WILLODEAN (THE CUPITOR CHRONICLES Book 1) by Fowler Robertson Page B

She sang the same song every time.  Bad Moon Rising by CCR.  At first, we were like, “What’s happening?” but then we just joined in with her.  I felt sad for Bonnie sometimes but she never talked about it.  I’m pretty sure it was her pink elephant. 
    I thought my family was poor until I went in side Bonnie’s house.  Come to find out, we were living high on the hog in comparison.  It was a run-down plain, white frame house, loose shutters and a dirt yard with not a blade of grass. The inside was as barren as standing in the middle of a rock canyon listening to the eerie swirl of the wind howling. The only furniture was a ratty old loveseat and a few scattered pillows pushed up against the wall.  The floor was unfinished concrete and scattered with Nate’s broken toys. Lucinda and Nate shared a room with one mattress draped with purple sheets and a black bed cover. Bonnie tried to make her room homey with what she had.  The walls were lined up with library books at the baseboard across one whole wall.  A single twin mattress was draped with a faded purplish sheet and a flat pillow with a peace sign pillowcase.  It was neat and tidy.  The bathroom dripped with death from every rusty pipe.  What struck me most about the hollow house, was there didn’t seem to be any attachments to personal things or relationships for that matter.  No personal items, no pictures on the wall, no rugs, no knick-knacks, no comfort items—just nothingness. I feared for a second they were common squatters who had found an abandoned house.  I don’t remember a time when they actually had electricity.  During the daylight hours, they kept all doors and windows open.  Crumbs of food were scattered everywhere as if no one had swept in years.  Or maybe they felt sorry for the roaches and left them the crumbs.  No oven or stove top, just a Coleman’s camping stove on the cabinet and a squat refrigerator from the forties with a hum so loud it sounded like the ring of a gong that was stuck.  There were rat traps in corners, on cabinets, mixed in with toys, and stuck inside holes in the wall. No air conditioner and no heater. Dead bugs littered the floor, cabinets, everything.  I was in a state of shock when I got home.  Then in gratitude, I went through our house touchin g each precious item as a gift.  From that moment onward, I l ooked at my parents differently.  I saw dad’s callous hands from working two jobs and moms tired feet from standing all day at the department store.  And that night, when I laid in my comfortable bed with expensive comforters and bed sheets, I felt a tinge of overabundant thankfulness, but at the same time, I felt sorrow.  It was hard to sleep that night, but once I did, I dreamt the wind howling in a fury through empty canyons and it would turn into a scream, Bonnie’s scream, and then my screams, and then both our screams.  I woke up in a pool of sweat. 
    I heard those screams all over again, ricocheting in my head, inside the car, on the way home from the skating rink that night, when Lena had the nerve to blame Bonnie for me asking a question about pink elephants.  Of course, I freaked out. 
    “No. Mother.” My tone was a smidgen away from getting side slapped.  When I call Lena,   mother; I’m pretty much done anyway. She didn’t like my backtalk and gave me a glare.  “Bonnie can’t afford  to go skating.” I said hearing the wind howl in my ears.  “ They barely eat. So no—I didn’t hear it from Bonnie or while hanging out with Bonnie.”
    She cut me another glare that melted into concern.  Mentioning food rationings or lack of, always concerned her.  “Well, that’s probably her mother’s fault and that…that …man.” Her lips twisted so hard she could barely finish her sentence.  Lena proceeded to ramble on and on about nothing, until it made no sense whatsoever.  I never heard a peep out of Mag in the back seat.  She was content to not stir