Delia

  Delia

  J.N. LaVelle

  Delia

  Copyright © 2014 by Jason LaVelle. All rights reserved.

  First Kindle Edition: 2014

  Author Website and Email:

  www.jnlavelle.com

  darkhorsestudios@gmail.com

  This eBook is licensed for the personal enjoyment of the original purchaser only. This eBook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this eBook and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Amazon.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  The song, Tip-Toe Through The Tulips With Me was originally written by Al Dubin and Joe Burke in 1929, and was adapted and performed by Nick Lucas.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to locales, events, business establishments, or actual persons—living or dead—is entirely coincidental.

  For my family, you are my whole world.

  Acknowledgements

  To all my friends, thank you so much for your help and support in making this novel come together. It was a tough project to write, and without the advice and brutal honesty from all of you, it never would have come to life. My beta readers and editors: Heather, Amber, Betsy, Kate, Susan, Alexia and Terah; thank you so much, all of you. I really could not do this without you.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter One

  Delia was very fast, she always had been. On the playground, she beat the other girls at races, and most of the time the boys, too. Twelve-year-old boys were full of energy and pride and not too happy that a girl could beat them. So they called her freak for her speed or giant because she was so tall that she loomed over her class like a stork. Delia did not care. She just smiled and ran right past them. Tag was her favorite game and she enjoyed being “it” just as much as she enjoyed being chased.

  Now she was playing the game for real. Now she was playing tag for her life.

  The gunshot was what woke her from sleep. Her eyes flew open as the loud crack roared through the house and she immediately sat up in bed. Wearing only a long linen nightdress, she should have expected a nighttime chill, but nothing like the cold tendrils that were crawling through her veins.

  She could tell the shot came from within the house, because on occasion, her father would have to put down one of the animals outside and that produced a more muffled sound. This sounded like it came from downstairs; the very walls had vibrated with its force. As she jumped out of bed, she heard stomping coming up the stairs. The echoes from the gunshot were still ringing through the house. In addition, a confusing noise was filling her head. It was the type of sound a windstorm made against her bedroom window, or a loud whisper backed by incredible pressure.

  Moments later a scream bellowed up the stairs and found its way to her room. She recognized the voice immediately, though there was something very wrong with it. Her father never screamed like that. His voice was usually soft and kind. A mere word from him offered hope and compassion. Not tonight though. Tonight the sound was strained and angry.

  “Delia! Delia, come here!”

  Even though her feet started moving toward the bedroom door, she was unsure. There was something wrong with him and it frightened her. She didn’t know what it was, but reached for the door handle anyway. As she pulled the door open, her father came bursting in. His face was haggard and frightening. His eyes were like wide saucers against his tan leathery face. He was wearing a white t-shirt and very dirty jeans. The t-shirt was spattered across the front with dark red splotches. Is that blood? Delia’s breath hitched in fear.

  “Go sit on the bed!”

  Delia hesitantly obeyed. Her father’s normally kind voice was tinged with anger, and something else…

  “Where did that gunshot come from, Daddy?”

  “You sit there quietly.” Her father began fumbling with the shotgun he was carrying. He pulled a shell from one bulging pocket and was attempting to load it into the weapon.

  “Where’s momma?”

  “Sit quiet, ya hear me!” His clipped words came out loud as he concentrated on the gun.

  In the pit of Delia’s stomach something cold and dark was settling – a ball of nervousness. She trembled as she repeated, “Where’s mother?”

  The shell her father was fumbling with finally slid into place with a loud click and he sighed with relief.

  “She’s with our heavenly father now, Delia.” He smiled sadly and cocked the shotgun. “But don’t worry; we are going to see her soon.” Then he advanced on Delia.

  Delia felt lightheaded with panic, but strangely her senses became stronger. The father she adored took a step toward her and began to raise the shotgun at her with trembling arms. She could smell the gunpowder in the air, mixed with the dirty tang of steel. Making a split-second decision she leapt off the bed and dove directly for her father. However, she wasn’t trying to reach for his gun. No, she wanted to escape. With a spectacular waterless swan dive, she threw herself into the empty space between his legs, trying desperately to get to the doorway he was blocking. She made it halfway through before he slammed them shut against her. His legs clamped down against her hips.

  “Delia! You mind me now! This is for your own good!”

  Delia was not listening; she was using all of her strength to pull her slender body out from under his grip. Though he tried to pin her in, she wriggled free and shot down the hallway to the stairs.

  “Delia!” He was screaming madly behind her. He was coming after her at an uneven lope, but because he was so much bigger, for every two steps she took he had only to take one.

