Page 9 of Tormented Heir

“It’s for her,” Mama cries. “She has lost everyone, and Dimitri is all she has left. What does it matter to you? You are the one he calls Papa. You don’t love him, or me, but yet you demand it in return of us. All you want is control. To be the one in charge. You’re the one he wants to go hunting with. You’re the one he asks to help him with his homework. Let the old lady have her daydreams.”

“She hasn’t even been to visit in two years. Perhaps it is time to tell the boy the truth about his sniveling father. I still have the note.”

“No.” The word is a horrified whisper.

My blood has turned to ice. Tell me what? What note?

Mama sounds terrified and sad at the same time. “I swear, if you do, Anton…”

He laughs, and it sounds like a rusty blade being sharpened. “What? You’ll leave me? You already have, Vera. You walk around this house like a beautiful apparition. You’re here in body but not in spirit.”

“What do you expect? You think I don’t know? About the dowdy farmer’s wife down the valley that you’re plowing whenever he’s not there? Or before that, the servants, one after another.”

Fucking hell. She knows?

I flashback to seeing Papa screwing the servant over his desk. I didn’t really know what it meant back then, but a few years later I came to understand. I grew scared they’d split up and we’d go back to Russia, which is often on the news showing people waiting in line for rations of bread.

I knew from Russian Nonna’s letters how hard things were. It’s why I never shared the secret; it's been eating me up inside instead.

Did Papa know I disliked him deep down? Did he pick up on my disdain, or did he truly think I wanted to go hunting with him? Perhaps he really is blind to everything but his own wants, because it must have coated every glance I shot his way. Carried itself on the air between us whenever I spoke. It lived in the house with us, a dark, malignant presence.

The sniffing noise from the kitchen tells me Mamma is crying.

“Those women mean nothing. It’s just what men do.”

“Weak, pathetic men,” she snarls. “They aren’t even as beautiful as me. You have a true beauty under your roof, and you go and rut with the red-faced farmer’s wife. You’re pathetic. Lower than low.”

“Maybe you should ask yourself why I do it?” Papa says. “If you weren’t such a frigid bitch, I wouldn’t have to, would I?”

There’s a crack. The sharp sound of skin against skin. My body tenses.

“Touch me again, woman, and you’ll feel my fist.” The growled words carry up the stairs.

My stomach drops. If he hits Mama, I’ll kill him.

“I think we should get a divorce,” Mama’s voice is soft and shaky.

“Fine by me. I hope you’ll enjoy the Russian winters.” Papa’s laugh is as cold as the frost glittering on the ground outside.

“I won’t be going back to Russia, asshole. I’ll be going to America, to be with my sister. You’ll have nothing. No wife. No son. Nothing. Who will inherit this place? Huh? Who will carry on your memory? No one. You have driven them all away. Now you’ve done the same to me.”

The sound of a chair crashing to the floor echoes in the room, and I’m moving before I think about it. Papa hit Mama.

I grab the axe by the door, placed there for Papa to chop wood around the side of the house, and race into the kitchen.

I raise the axe, but it drops to the floor with a clatter. I’ve let go, my hand slack.

In front of me is Papa, on the floor by the fallen chair. Mama is bent over him, her hands fluttering like butterflies over his face and chest.

“Anton? What’s happening? Anton?” She shakes him and sobs.

Papa’s face is twisted, and he’s gurgling but not speaking.

Mama turns to me, her face white. “Call the doctor, Dimitri. Now.”

I race into the hallway and use the phone there to dial the doctor.

By the time he arrives, it is too late.

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