Chapter Text
Perhaps, Huck muses, he should have given Widow Douglas more of a chance.
Then Huck laughs quietly to himself.
Where in the world did that thought come from?
He wonders this as he slithers out the window into the night for the twelfth time this month.
The window gives its usual little creak.
Huck freezes.
Waits.
Nothing.
No footsteps.
No voice calling his name.
Good.
Carefully, he lowers himself down the side of the house before dropping the last few feet into the grass.
Freedom.
At least for a few hours.
He has to give credit where credit is due though—although he don't fully understand that saying. Heard grown-ups use it before.
Widow Douglas is trying harder than most folks that decided to foster him.
That much is true.
She feeds him.
Clothes him.
Makes sure there ain't holes in the roof dripping rainwater directly onto his face while he sleeps.
She even tries teaching him herself since school was never exactly something Pap cared much about.
Or believed in.
Or remembered existed.
Most mornings she sits him at the kitchen table with books.
Letters.
Numbers.
History.
She says things like:
"Education builds opportunities, Huck."
Huck still ain't entirely sure what that means.
But he knows multiplication is evil.
The problem ain't the food.
Ain't the clothes.
Ain't even the lessons.
It's the rules.
The constant rules.
And worse—
The feeling.
The feeling of being moved around like furniture.
Something to straighten.
Fix.
Polish.
Sometimes he can still hear her voice even when she's nowhere nearby.
Sit straight.
Wash your hands.
Don't swear.
Which ain't even fair because he don't do that much anymore.
Don't disappear.
Don't climb trees.
Don't sleep outside.
Don't act like—
Well.
Like Huck.
That last part is never said.
Not exactly.
But Huck hears it anyway.
Sometimes she invites friends over.
Then suddenly Huck gets called downstairs.
"Huck, come say hello."
"Huck, tell them what you learned."
"Huck, show them your reading."
They smile at him with sad eyes.
The kind adults use when they think they're being kind.
Like looking at injured animals.
Sometimes Widow Douglas talks about him while he's standing right there.
"He came from such difficult circumstances."
"We're making progress."
"He's adjusting."
Like he's some school project.
Or charity collection.
Still.
Compared to the others?
She's practically a saint.
That thought makes him snort quietly.
The third foster family kicked him out after three days.
Three.
Which honestly still makes him laugh.
Wasn't even his fault.
Mostly.
The bathtub falling through the second floor certainly looked bad.
But the tub simply had too much water.
And maybe too many frogs.
And fish.
And crawdads.
Which, in Huck's opinion, is exactly what tubs ought to have.
How else are you supposed to study them?
The memory makes him grin.
Widow Douglas would've probably fainted.
She's definitely better than Pap.
Pap...
Well.
Pap was a well-known drunk.
Everybody knew it.
Even folks who pretended they didn't.
Pap could spend money faster than rain disappears in summer.
Could turn mean faster too.
Sometimes Pap forgot Huck existed.
Sometimes Pap remembered.
Truth be told—
The second one was usually worse.
Pap never cared where Huck slept.
Never cared what Huck ate.
Never cared if Huck learned anything.
The only rule Pap ever seemed to have was:
Don't bother Pap.
Unless Pap wanted something.
Then suddenly Huck existed again.
Sometimes Pap yelled.
Sometimes Pap threw things.
Sometimes Pap grabbed Huck hard enough to leave bruises that made teachers ask questions Huck learned not to answer.
Pap said answering questions made problems.
Pap created plenty of problems all by himself.
Sometimes Pap would call Huck useless.
Lazy.
Stupid.
A burden.
Sometimes he'd tell Huck nobody actually wanted him.
That foster families only took him because they got paid.
That if folks knew the real Huck, they'd send him away too.
Those words stayed longer than bruises.
Bruises faded.
Words had a nasty habit of sticking around.
The worst part wasn't even when Pap got angry.
It was never knowing when Pap would get angry.
You could say the wrong thing.
Or the right thing.
Or breathe too loud.
Or simply exist at the wrong moment.
Living with Pap meant learning how to listen.
Listen to footsteps.
Listen to doors opening.
Listen to the way bottles hit tables.
Listen for danger.
Huck got real good at listening.
Sometimes even now, when Widow Douglas walks too loudly upstairs, Huck wakes up expecting shouting.
Expecting broken glass.
Expecting—
Something.
Instead he usually hears:
"Huck, breakfast is ready."
Which somehow feels stranger.
Because Widow Douglas gets frustrated.
Sure.
Gets disappointed.
Definitely.
But she never raises her hand.
Never throws bottles.
Never tells him she wishes he weren't there.
Sometimes she looks tired.
Sometimes confused.
Sometimes like she has absolutely no idea what to do with him.
But she still keeps setting another plate at dinner.
Still leaves the porch light on.
Still says goodnight.
He spent years wishing somebody would care.
Now somebody does- although it feels fake most of the time.
And somehow that feels almost just as uncomfortable.
He stuffs his hands into his pockets.
"Don't matter," he mutters to himself.
Tonight ain't about thinking.
Tonight is for breathing.
For fishing maybe.
Maybe climbing trees.
Maybe sleeping under stars.
Maybe remembering what being Huck feels like.
Ahead of him, moonlight shines through trees.
Huck smiles.
Then starts walking faster toward the woods.