Clement Binnings / Binnings / Jr. Angel Through the Storms

1. Auflage 2011
ISBN: 978-1-4835-5582-9
Verlag: BookBaby
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: Adobe DRM (»Systemvoraussetzungen)

E-Book, Englisch, 384 Seiten

Riveting, multi-layered - Angel Through The Storms delves into the loveless realities of child abuse and molestation; it illustrates the mass abandonment experienced by refugees suffering and dying on the sweltering streets of New Orleans in the wake of Hurricane Katrina; it depicts the psychological and spiritual travesties that result; it offers up hope and healing through a love too rare for any ordinary human to share; it births angels through the storms. SYNOPSIS 'Gotcha this time, lil' girl! Ain't no gettin' away!' Fisherman Sinker Parrish finishes off the seventeen year rape of his innocent daughter, Lola. Lola is a pure being, an intuitive, a crystal child some might say. Introverted, she suffers from PTSD and when threatened, psychological dissociation. Dissociation is her way of escape from the storms of her life. Diving deep into the internal realm of her soul, she is soothed by angels. When she flees the desolate marshlands of Louisiana to New Orleans, she learns that she is pregnant with her father's child. Despite the horrific manner of its conception, the growing presence within her body makes her glow with uncommon radiance. Lola's landlords, their priest, her obstetrician and a psychic are drawn to her mystical quality. Dr. Luc Fontainebleau delivers her angel in the flesh, Grover, a 'keeper of the flame,' to the world. When Lola falls in love with Luc, her father re-enters her psyche and her life. She goes missing, dramatically separated from her lover, and their budding romance drowns under tumultuous waves that culminate in Hurricane Katrina. Those who endure, with the aid of Grover's mysterious influence, witness a greater truth about their 'angel in the storm.'

Autoren/Hrsg.

Clement Binnings, Jr.

