The Hero’s Sin Read Free

coat of paint. Aunt Felicia’s husband—Michael never had been able to think of the man as his uncle—would normally have taken care of those chores, but he’d been dead for three months.
    If Murray were still alive, Michael wouldn’t be here.
    And then only a screen door separated Michael from the house where he hadn’t been able to find refuge. The doorbell didn’t sound when he pressed the button so he rapped on the frame and waited. He heard voices and laughter. It seemed he’d misjudged Aunt Felicia, but it was too late to turn back.
    “Just a minute.” He recognized the gentle, slightly melodic voice of his great-aunt.
    He held his ground, wiping his damp palms on the legs of jeans too warm for the balmy summer night. He smelled molasses and brown sugar and guessed she’d baked a shoo-fly cake, her specialty, for her guests. Time seemed to stretch before she came into view. Considerably grayer and smaller than he remembered, shemoved slowly toward the door, then stopped as though she’d slammed into a barrier.
    “Michael?” Her voice trembled. “Is that you?”
    “It’s me, Aunt Felicia.”
    Her hand fluttered to her forehead to the exact spot where he knew his injury was, and he guessed he was black-and-blue. “Your head…”
    “It’s nothing.” He shrugged to underscore his words.
    He waited for her to invite him inside, but she just stood there staring at him. His throat felt so thick he wasn’t sure he could speak. He hadn’t seen her since his eighteenth birthday, the day Murray had kicked him out. That had been nine years ago.
    He squinted. The years had taken their toll. Through the screen of the door, she looked every one of her seventy-plus years.
    “I thought you were in Africa,” his aunt finally said, her voice no steadier than before.
    He swallowed. “I only just got back to the States. I thought you should know I’m in town for Johnny’s wedding.”
    He owed Aunt Felicia that much. She’d taken him in during that dark time after his mother had overdosed. Even though his aunt hadn’t been able to stand up to her husband in the end, he still remembered her trying to explain.
    “If it was just me, you could stay,” she’d told him, tears trickling down her papery cheeks. “But I’m worn out from arguing with him about you.”
    Michael had claimed to understand but hadn’t. Not back then. Back then he’d wanted somebody to want him. That’s probably why he hadn’t protested too longor too hard when Chrissy insisted she was leaving Indigo Springs with him.
    Nine years, he thought again. Chrissy had been dead for eight of them.
    His aunt didn’t say anything now, her mouth working but no words emerging.
    He cleared his throat. “Johnny told me about Murray. I’m sorry.” It was the truth. Michael didn’t wish anybody dead. Not even Murray.
    “Felicia. It’s your turn.” A woman’s voice floated from the direction of the living room.
    “Bridge night,” his aunt explained.
    “Who’s at the door anyway?” A different, louder voice. One that sounded familiar.
    “No one,” his aunt replied quickly, the answer stabbing through him like a jagged spear. She blinked a few times, shifted from foot to foot, her hand fluttering to her throat. Her eyes seemed to plead with him. “You understand I can’t invite you in.”
    “I understand.” He gave the same answer he had years ago, but this time it was the truth. Aunt Felicia’s friends would be Indigo Springs long-timers. She had good reason to be ashamed of him. “I just wanted to be the one to tell you I was in town.”
    Once he showed up at the wedding, the buzzing would start. It wouldn’t take long for word to reach Aunt Felicia.
    “Where are you staying?” she asked.
    “A hotel outside of town.”
    “Felicia!” A different voice this time. “We’re waiting.”
    His aunt’s face twisted with an emotion he couldn’t identify.
    “You’d better go,” he told her and backed away from the door, chiding