been able to shake the funk of knowing she’d never see him again. It didn’t make sense, as she’d known his time to be near, but here she was still trying to find her new normal. You’re not going to find it here. She pulled herself from the bed, tugging on yesterday’s clothes.
“Good morning, Sunshine,” Linda said when she slogged into the kitchen.
“What’s so good about it?” Cindy groaned.
Linda looked at the clock. “Well, for starters, you’re out of bed before noon. Would you like breakfast or lunch?”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Lunch it is,” Linda said, turning to the stove. “I thought we’d start back into the journals today.”
“I’m not sure I’m ready,” Cindy said with a sigh.
“You’ll never be ready with that attitude. I’m going to start reading. You can join me or not, but I want to read what Slim has to say.”
“Is this some kind of tough love?” Cindy said, dipping a spoon into the bowl of vegetable beef soup Linda sat in front of her.
“You know as well as I do that Frank would tell you to knock off the moping and move on with your life.”
She was right, but it still didn’t make his being gone any easier.
“They’ll make you feel better,” Linda told her.
“How can you be so sure?”
“Because they helped me after your father passed.”
Oops, how could I have forgotten that? “I’m sorry, Mom.”
“Nothing to be sorry about. I seem to remember a time when you had to nudge me to get on with my life. God knows I needed it. I think focusing on someone else’s troubles made me forget about my own.”
Her mother had a point. Besides, she didn’t like the thought of Linda reading the journals without her. It was something they shared, and she was happy her mother had been patient enough to wait for her. “Okay, Mom. I’ll give it a try.”
They finished their soup and went to the living room, which they’d officially named their reading room, as it had both read and waiting-to-be-read journals stacked about the room. Linda went to the end table, selected two piles, and handed her one. The second she felt the weight of them in her hands, she knew her mother to be right. Tucking her feet under her bottom, she began to read.
I’m writing these journals at the request of my good friend Paddy, who, for reasons unknown, thinks someday someone will be interested enough in the children who rode the trains that they’ll wish to know how we came to ride them and further wish to know what became of us. I did not have it as bad as some of the others as I had people in my life who were eager to see me succeed. Why they chose me, I do not know. A wise man—small in stature but abundant in knowledge—once told me that my mother, who’d been overly protective during her life, had somehow found a way to watch over me after she died. I found comfort in those words, which sounded as logical as any reason I could ever come up with on my own, so I like to think it to be true. Anyway, since I don’t have any words of wisdom of my own, I will tell my story as it happened in my own words.
***
August 1916
Percival circled his arms around his legs, grasping his ankles to keep his legs from moving and giving away his presence to the visitor in the outer room. From the sound of things, he wouldn’t have to stay hidden much longer. He ached to release his legs and use his hands to cover his ears to muffle the sounds coming from his mother’s bedroom, but the last time he’d interrupted, it hadn’t ended so well. His breathing increased as he remembered that evening.
His mother was entertaining a visitor, her laughter turning to screams as the man with her slurred phrases that made Percival’s cheeks burn. He put his hands to his ears, but it did nothing to drown the sounds coming from outside his boxed enclosure. He knew he wasn’t supposed to open the door, but when she cried out once again, he gathered his courage, pushed open the closet door, and rushed to his mother’s side, his small hands balled into fists as he demanded the man leave her alone.
An image of the half-naked man came to mind, and Percival closed his eyes. A mistake, as the image gave way to the chaos that had ensued. His mother screaming for the man to leave him alone. The pain as the bottle hit him alongside the head, followed by the brilliant flash of light just before everything grew silent. He’d spent over a week in the hospital. That his mother never left his side the entire time he was there nearly made the pain worth it. She’d sobbed as she ran her slender hands alongside his bandaged head, uttering apologies for not keeping him safe. Further promising that things would change. They had for a while, but there were bills to pay, and since his mother wasn’t married and he too young to work at the time, things soon returned to normal. Normal for them anyway. Then one day, the landlord knocked on the door. Reeking of alcohol, the man practically drooled as he swayed in the doorway demanding the rent. His mother handed the man some bills, but the landlord shook his head, telling her it wasn’t enough. His mother had insisted it was the same amount she always paid, but he smiled a wicked smile and told her he’d found someone who could pay more. He’d then sneered at Percival and said the person he was speaking of didn’t have a snot-nosed kid.