  Delia made it down the steps without stumbling and somehow made it to the front door. She was reaching for the handle when another shot filled the air. She dropped to the ground just as a giant hole blasted the top of the wooden door into splinters. A large hole appeared directly above where her head had been. She pinned herself to the floor for a moment, long enough to see the body of her mother lying motionless on the living room floor.

  “Momma,” she whimpered.

  Fear and heartache clawed their way into her and her breaths came fast and hard. Remembering how long it took him to load the gun the last time and hearing him start to plod down the steps, Delia jumped up and grabbed the door handle. With one last look at her mother’s body, she swung open the door and bolted out into the night.

  Delia was running through the backyard toward the field. She looked over her shoulder to see that her father was just exiting the house. She had to make it to the field before he caught up to her. The golden wheat was taller than she was and she would be able to hide there. The great moving sea of wheat loomed in the darkness ahead of her. Her father was behind her now, with alcohol on his breath and murder on his mind. She kept running.

  Her feet were tough and calloused, as any good farm girl’s feet were, so the rough clay underfoot did not hurt her. She
stopped once, thinking she would hide, but then heard her father come crashing through the wheat in her direction. She ran as fast as she could. She ran as fast as she did at school when she was trying to win, as she always did. She did not know if she could outrun her father, whose breathing was getting louder behind her, but she could try, she had to try; her very life depended on it.

  The two ran like rogue specters through the black field. Delia ran to the only place she knew, the only hope she had. Her aunt and uncle lived on the other side of the field in a small house with a large yellow barn. The wheat field was 200 acres, but Uncle Don lived on the short side. Even in the dead of night it loomed ahead in her mind – a safe haven of bright yellow. It was a beacon of hope in her mind. She hoped she didn’t tire out before she made it through the mile of dark field in front of her.

  “Delia!” She could hear her father calling her in a panting voice. He was tiring already, but so was she. Delia’s lungs were burning with effort, but after being in the field for five minutes, she was finally able to see the big sodium light on the top gambrel of Uncle Don’s barn.

  “Delia! Stop right now!”

  She wanted to stop. Her lungs were on fire now and her feet felt sticky. She did not know if the stickiness was from the soft earth or if they were bleeding. The broken off stalks of wheat that lay on the ground were razor sharp and she thought they must have been cutting her feet. Her mind was only thinking of getting to her uncle’s house before she was shot. What if he kills Uncle Don, too? She couldn’t worry about her uncle right now; she just had to get there before her father killed her. A moment later, another shotgun blast rang out. Delia felt hot buckshot graze her arm. Blood immediately flowed from the wound. She almost stumbled in horror and shock as she thought, He shot me! My own daddy shot me! He shot me!

  Delia pushed on. A wave of nausea started to churn in her stomach and she vomited in her mouth. She had no choice but to continue, so she spat out what she could and swallowed the rest. She batted away the tears that were streaming down her cheeks. She had almost made it through the mile of dense wheat field and could see the light on the barn getting brighter. Behind her, Delia heard the shotgun cock again.

  Then, in mid-stride, Delia burst out of the wheat field and broke into a dead run with all of the strength she had left. Her father fell out of the field just a moment later.

  “Stop running right now, Delia! You are going to see your mother! We’ll all be together!”

  Delia was only a dozen yards from the back porch of the house when she hit the knee-high manure-spreading cart. In the black of night, the dark red hunk of metal was invisible. She ran straight into it and cartwheeled over the top, landing on her shoulder. Her vision blurred momentarily and she gasped to suck in a breath, only to start screaming as her father reached her.

  “You,” he huffed, “need,” another deep breath, “to mind your father.”

  Delia could not hold back the tears any more. They poured from her eyes and she sobbed uncontrollably.

  “Why, Daddy? Why do you want to kill me?”

  “Not kill you, darling,” he said in a soft tone. “I’m saving you.” He raised the shotgun and pointed it at her face. “Close your eyes honey. We’ll be with your mother soon.”

  “John!” A booming voice rang out over the yard.

  Delia looked past her father and saw Uncle Don hurrying toward him, holding a long rifle. At almost sixty years old, Don was much older than his brother, but he was a massive man. He stood six foot five and was easily three hundred pounds. He was a man who was well liked and respected.

  “Go back inside, Donald. This is no business of yours! This is my family business.”

  “John! Goddammit, brother! Don’t make me put a bullet in you. You get away from that little girl right now.”

  “You don’t understand, Don.”

  “I do, we’ve all had hard times. We’ve all hit rock bottom at some time or another. All we can do is keep on trucking, keep fighting the good fight.”

  “Missy is dead.”

  “Jesus,” Delia heard Don whisper. “Let your daughter go, John. We can take care of her.”

  “No one’s taking care of her but me. I told you, Don, this is family business.”

  John turned back to Delia and started to pull the trigger on the shotgun.

