Sweet Paradise by Gene Desrochers (most read books in the world of all time .txt) 📕

“Can’t she have a hobby and still move forward in her work?” I offered.

“You sound like my wife. That’s not an option. This money is not enough for her to become complacent. And she makes no money from this so-called hobby. She thinks she’s going to be another Susan Potts.”

I had no idea who Susan Potts was, although I had a vague recollection of seeing a talent show with someone called Paul Potts.

“Do you only get money as a family or do each of you get money?”

“Direct descendants. She gets it and I get it. My wife’s not part of that lineage.”

“It seems like there would be a lot of people who were part of this lineage, but from what I know it’s under fifty.”

“That’s an easy answer: most slaves who worked on sugar plantations died. These islands were brutal to my people. Tropical diseases and immorality run amok. Brutal. They didn’t procreate, they didn’t have families, they just worked and died.”

He paced from his desk to the window and back. “Do you know what tonight is?”

“Your daughter’s show?”

“Wednesday.”

“Yes.”

“Do you know who plays at The Reichold Center on Wednesday?”

I shrugged, not sure where he was going with this. He emphatically wagged his finger.

“Exactly. Nobody plays on Wednesday.”

Chapter 24

Junior Bacon wanted to go out, but he could hear his father’s voice ballooning out of Aunt Hillary’s room. He was halfway down the spiral staircase, when curiosity got the better of him. Returning to his room, he came out with a glass he’d used for water before bed the night before. He checked for Wilma, but she was not up here. Probably in the kitchen.

Whipping out his phone he texted Boise that he’d be running late and to order his meal to go. Something vegetarian with fries. Beans and rice would also be good.

Stuffing the phone back into his pocket, he creeped to the thick door to Aunt Hill’s room and gently, ever so gently, propped the mouth of the glass against the wood. Moving the glass around slowly, he found a spot where he could make out some of their conversation.

“We are not to discuss that and are not discussing that when he’s here,” Herbie said. “Do you understand?”

“Ow! You asshole, that hurt. You better watch out. I’m not Junior. You can’t manhandle me like that.”

“What are you gonna do about it?”

After that the room got silent. He supposed they’d stopped talking or had started whispering. He could hear harsh tones from his father and Hillary laughing.

“ ... drunk?” Herbie said. “What has gotten into you? You are becoming more and more like one of these islanders.”

“You aren’t an islander?”

“Not anymore. Not if we don’t stop this mess. What got into her?”

Hillary laughed, then snorted. “You could never control mama. She controlled you. You were always a little boy to her. Hell, we’re all still children to her. She’s controlling things even from the grave.”

Suddenly, a yell came from downstairs. “Miss Hillary, Mister Herbie! I have your supper ready. You want me to serve it?”

Shit, Wilma, was yelling for dinner. Before he could move, footsteps approached the door. Junior tried to palm the glass, but it crashed to the floor, shattering on the tile. He let out a startled yelp as his father unlocked and opened the door, filling the doorway.

“Hello, Junior. Why are you breaking glasses outside Aunt Hillary’s bedroom?”

“Uh, sorry papa. I was ... uh ... taking this glass back to the kitchen from my room. I had a glass of water last night and I was going to tell you that I’m leaving for Yarelle’s performance.”

Herbie licked his lips. Junior could see every pore on his father’s face along with each individual hair going backwards from his receding hairline. He wiped perspiration from his upper lip, then stammered on. “Be careful, Papa. Let me get a broom, and I’ll clean this up.”

Wilma came to the top of the stairs. “Oh goodness, look at this mess. Mr. Herbie, stay in the room, you are barefoot.”

At this Hillary shot up behind Herbie and bumped him forward. “What’s happening? Oops!”

Herbie howled as he stumbled and stepped on a sliver.

“Papa!” Junior cried.

“Son of a ... ” Herbie’s face contorted in pain as he hopped backward into Hillary’s bedroom and dropped on the bed, his foot raised. Blood flowed from the small gash. Upon seeing the blood, Hillary swooned and fell to the floor. Junior’s breathing accelerated as thoughts of his last brush with blood flooded his memory, the arrow protruding from Kendal’s chest.

Wilma entered, calmly crossed to the bathroom and returned with a wad of toilet paper. She plucked the sliver from the wound, then staunched the blood. Herbie howled again, slamming his fist against the headboard.

“Hold that,” Wilma intoned, taking Herbie’s hand and placing it around the toilet paper.

“It hurts!” he cried, then lowered the pitch of his voice. “Goddammit! Hillary, what is your problem?”

“Miss Hillary is on the floor. She unconscious, Mr. Herbie.”

The anger left his voice. “What? Is she okay?”

Wilma leaned over to check Hillary’s pulse and breathing. “She fine. She faint.”

At this Herbie rolled his eyes. “Again?”

“Yes, she faint again.”

“Junior?”

Junior’s eyes drifted far away, his legs bunched against his chest as he rocked.

“Junior is just sittin’.”

“What do you mean, just sitting?”

“He sittin’ on the floor. Just sittin’.”

At this, Herbie started to sit up.

“No, don’t sit up. You need to keep your foot raised. I don’t think you need stitches, but you want to keep it raised till the bleeding stop.”

“Fine,” he muttered.

He turned his body so he could see off the side of the bed, while still reclining. His foot stuck in the air and swayed like a palm tree on a beach. Junior continued to rock, Hillary looked peaceful. Thankfully she seemed to excel at fainting on rugs, away from hard objects.

Wilma straightened out Hillary’s leg, then gently, but firmly gripped Junior’s shoulder. “Junior? Junior?”

“Just yell at him! What kind of crap is this? He causes this mess then checks out like