Percival had taken exception to that, as his nose wasn’t snotty. His mother had silenced him before turning to the landlord, asking what she was supposed to do. His smile turned menacing as he looked Percival’s mother up and down, then whispered something only she could hear. His words must not have been very pleasant, as Percival saw her trembling as he spoke.
After a moment’s hesitation, she’d pulled herself taller, then turned to Percival and told him she had to go out for a little while. He’d begged her not to go with the man, but she’d told him to mind his place. When she’d returned, he could tell she’d been crying. Later that day, the landlord had knocked again. This time, she’d refused to open the door. After he went away, she announced they would be moving as soon as she could find a place for them to stay.
It hadn’t taken long. Within a week, they’d moved to a small one-room apartment not far from the club where his mother worked as a dancer. The room held a bed, a small round table with two chairs, and the closet, which his mother had brightly declared Percival’s new bedroom. At first, he’d thought her to be jesting, but she’d lined the enclosure with blankets and given him a pillow for his head. Since that day, he’d spent a lot of time in the closet, mostly hiding while his mother entertained visitors.
The noise on the other side of the door subsided, and Percival began to relax. He listened for the click of the outer door before releasing his ankles. Shoving off the floor, he silently pushed open the door to the closet. His mother stood on the far side of the room with her back to him.
“Momma.” The word came out in a whisper.
She gathered her robe together, pulling the tie into her waist as she turned, greeting him with a smile. “Percival, come give Momma a hug.”
He walked to where she stood and sank into her arms, wrinkling his nose against the smell of musty cigars and unwashed bodies.
She released her hold then used her robe to wipe the sweat from his face. A frown fleeted across her face as she lifted a towel from the hook beside the door. “Your supper is on the table. I’m going to the washroom. When I come back, you can tell me about your day.”
Percival felt the heat creep across his face as he stood staring after her. Had she guessed his secret? Did his mother know he’d waited long enough for her to leave before sneaking upstairs and sitting in the shade of the adjacent building? While still hot on the tar rooftop, it was decidedly better than the stifling confines of the small room.
He walked to the small table and opened the cloth to reveal a hunk of bread. Beside the bread sat a small green bowl filled with pasta and sauce. He dipped a finger into the sauce, grabbed a plump tomato, and plopped it into his mouth. It was cold, and not nearly as tasty as the food his momma once cooked, but it was food, and for that, he was grateful. There had been many days when there was nothing but a few crumbs. That had changed after he and his mother had moved. A feat, as the small room they now called home didn’t actually have a kitchen. Shortly after moving in, his mother started entertaining visitors when she wasn’t working at the club. Though he wasn’t pleased his mother had so many guests, he was happy when they started bringing her food. She’d told him that was why she was so nice to them. He never let on that he knew the men also left her money on the bedside table.
Tearing off a chunk of bread, he dipped it into the sauce then shoved it in his mouth, enjoying the tang. Watching the door as he chewed, he waited for his mother to return.
He was nearly finished when she came floating into the room in long, confident strides. His mother was a dancer, and it showed. She even taught him to dance, something he’d been much better at before the blow to the head. Now his legs seemed to have a mind of their own, dancing even when he didn’t want them to. If he wasn’t holding on to his legs, they were hopping around like someone had spilled hot coals down his pants. The movements didn’t hurt so much, but they were bothersome all the same. It was as if his legs were now wired into his head, matching his mood. If he was upset, they’d move all the more.
“Not much of a breeze today. I’m sorry you had to stay inside all day,” his mother said, then moved to the window and grabbed hold of the curtains, twisting them into a knot to allow more air. “Someday, we will have an apartment with more than one window where the wind can flow through to create a nice breeze. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
Percival was glad his mother hadn’t looked at him as she spoke. If she had, he felt sure she would have seen the guilt on his face. “Yes, Momma.”
