Four Deacons Drove Out My Father, So I Brought Them to Their Knees novel · Chapter 13 of 24

Chapter 13: On His Knees

He came through the back door at ten, and he switched on the kitchen light.

I stood at his counter in my church dress with my arms folded.

The key had been under the third flowerpot on his porch, where a man who has never been robbed keeps it.

Isaiah looked at my face and set his keys on the table without a sound.

"You took it from me," I said.

"Yes," he said.

"I planned it for a month. I planned every word."

"I know you did," he said.

"Four speeches in five minutes, and you left me in the dark to watch you do my work."

"Naomi," he said.

I crossed the kitchen and shoved him in the chest with both hands.

He went back a step into the refrigerator, and the magnets rattled on the door, and he did not lift a hand to stop me.

I shoved him again.

"Eleven years," I said.

"Yes."

"Eleven years, and nobody called him."

My voice cracked down the middle, and I let it.

"He kept his phone beside his plate at every supper. I watched him look at it. Every Christmas. Every Easter."

"Naomi," he said.

"It rang for me and the pharmacy and a man selling windows. It never rang for him."

I hit his chest with my fist, once, and the sound was flat in the quiet kitchen.

"Say something."

"I have no defense, and I will not make one," Isaiah said.

His voice was low and steady, and his eyes were wet.

"I had a pen and a telephone and a truck. I used the pen."

He took a breath and said the rest slowly.

"Samuel stood up with me at my wedding. He held my coat the night my mother died."

It was the first time in eleven years I had heard any of them say it.

"Samuel," Isaiah said again. "I have not said his name since the night I signed that letter."

He held my eyes.

"I am saying it in my own kitchen. If you want it stopped, tell me."

I did not stop him.

I stood with my fist still against his chest, and the name went through me.

I could not tell if I would hit him again or hold on.

"Again," I said.

"Samuel," he said.

"Again."

"Samuel Gervais. I am sorry, old friend."

I got his tie in my fist and pulled his head down and kissed him, and it was not a kind kiss.

I bit his lip until he tasted of blood, and he groaned and let me.

"I told you once I was sure of you on your knees," I said against his mouth.

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