The Sign of Seven Trilogy Read Free

Hollow thought of his family as the weird hippies. It didn’t bother him. For the most part they got along, and people were happy to buy their eggs and produce, his mother’s needlework and handmade candles and crafts, or hire his dad to build stuff.
    Fox washed up at the sink before rooting through the cupboards, poking in the big pantry searching for something that wasn’t health food.
    Fat chance.
    He’d bike over to the market—the one right outside of town just in case—and use some of his savings to buy Little Debbies and Nutter Butters.
    His mother came in, tossing her long brown braid off the shoulder bared by her cotton sundress. “Finished?”
    â€œI am. Ridge is almost.”
    Joanne walked to the window, her hand automatically lifting to brush down Fox’s hair, staying to rest on his neck as she studied her young son.
    â€œThere’s some carob brownies and some veggie dogs, if you want to take any.”
    â€œAh.” Barf. “No, thanks. I’m good.”
    He knew that she knew he’d be chowing down on meat products and refined sugar. And he knew she knew he knew. But she wouldn’t rag him about it. Choices were big with Mom.
    â€œHave a good time.”
    â€œI will.”
    â€œFox?” She stood where she was, by the sink with the light coming in the window and haloing her hair. “Happy birthday.”
    â€œThanks, Mom.” And with Little Debbies on his mind, he bolted out to grab his bike and start the adventure.
    Â 
    T HE OLD MAN WAS STILL SLEEPING WHEN GAGE shoved some supplies into his pack. Gage could hear the snoring through the thin, crappy walls of the cramped, crappy apartment over the Bowl-a-Rama. The old man worked there cleaning the floors, the johns, and whatever else Cal’s father found for him to do.
    He might’ve been a day shy of his tenth birthday, but Gage knew why Mr. Hawkins kept the old man on, why they had the apartment rent-free with the old man supposedly being the maintenance guy for the building. Mr. Hawkins felt sorry for them—and mostly sorry for Gage because he was stuck as the motherless son of a mean drunk.
    Other people felt sorry for him, too, and that put Gage’s back up. Not Mr. Hawkins though. He never let the pity show. And whenever Gage did any chores for the bowling alley, Mr. Hawkins paid him in cash, on the side. And with a conspirator’s wink.
    He knew, hell, everybody knew, that Bill Turner knocked his kid around from time to time. But Mr. Hawkins was the only one who’d ever sat down with Gage and asked him what he wanted. Did he want the cops, Social Services, did he want to come stay with him and his family for a while?
    He hadn’t wanted the cops or the do-gooders. They only made it worse. And though he’d have given anything to live in that nice house with people who lived decent lives, he’d only asked if Mr. Hawkins would please, please, not fire his old man.
    He got knocked around less whenever Mr. Hawkins kept his father busy and employed. Unless, of course, good old Bill went on a toot and decided to whale in.
    If Mr. Hawkins knew how bad it could get during those times, he would call the cops.
    So he didn’t tell, and he learned to be very good at hiding beatings like the one he’d taken the night before.
    Gage moved carefully as he snagged three cold ones out of his father’s beer supply. The welts on his back and butt were still raw and angry and they stung like fire. He’d expected the beating. He always got one around his birthday. He always got another one around the date of his mother’s death.
    Those were the big, traditional two. Other times, the whippings came as a surprise. But mostly, when the old man was working steady, the hits were just a careless cuff or shove.
    He didn’t bother to be quiet when he turned toward his father’s bedroom. Nothing short of a raid by the A-Team would wake Bill Turner when he