She lowered to the floor and sat with her arms resting on the windowsill, her face staring out as if drinking in the fresh air. She sighed, her shoulders dropping as she exhaled.
“You’re thinking of Papa.” He knew it to be true, as she always grew sad when she thought of him.
She turned, and he could see the moisture in her eyes. “There isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t think of Armano.”
Percival walked to where his mother sat and kneeled beside her. Sitting like this, with his legs anchored underneath, helped to keep them still. “I wish I could remember him.”
Her brows knitted together, then she smiled, lifting his chin with the tips of her fingers. “You only need to look in the mirror to see your papa’s face.”
“You’ve said that before. But I wish I remembered what he was like.”
She picked up the paper fan used to cool them on days such as this and moved it back and forth to create a breeze. “Your papa was a good man. He loved you so very much. He would put you on his shoulders and parade you through the streets. He’d point to all the buildings that he helped build, telling you that someday you’d be big enough to help him. He’d toss you into the air, and you would giggle when he caught you.”
“And you were afraid he’d drop me and tell him to stop.” He knew, as she’d told him so many times before.
“I did, but I needn’t have feared. Your papa, he was a strong man with solid arms.” She drew her arms into her body and closed her eyes, the sweat glistening on her face.
“But he wasn’t strong enough.”
Her eyelids sprang open. Instantly, Percival regretted his words. He was just about to ask her to tell him the story when she waved the paper fan and began speaking of her own accord.
“It was July of 1911, and you’d nearly reached your fourth year. The heat had been growing for days and didn’t let up at night. The air…it was so thick and foul. Day or night, it didn’t matter. It was so hard to breathe.” Her hand went to her throat as if remembering. She swallowed, then looked out the window and sucked in another breath of air. “Horses pulling carts would fall to the ground dead, leaving their owner to walk the rest of the way home. The horse would lie where it fell, festering for days because it was much too hot to move them. Oh, the smell…I don’t think I’ll ever forget it.”
Percival watched her face grow pale, her nostrils flaring as she spoke.
“Mothers would put their babies to bed, only to have them never to wake. Word of the deaths spread, and mothers took to taking their babies out into the night air instead of laying them in their cribs. You were older, but I was so afraid of losing you. I took you outside each night, walking the streets with the others. When we were too weary to walk, we would go inside, make our way through the stifling stairway to the rooftop, and fall asleep under the stars. It was so hot, the factories shut down. The steel was too hot to touch and your papa couldn’t go to work. Nobody could.
“On the tenth day of the heat, your papa kissed us both then told me he was going to the rooftop to get some air. It was the last time I saw your papa alive. Two days later, a great storm arrived, its booms heard throughout the city as buckets of rain did its best to wash the stench from the streets. With the thunder came cooler temperatures…if only your papa could have waited a couple more days.”
She’d told him the story so many times that she could tell it without tears. The pain etched on her face let him know how deeply she felt the loss, though it didn’t stop him from requesting her to retell the events. He enjoyed his alone time with his mother, loved hearing her tell him stories about his papa. Even the ones that ended with his papa going up to the rooftop and never coming down. Sometimes he would imagine his father sitting all alone with the sky overhead, just waiting for Percival to come to see him. He’d often snuck up the stairs to look for the man, but he was never there.
The only memories he had of his papa were those given to him by his mother. He liked that his mother never spoke ill of his papa. With the exception of the story she’d just told, she would smile and regale him with tales of how happy they were when his papa was alive. It was just the three of them then. There were no visitors sharing her bed, no landlords pushing them from the apartment where they had once lived with his papa, and most importantly, no closets used as bedrooms. Percival longed to remember when they were a family. Now it was just he, his mother, and countless strangers drifting in and out. He didn’t mind the strangers so much. Most of them never stayed long enough to pay him any mind. What he minded was having to hide in the closet turned bedroom listening to things a child should not hear.
“It’s hot. Do you want to sleep on the roof tonight?” his mother asked as she pushed the sweat away from her brow.
He studied her for a second, wondering if she’d read his mind. She hadn’t. But the sadness in her eyes told him that when they climbed the stairs to the rooftop, he wouldn’t be the only one hoping to find his father there.