Binnings, Clement

Jr.,

Leseproben

1 Evacuations: The Early Storms Nuclear, seething, blazing with purpose, the sun flattens, melting into the silhouette of cypress along Toledo Bend’s Texas shore. Its yellow-orange reflection glistens off the surface ripples, pointing like a compass needle toward the eyes that perceive it, the eyes of Claude Parrish looking back. “Hey Claude, come on.” He turns his head forward and trudges up the slope. Halfway to the road he looks back one more time. The sun is gone, its afterglow darkening from tangerine to silver-gray like a part of him is being extinguished. He stumbles onward with his four cackling high school buddies toting rods, tackle, strings of bass and an ice chest full of beer toward the cabin. Their nonsense disturbs the serenity of the forest air, frightening birds out of the trees and squirrels into them. Jerry, a 285-pound galoot, playfully jabs Claude in the ass with the tip of his fishing rod, unwittingly snagging his pants and thigh with a treble hook. “What the fuck you doin’, asshole?” rips Claude. The hook yanks at his flesh. His eyes blacken, his forearm muscles harden, his grip clenches the handle of the tackle box, and like a discus thrower he slings it at Jerry’s head. Jerry ducks and the box smacks a tree—hooks, leaders, lures and an assortment of tools scatter into the oak leaves. “Hey man—I was just messin’ wit ya!” Jerry’s arms are up, surrendering. The hook’s barb, tugged by tension on the line, stabs and tears at his tissue, and Claude trips over the rod it’s tied to. He falls flat onto his face, sliding downward on the leaves, his hand sweeping the ground where it collides with a plastic bag filled with lead sinkers. Palming the load, he suddenly jumps back up and smashes it into the center of the big boy’s forehead. Like Goliath, Jerry falls hard onto the tree roots where he lies motionless with his eyes rolled back. Wild-eyed, the others guffaw loudly, bending over, gawking. Rusty blurts out, “Shit man—is he breathin’?” He squats and inspects. “His chest is movin’.” He peers up at Claude who stands tall, looking down at them with a pitiless scowl, his hand still clutching the bag of lead. Rusty points to it, laughing. “Sinker! Yeah, that’s what we’re gonna call you—Sinker!” Lester says, “Shit man, he’ll sleep it off. Let’s eat. I’m starvin’.” They stagger to the cabin, leaving Jerry in his coma while they drink beer and play bourré throughout the night. Jerry awakens in the hospital three weeks later, never to be the same. But Claude’s new nickname sticks. Those who revere and fear the beast in him call him “Sinker,” a name he embraces as a title of respect. Those who hate him call him “Sinker,” hoping to see him flushed down with the rest of humanity’s wastes. 8 Fifteen years later Lola halfway sleeps in her bed, a ray of her consciousness ever vigilant to the sounds of the night. During her eleven years of life, she has been conditioned by fear and want for love. It’s 2 a.m. Her mother, Cecelia, has fallen asleep on the living room couch while waiting for Sinker to come home. On payday, she never knows when or if he will, but if he does, she knows she must be awake and ready to serve his desire, whatever it may be and respond immediately or have hell to pay. But tonight she is exhausted and her sleep is sound. The slam of the truck door reverberates through Lola’s awareness. She opens her eyes and glares into the dark. There is no nightlight. She has learned that it makes her too visible. She listens. Sinker’s stomp onto the porch is unmistakable. The latch retracts, the doorknob squeaks, and she waits. Lola measures her breaths, ready to dive into the deep if required, to follow the whisperings of an inner voice beckoning her into a subterranean refuge where the blasts of surface storms are perceptible only as muted percussions from an alien and scary world. Cecelia does not rouse. Livid, Sinker reaches across the coffee table, snatches the front of her robe and jerks her up out of her sleep. “What’s your problem, bitch? Get your lazy ass in the kitchen and fix me something to eat!” The brown drool oozing from the corner of his mouth spreads solid bits of alcohol-laden tobacco down his chin and neck, the smell and sight of it all too familiar. Yet Cecelia sits frozen, paralyzed for an instant, unable to predict the consequences of any word or action she might initiate. Unpredictability is his power. Sinker’s stance is wide, braced for action, his six-foot-four frame pulled forward by the mass of beer gut curling over the waistline of his jeans. The whites of his beady brown eyes are red with anger; his dark curls are matted on the side of his head with dried blood. A thick tan hide, weathered like a well-worn work boot, is laced tightly around his soul. Cecelia knows it’s coming but doesn’t scream—that would only infuriate him more and attract the attention of neighbors and the Shreveport police, a scene played out too many times before. Suddenly he lifts her, drags her across the coffee table and casts her onto the floor where she slides into a pole lamp that falls. The bulb bursts. Lola hears the pop and shatter; the floor and walls rattle into her bones. She slips out of her bed into the darkest corner of her room and rolls her petite body into a ball, shivering. Sinker rams his boot so hard into Cecelia’s tailbone that the shape and pattern of his Vibram sole swells maroon on her buttock as her head collides with the baseboard. She covers her face with her hands, pleading, “Please. Please don’t!” He stands poised with his leg cocked. She cries out some more, “Don’t! You’ll wake Lola!” “I don’t give a shit about Lola!” “Your little girl?” “I never wanted that scrawny mute!” He thrusts his boot into her stomach leaving her curled up and grunting on the floor. Spitting a wad of tobacco onto the wall, he thunders into Lola’s room. There she is, right where he expects to find her, balled up in the corner between her bed and the wall, hugging herself. His monstrous frame pounds the floor joists as he attacks, scooping her up with hands the size of baseball mitts and hurling her like a medicine ball at the opposite wall. Her body smashes a circular crater into the sheetrock before it thumps to the floor. He stomps back out. Lola remains on the floor, her arms locked around her flexed legs. She’s fully conscious, but not to the external world. The crash of her head against the wall switched on internal floodlights, filling her inner world with blinding light, illuminating her ascent to a non-place where the physical simply does not exist. It is here that the voices of angels soothe her—not in words, but in sounds, symphonic sounds flowing, celestial sounds no ear could ever hear, sounds vibrating within and beyond her being, sounds harmonizing all that she is with the Supreme Being she perceives in this blessed moment, sounds that move angels in their perpetual dance of joy around her. Sinker kicks and shoves Cecelia with his feet over the shards of glass into the kitchen while she sobs her questions. “What did you do to her?” “Just making sure she stays put.” “You hurt her, didn’t you?” “She ain’t hurt.” He grabs a dishtowel and wipes flakes of dried blood off his scalp. Cecelia senses that his rage might be spent. “You okay, baby? What happened to your head?” “Whadda you care?” “I care. I swear, baby. I care.” She reaches up to him, her teardrops coalescing and rolling down her cheeks. “Let me fix it.” “You can’t fix this. That son of a bitch fired me!” “Again? He’ll come beggin’. You’re the best foreman he’s got.” She’s relieved it’s the boss and not her he’s mad at. “Ain’t gonna happen—I beat the shit outta him! We’re movin’ on.” Cecelia gets onto her knees and pushes herself up, her eyes on Sinker, watching for any sign of further attack. “Let me fix you a plate and clean up that nasty cut.” He sits down on the dinette chair, brooding. “I’m my own boss from here on out. Ain’t nobody gonna tell Claude Parrish what to do—ever again!” Cecelia relaxes and puts some leftovers on the stovetop to heat up, then starts to leave the kitchen. “Where’re...