Morrigan by Jonathan King (cat reading book txt) 📕

tugged on a pair of jeans, a long-sleeved shirt, and a cardigan sweater, and looked at his little garden on the windowsill. Mason jars of wet, black earth sprouted basil and mint, rosemary and oregano. A few strange growths poked up among the cilantro. He flipped through the pages of his notebook; the ones not dedicated to the Freedom List each bore the name of a plant, a description and sketch, and various uses and warnings. The offending weed was some kind of clover, based on the three round leaves, but that white band around the middle had him curious.

Bingo. White clover, trifolium repens. Common weed. Well, Mr. Trifolium Repens, you are not welcome in my garden. He plucked them from the soil, making sure the roots came up too, and dropped them in the trash can.

Then he fed each jar from a cup of water, careful not to oversoak the little plants. The mint grew thick and tall; he’d need to repot it soon, split it up or find a bigger jar. I bet it wants to grow free out in the open. I bet it feels trapped by those glass walls, not able to stretch out like it needs to. I know how it feels.

With a jolt, he remembered Morgan’s napkin. He fished it out of the pocket of his pants, now hanging next to his coat in the closet, and unfolded it.

Let’s leave these cages for good

My house

160 Plantation Rd.

8:00pm

Don’t keep me waiting

Abel stood frozen as the napkin dropped from his hands. Morgan was asking him, a complete stranger, to run away with her. Why him? Why wouldn’t she leave by herself? True, he had felt some connection between them when they first met, but this was moving way too fast, especially for small town South Carolina. What was so special about him that she wanted him with her?

And why should he leave? There was freeing yourself from a trap, and then there was abandoning the only people you knew to go off on your own.

He glanced back at the notebook. The Freedom List had always been more of a fantasy, or at most something to try during college. To put it into practice now … was he ready?

This room was hardly a prison. Or was it? His father’s presence was everywhere, from the sticky notes on the mirror to the junk drawer full of Bible Drill medals and Vacation Bible School crafts to the stacks of used church bulletins and Bibles in different translations and even the bookshelves crammed with theological nonfiction.

And where was he, Abel? An out-of-tune guitar in the corner from the time he’d been interested in music until he realized all he knew were hymns and identical-sounding worship songs, a few secular novels tucked away under the bed, a calendar of Irish castles he’d probably never see, and the windowsill herbs his mother had helped him plant. His hand dipped beneath his shirt and gripped the golden cross that hung on a chain around his neck. Another gift from his mother. Proof that the Reverend wasn’t the only source of faith in his life, that it wasn’t all rules and sermons and cage bars. Still, it was trinkets, all of it. Just a few shreds of identity, a meager reward to make him think this was home. Treats to make him drool on cue.

Abel fell back on the bed and let the air rush out of his lungs. He opened the notebook to the Freedom List and stared at it. He wanted to go. As little sense as it made to leave with a girl he barely knew, he couldn’t stay here. He had to get out.

But he couldn’t. Morgan was right. He was a trained dog, and the Reverend said “stay.”

He stood and smoothed out the wrinkles in his clothes until it fit like a second skin. He might not feel at home in this house, but he could at least feel at home in his outfit. Then he pulled on his tennis shoes and headed downstairs for dinner.

It wasn’t until he was halfway down the stairs that he realized he’d torn out the Freedom List and shoved it into his pocket with Morgan’s napkin.

3

In the kitchen, the Reverend sat at the table making notes for next week’s sermon. Dorothy hovered over the oven, praying over its contents. Now and then, she placed a finger on the church cookbook lying open on the counter, consulting the recipe and muttering about tablespoons and teaspoons.

Abel had seen his mother in these moods before, and he slipped into his seat without a sound. The Reverend, on the other hand, was oblivious as always and more distracted by her murmuring than usual. Slamming his pen down on the table, he said, “For heaven’s sake, darling, it’s just hamburger casserole.”

Abel’s mother’s breathing grew louder as she clutched the oven handle. Maybe it was the deeper breaths that warned her of the smoke, because she wrenched the door open, and a cloud of white billowed out. “Damn it!”

“Language,” the Reverend said, going back to his sermon notes.

Dorothy was too frazzled for a comeback. She grabbed the burning dish barehanded. The pain drove her to her knees. “Shit!” The dish shattered on the floor, spilling burned noodles and blackened meat.

Abel leaped to his feet, rushing to the potted aloe plant in the kitchen window. Breaking off a leaf, he turned to see the Reverend holding out a broom to his wife.

“Here you go, sweetie,” he said, as though handing her the tool to clean up the mess made it all better.

Dorothy glared at him through tears, but before she could say anything, Abel snatched the broom from his father.

“I got it, Dad.” He gently squeezed the aloe leaf’s pulp over the pale blisters already popping up on his mother’s fingers. “Here. Rub this on the burns.”

Dorothy took the leaf and tended to her wounds, still breathing like a charging bull. “I should have known better. Should have known