The Wright Way

Chapter 33 - The Wright Way

I exit the little bedroom, leaving the sunlight behind. It gets darker as I make my way down the stairs. The ground floor corridor is only slightly illuminated by the light coming through the front door panels. On the other end of it, more light comes in through the opened door to the kitchen, along with the clanking of dishes and mouth-watering smells.

I walk over to the living room entryway and look in. The blinds are still down. A flat medium-sized TV on the opposite wall is on, tuned to the news channel. Two sofas stand at a right angle to each other in the middle of the room. On one of them, Joshua's stepfather is sitting, with this back to me, so that only his head with a bold patch surrounded by sparce grey hair is visible. The walker in front of him gleams dully in the light from the TV.

I stand there for a while, peering at the back of his head, willing him to turn around, yet unsure what will happen if he does. Should I tell him what I think of him, now that Joshua has told me everything? Should I keep quiet about that? Whatever damage his behavior has caused Joshua, it won't be fixed by bringing up the past. We're on the run now, so filing a complaint against him is out of question—yet simply letting go and leaving as if nothing happened feels just...wrong. Running away as if we were criminals, leaving the real criminal to his life.

I've spent most of the night thinking about it. Yet I feel as confused as I had when I started.

"Hey? Ethan?"

I look aside. Joshua stands in the doorway of the kitchen, outlined by the morning light.

"What're you doing there?" He makes an inviting gesture. "Come, the eggs are ready."

I glance at the living room again. The man is sitting still, apparently too entranced by the moving pictures on the screen to hear us. Or maybe he did hear. Maybe he knows I'm standing there. I can see my reflection on the screen when the picture gets dark.

I turn and head to the kitchen.

"Bothering the old man?" Joshua says, returning to the stove. He has an apron on, decorated with roses, which I can only assume belongs to the mysterious Martha. "I told you to leave him alone, didn't I?" He turns the gas off, then looks at me and frowns. "Are you okay? You look like shit."

"Didn't sleep well." In fact, I've only slept for perhaps a couple of hours, after a night of trying to sort through my thoughts and feelings.

"Hope I didn't snore."

"You didn't."

"Good." He breathes out with mock relief. "You know, living alone, one can never know."

"Did I snore?"

"No idea. I slept like a rock."

He comes over, bringing a frying pan with scrambled eggs still sizzling on it and places it in the middle of the table. The smell of burnt tablecloth hits my nostrils almost immediately. Ignoring that, Joshua saunters to the window and opens it a crack before heading for the cupboard with the tableware.

"You've ruined the tablecloth," I say.

"Never liked it, anyway," he says, bringing two plates and a handful of forks and knives.

"It can cause a fire."

"Well, we have a fireman available, don't we?" He smiles before slipping into a chair across from me and transferring half of the eggs from the pan into his plate.

"Help yourself," he says, and then jumps up again. "Ah, the milk. Would you like some? Tea, perhaps? I don't think he has coffee. He never liked coffee."

I pick a fork and stick it into a yellow mess in the pan, then bring it to my mouth and blow at the hot piece.

"So," says Joshua, returning to his place. "I checked the barn while you slept, and the bikes look good. Not rusty or anything. Oil them, take care of the tires, and we're good. I say we take off before it's too hot?"

He sends a piece of an egg into his mouth and chews, his fork hovering in front of his face. He looks rested enough, although circles under his eyes suggest that he could have used a couple more hours of sleep. Yet every hour we spend in this house is turning it into less and less safe a haven. He's right—if we intend to run, we must do it soon.

If we intend to run.

"What is it?" he says, watching me.

I place my fork on my plate, the piece of egg still on it. I need to say something, but before I do, I need to decide, and my mind goes blank when I try to.

"Ethan?"

"I don't know," I say. "I've been thinking."

"Oh?" He leans forward, placing his elbows on the table. "Do tell me. So far, I've been single-parenting our great escape plan."

"It's about the great escape," I say. "I've been thinking about it."

He lowers his head, trying to catch my gaze. "And?..."

"I don't know."

Slowly, he removes his elbows from the table and leans back in his chair.

"Getting cold feet?" he says. "Let me remind you, it was your idea."

"I know," I say, "but..."

I trail away, not sure how to put it into words. Everything seemed pretty straightforward yesterday. Leave Wrights to their peaceful life, disappear and make the best I can of my new, confusing future.

Yet the things Joshua told me about his stepfather have affected me somehow. The whole issue with the past remaining in the past, of letting your family do whatever they choose just because they are your relatives—the similarities were disturbing.

There were differences, too. The disabled person sitting now in the living room is unlikely to ever hurt anyone again, but the same can't be said about my uncle.

He has more blue pills.

He takes it upon him to decide who's worthy of life and who's not—but isn't the decision supposed to rest in the hands of a higher power?

Could he be mistaken?

Could he be deliberate in his mistakes?

"Ethan," says Joshua. "Talk to me."

I shake my head, trying to gather my thoughts.

"I'm not sure it's the right thing to do, running away," I say, "and letting them continue what they're doing."

"But you said it's our only option." He spreads his hands. "You said we can't go to the police because the big bosses are under your family's influence. They will silence us in no time."

"They will," I say, "unless we make enough noise before they can do that."

"How?" His frown deepens.

I nod in the direction of the living room from which the sounds of the television reach us.

"Media," I say. "They have created the Wrights, in a way. Perhaps they have the power to bring them down as well."