  The gun never fired though, because John’s finger was forced away when a bullet blew through his heart and out the front of his chest, bringing a heavy spray of blood down on Delia as it exited.

  John fell to the ground and Uncle Don stood over him. “She is my family.”

  Chapter Two

  It was not a nice day for a funeral. Not that a funeral was the type of occasion one would appreciate a nice day, but the dark gray skies and drizzle of rain that fell on the small group was especially dismal. John and Missy were not well-known community members, but they were also not reclusive. They had gone to church every Sunday and always exchanged friendly handshakes with their fellow parishioners. Only twenty or so mourners were present at the internment. Delia stood a few feet in front of her aunt. She stared ahead at the twin coffins that were set next to two holes in the ground.

  Behind her, Aunt Deb was talking to a friend of the family. They were not speaking loudly, but Delia could hear every word nonetheless. Not that any of it was surprising. Her aunt and uncle had been as forthcoming as they could be and had shared all of the information that they had received so far.

  “So, you decided to keep the girl then?”

  “We did. Donald just couldn’t put her out after all that she’s been through.”

  “Where will she sleep?”

  “We bunked her in with Lilly. They get along all right, considering.”

  “Has she said much about what happened that night?”

  “She hasn’t spoken at all.”

  “About her father or not at all?”

  “She hasn’t spoken at all, Judy, not a single word. She doesn’t cry, she doesn’t complain, she doesn’t speak at all. It’s like the whole thing has made her go mute.”

  “My goodness.”

  “Indeed. The child went through something horrible and I’m not sure that she’s going to be okay.”

  “You think the crazy might run in her blood?”

  “I hope not. We will watch her carefully. The bank was taking the farm from John. He had been struggling for years and apparently, the loan man finally had had enough. Said they were going to take the land, the farm, the house, the animals, everything. He wouldn’t even be able to keep his truck when they were done with him.”

  “It’s really no wonder he went off his rocker, I suppose.”

  Aunt Deb shook her head. “It’s a very sad business. Those bankers don’t care who they’re hurting.”

  “Why didn’t he come to you for help? Surely, Donald could have helped in some way. That’s not to say it was your responsibility of course.”

  “Just before Don shot him, John told him no one was going to be taking care of his family but him. We’re supposin’ he thought that if he couldn’t take care of his family, they were better off dead.”

  “My Lord, he truly was crazy, wasn’t he?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  The First Presbyterian church sat quietly in the distance, and from the small house next to it, Delia observed the priest emerge and begin to walk over toward the cemetery where they waited.

  “Women.” Delia heard a deep voice growl under his breath. “Quiet yourselves, now. Be respectful of the dead in this place.”

  “I’m sorry, Don.”

  “Don’t go spreading this business around further. The girl is going to have a rough enough go of it.”

  Uncle Donald had saved her. He was a good man. That was what her father had always said. Donald was an animal doctor and a farrier. He worked hard and made a good living. They were not wealthy, but they had enough that they were able to pay off the mortgage on their house years ago.

  The priest made it ov
er to the fresh gravesite and greeted them all. He took the time to shake Delia’s hand softly and offered her a well-practiced condoling smile. Then he began to speak about life and death. He spoke a little about God’s fury, then about redemption. He spoke about forgiveness for a long time. He reminded those standing there that none of them were immune from God’s judgment and that God alone should be the judge of any man.

  “Remember, my good people, that we have lost two of our flock today, but that there is still one of that family remaining, one that will need all of the kindness and support we can offer.”

  Self-conscious, Delia flushed as she felt all the eyes of the congregation turn to her.

  “Remember that a child especially needs warmth in times of cold, and mercy in times of heartache.” The priest gave Delia another small smile. His words were kind, but she was quite uncomfortable.

  Delia felt a prick of emotion starting to well up in her chest. She tried to choke it down, but it kept coming up, threatening to overflow from her eyes. She pressed her hands against the side of her face and tried to concentrate on anything else but this. It was no use. As the priest continued to speak, two men began to lower her mother’s casket into the cold black hole. Delia hiccupped silent little sobs. She tried to muffle the sound because she didn’t want them to think she was weak. She wanted them to see that she was strong. Nevertheless, the tears were coming and she could do nothing to restrain them. Hurt and abandoned by the parents she loved, Delia’s heart overflowed with grief. Her breathing started to become ragged and she took great heaving breaths. Even then, she could not seem to get enough air in her lungs. They felt like they were being squeezed.

  Then there was an arm around her and the rich smell of leather. She looked up and Uncle Don was there, with his meaty arm holding her next to him. Even for a tall girl she barely came up past his large stomach. Don peered down at her, then turned Delia in to face him, and held her close to his body. Delia buried her face against him for a moment and she could hear him speak softly.