edges as Jack reached down and scooped Mama’s hand in his.
They stepped slowly, dreamlike, fingers woven together past the red-tipped clover, through dangling dandelions and pumped-up pokeweed. Into the deep woods where bees hummed round honeysuckle and white dogwoods laced through the fresh green leaves like points of light. A few strands of forsythia lingered, and wild onion blooms kissed the path. Even the leftover irises held their breath and watched Mama and Jack walk by. They walked and walked for the longest time, and I stayed right behind them—watching my parents in love.
Jack looked up as a red-tailed hawk swept the sky. He said, “Today sure is good,” and Mama smiled back at him.
If I never have anything else, I’ll always have that. That one day, when the whole world was covered in flowers and everything sure was good.
But now, as I reach the edge of the pasture, I see Jack’s shadow cross the porch, and I can tell by the force of his steps that today sure isn’t good.
My instincts are right. I run to the house. Jack is yelling, spitting, cursing. I want to distract him, like River did the cottonmouth. Give him one target too many, send him crawling back into his hole.
Instead, I dive under the porch. I crawl between dripping pipes and creaking floorboards, trying to focus on finding coins or needles that have slipped through the cracks unnoticed. I remember the stray dog, swallowing her pups. How I tried so hard to save them.
I curl tighter and tighter in fear as Jack yells to Mama, “Enough’s enough!” and “Why do you do this to yourself?” I assume he’s talking about her stash, the medicine she gets from the farmhands. He beats Mama more, and Mama cries, “I’m sorry, I won’t do it again. I’m sorry.” She begs him to stop. She agrees to quit the habit she’s had for years. Since the wife of a farmhand gave her something to help her handle the pain of broken bones and deep black bruises. But he beats her so hard and so long that by the end, I can’t hear Mama cry at all. I want to save her. But once again, I don’t. I hide under the house, too afraid of Jack, and of what he might do to me.
An armadillo has nested here for the day. It scrambles around in the dust, and I count the mammal’s bony plates, four-five-six, as I wait for Jack to leave. I don’t dare make a sound, even when the armadillo crawls closer. When the beast notices me, he makes a hissing sound and hobbles away. But I stay still, waiting for Jack to limp away off-balance and angry, like the armadillo. Finally, Jack slams the door and stomps out to his truck. But instead of spinning away in anger, as he’s done so many times, he just sits there. I can barely see the shape of him, but somehow I know he is crying.
I climb out from under the porch and move toward his truck. I am close enough now to see clearly. Jack sits behind the wheel, engine idling, face in his hands, sobbing. I stand and stare at him for the longest time, not quite sure what to do. Part of me wants to attack this man, the way he has attacked Mama. The other half wants to drag him back into the house and force him to look at what he’s done. But more than either of those, what I really want is to understand him. He cries hard and deep, unaware that I am watching. As his breathing slows, and his body stills, I tap on the window, gently, and say, “Jack?”
He looks up at me, rolls down the glass. “You can’t fix everything, kid,” as if I have tried to fix anything at all. Then he grips the steering wheel, punches the gas pedal, and skids out of our lives again, spewing gravel around me like a shotgun blast.
As soon as Jack is gone, I race back to the house where Mama is spread across the kitchen floor like a dirty rag. Broken bottles and needles are strewn across the floor around her. Pills have been crushed beneath Jack’s boots. She can’t hide it anymore, her dependency on the god of sleep. Blood has soaked through
They stepped slowly, dreamlike, fingers woven together past the red-tipped clover, through dangling dandelions and pumped-up pokeweed. Into the deep woods where bees hummed round honeysuckle and white dogwoods laced through the fresh green leaves like points of light. A few strands of forsythia lingered, and wild onion blooms kissed the path. Even the leftover irises held their breath and watched Mama and Jack walk by. They walked and walked for the longest time, and I stayed right behind them—watching my parents in love.
Jack looked up as a red-tailed hawk swept the sky. He said, “Today sure is good,” and Mama smiled back at him.
If I never have anything else, I’ll always have that. That one day, when the whole world was covered in flowers and everything sure was good.
But now, as I reach the edge of the pasture, I see Jack’s shadow cross the porch, and I can tell by the force of his steps that today sure isn’t good.
My instincts are right. I run to the house. Jack is yelling, spitting, cursing. I want to distract him, like River did the cottonmouth. Give him one target too many, send him crawling back into his hole.
Instead, I dive under the porch. I crawl between dripping pipes and creaking floorboards, trying to focus on finding coins or needles that have slipped through the cracks unnoticed. I remember the stray dog, swallowing her pups. How I tried so hard to save them.
I curl tighter and tighter in fear as Jack yells to Mama, “Enough’s enough!” and “Why do you do this to yourself?” I assume he’s talking about her stash, the medicine she gets from the farmhands. He beats Mama more, and Mama cries, “I’m sorry, I won’t do it again. I’m sorry.” She begs him to stop. She agrees to quit the habit she’s had for years. Since the wife of a farmhand gave her something to help her handle the pain of broken bones and deep black bruises. But he beats her so hard and so long that by the end, I can’t hear Mama cry at all. I want to save her. But once again, I don’t. I hide under the house, too afraid of Jack, and of what he might do to me.
An armadillo has nested here for the day. It scrambles around in the dust, and I count the mammal’s bony plates, four-five-six, as I wait for Jack to leave. I don’t dare make a sound, even when the armadillo crawls closer. When the beast notices me, he makes a hissing sound and hobbles away. But I stay still, waiting for Jack to limp away off-balance and angry, like the armadillo. Finally, Jack slams the door and stomps out to his truck. But instead of spinning away in anger, as he’s done so many times, he just sits there. I can barely see the shape of him, but somehow I know he is crying.
I climb out from under the porch and move toward his truck. I am close enough now to see clearly. Jack sits behind the wheel, engine idling, face in his hands, sobbing. I stand and stare at him for the longest time, not quite sure what to do. Part of me wants to attack this man, the way he has attacked Mama. The other half wants to drag him back into the house and force him to look at what he’s done. But more than either of those, what I really want is to understand him. He cries hard and deep, unaware that I am watching. As his breathing slows, and his body stills, I tap on the window, gently, and say, “Jack?”
He looks up at me, rolls down the glass. “You can’t fix everything, kid,” as if I have tried to fix anything at all. Then he grips the steering wheel, punches the gas pedal, and skids out of our lives again, spewing gravel around me like a shotgun blast.
As soon as Jack is gone, I race back to the house where Mama is spread across the kitchen floor like a dirty rag. Broken bottles and needles are strewn across the floor around her. Pills have been crushed beneath Jack’s boots. She can’t hide it anymore, her dependency on the god of sleep. Blood has soaked through
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