Snow Blind-J Collins 4 by Lori G. Armstrong Page B

something soothing about staring at a contained fire. In recent months I’d spent many hours gazing into the big fireplace in Martinez’s living room.
    Dad didn’t make small talk. He’d propped his feet on the brick ledge and leaned back in his chair, Wyoming Cowboys ball cap pulled low on his wrinkled forehead. Couldn’t tell if his eyes were open.
    I craved a cigarette. Standing in the subzero wind to sate my nic fit would cause him to make a snide 113

    comment, and the silence between us was at least tol-erable. I shifted in my chair. The aches and pains from the hellish afternoon were making themselves known, and I was uncomfortable in my own skin.
    “See you’re still as fidgety as you were when you was a kid.”
    When our life was somewhat normal—before my half brother Ben showed up and my mom was another drunk-driving statistic—he used to call me flibber-gib-bet, in a teasing, affectionate tone I hadn’t heard since.
    “Brittney’s just like you. Girl can’t sit still to save her life.”
    I smiled, thinking of the freckle-faced waif. “I noticed.”
    “I’m surprised you’re takin’ an interest in her.
    ’Course I’m pretty sure I know why you ain’t interested in DJ.”
    Don’t ask, Julie. Keep your fucking mouth shut.
    His feet hit the floor and I flinched. He stood to throw in another piece of firewood. Finished stirring the fire, he sat down with a sigh. “You ain’t gonna answer that, are ya?”
    Evidently he wasn’t finished stirring me up. I feigned interest in the flames, ready to fight back with words, or with my fists if he took a shot at me.
    “Ain’t surprised. You’re stubborn, just like her.”
    “Who? Brittney?”
    “No. Your mother.”
    I looked over at his face hidden in the long shadows.
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    “I don’t remember her being stubborn.”
    “That don’t surprise me neither. She was one hardheaded Norsk. Once she’d made up her mind someone was in the wrong, she’d dig in her heels and then, look out.”
    “What would she do?”
    “She wouldn’t think of raisin’ her voice. In fact, she wouldn’t talk at all, which was worse.” He adjusted his cap. “First year we were married she wanted some expensive cake pan she had to special order from Norway. I said no and told her to use a cake pan she already had. Got the cold shoulder all week. The followin’ weekend I went lookin’ for my ratchet set and found out she’d taken all my tools out of the garage, leavin’ me with one screwdriver.
    “When I demanded she tell me what she’d done with my tools, she suggested I use the screwdriver I already had. I lectured her about needin’ the right tool for the job, and realized I’d proved her point.”
    “So she bought the cake pan?”
    A pensive look crossed his face. “She bought the whole set.”
    I’d never heard this story. In fact, I knew nothing about my parents’ marriage. As a child I’d been too self-absorbed to care. As an adult I’d been too full of hate.
    “You’re getting close to the same age she was when she was killed.”
    “That’s a cheery thought.”
    “Just sayin’. . .” He shrugged. “You look like her.
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    Not a little; a lot. You could be her twin, ’cept for your eyes.”
    For the first time I wondered if that was the reason he’d become so violent. Looking at me was a constant reminder of what he’d lost. He couldn’t take out his frustration at her for being dead, so he took it out on the closest thing to her: me.
    Fucked-up logic. Probably made perfect sense to him.
    I glanced over to see his ropy forearms resting on his thighs and his face aimed at the floor. My stomach pitched as my mind returned to another memory I’d blocked out.
    The day after my mother’s funeral I’d seen Dad in the same morose position on the end of their bed. My mother’s favorite nightgown twisted in his big hands, pressed against his face while he cried.
    He hadn’t noticed me, would’ve beaten me for witnessing his grief. But