HIDDEN

by James Crofton

PROLOGUE II Light hit the crack at the bottom of the bedroom door and he heard Grandma's slow heavy footfalls in black leather brogans ascending the stairs as they did every night. Her progress was punctuated by pauses in the creaking of the stairs as her body was wracked by coughing. He quickly inhaled and sent one more smoke ring spinning into the darkness chasing the dozens of earlier disintegrated rings and delivered himself of imagined commentary. “Folks, this youngster Farnstal of Dallas is stylish and precise way beyond his years in his tobacco technique here in these US of A Smoking Trials. Note how expertly the nine year old just crushed out that butt on the angle iron side rail of his bed. I'll bet that's marked by the judges as 9.8, 9.9 maybe even a perfect ten oh. He's way too far out in the lead now for any other kid to catch.” He paused as the other broadcaster spoke. “In fact, Kyle, this kid is ahead of all but two of the adults in this competition and they are both former world champions.” “You're right, look at those rankings after four rounds. This Farnstal really bears watching. I suspect next year he'll jump classes up out of the teen seedings and compete as an adult. And that'll be at only 10 years old. Now the the real measure of this kid's outstanding talent is his absolute confidence. Despite the pressure of this competition you never see him rattled or his hands shaking. And note his father's dedication to his son's career. The father doesn't smoke himself but he's become a leading expert in the game just so he can coach his son.” At the thought of his father split four years now Kyle brushed away a tear that welled and spilled over his lashes. He pressed on his cheeks and stifled a sob. Grandma smoked heavily. There was no chance she'd distinguish the odor in this room from her own burnt tobacco breath. He congratulated himself that she didn't even suspect him; at her house he could smoke as much as he wished without worry of being caught. His thought was the same every night when she came up. He wished he could stay, and still be here in the morning and feel what Grandma's morning was like; better than mamma's he was sure. He heard the loose floorboards in the hall creak under the gossamer carpet and narrowed his eyes to a practiced slit to defeat the coming light. The door opened and the expected shaft of bright hit the tall wide painting nailed to the wall to the left of the bed where he lay. Jesus was walking on storm tossed waters, his burgundy wind-whipped robe flapping about his shoulders, and he was reaching out an arm beautiful with long pale fingers beckoning a foundering ship to safety with the Pope's scepter. “If he can walk on water he can easily forgive all your bad,” Grandma reassured him those nights she came in and found him still awake. “And mamma's too? She's worse'n me.” “Now,” Grandma would rumble, “you smart aleck scamp, you just worry about you. And I've warned you about spitting that lazy Texas trash talkin'. It's talking. T-a-l-k-i-n-g. You're young and you have strong teeth and tongue, use them how God gave them you.” A beam wandered the room and he ducked his face into the pillow, evading the flashlight's glare. “Hummph,” she said, clearing her throat. “I'll bet you didn't say your prayers. Ahh, well,” and then as he'd heard her do so often before, she hummed enthusiastically off and around the key, coming closer to the proper pitch as she held the sound, bringing her tone up carefully, taking an extended run at it until she locked the note she sang on, which was still off.

383 pages, Kindle Edition

First published October 24, 2008