Page 10

Past

L ife is funny. While the majority of people are acquiring mortgages, cars, and retirement funds, I’ve been collecting experiences and survival skills to sustain myself. But an experience gives what you are willing to take from it. At least that’s what Papa tells me. But it seems accurate.

I’m up with the birds. The cool air will be thick and oppressive soon enough, but right now, it’s perfect. I collect the eggs, feed the goats, and check our rabbit traps before Papa shows his face for the day.

I find him in the yard on my way back from the vegetable garden. His movements controlled, and breathing even.

I used to sit and watch Papa’s Tai Chi routine in silent awe. His face and frame so relaxed for that forty-minute period that he looked like a different man. Before he taught me the martial art, it looked peaceful to me.

I wander next to Papa. He nods and pauses so I can join him. The water-like flowing movements of Tai Chi and the crisp mountain air sedate me and fill me up with that child-like peace I used to feel simply watching him.

These are the best kind of mornings. By the time we finish our slow and steady movements, my stomach is growling, and the sun has begun to heat the Earth.

Papa decides today is too hot to do much of anything, and I agree with him. It’s sweltering outside and even worse in the cabin.

Papa is tinkering around behind the house with the rainwater collection tank and I’m lying on a blanket in the shade of the barn with a book. What I really want is to go swimming.

Maybe see Truman again. Maybe this time I can talk to him more, ask some questions. Make a real friend. Maybe I can tell Papa that I’m craving a treat and could I pretty please head into town to grab us something for later.

From my spot in the barn, I hear sticks and leaves crunching and snapping under footfalls. At least two people approaching. I dog ear my page in the book and listen harder.

I can recall only three times we’ve had visitors over the years.

All of them were hikers who’d lost the trail.

The first time, Papa greeted them with a rifle. At nine years old, I’d had to muscle past him and show a wonky, gap-toothed smile as big and wide as I knew how, to get them to talk.

Apparently, most people don’t respond well to guns pointed at them. The second and third time, Papa left the gun inside but stuck right by my side while I directed them back to the trails, safely away from our property.

The people approaching are wheezing and bickering. I’m too hot to get up, so I stay where I am a little longer. They sound out of breath. I want to laugh, the trail isn’t that steep or hard to the house.

One calls out, “Toni, where the hell are ya?” I roll to my side and peek my head around the bale of hay blocking my view.

Three men.

All in black suits. All greasy and slick-looking standing between the barn and the cabin.

I don’t know who Toni is but they keep calling out the name.

The hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

These are not hikers. One fans his suit coat in and out, trying to cool off.

Their fancy shoes are dusty and dingy from the walk.

The fattest of the three puts his hands on his knees, half bent over and pants. Clearly the walk from town was on the cusp of too much for him. Again, Toni is called out. Again, it is met with silence.

I don’t dare move. Papa is only around the corner from them, just barely out of sight. I know he hears them. There’s no way he doesn’t. What is he doing?

The chickens begin to cluck as one of the men turns, facing the barn entrance, and takes three steps in my direction. I scurry silently backward, deeper into the small barn.

“Stop.” The voice is Papa’s. It’s authoritative and menacing. I shiver at his tone. A tone I’m not familiar with.

“Toni. You look alright, man. It’s been a while,” one of the men says.

“Not long enough,” Papa says.

The fat man lights a cigar, then wipes sweat from his forehead. Papa looks tough in his white ribbed tank top with a wrench in his fist. His muscles are extra pronounced as the shirt clings to him with sweat.

I think these men must be extra stupid for coming here. Papa’s gun is just a couple feet to the left against the house.

“Where’s the girl, Tony?”

“I don’t know what girl you’re talking about.” Papa’s voice drips with sarcasm.

“Enough bullshit!” The middle man shouts as he steps toward Papa. “You disgraced the family, and you disgraced hers . The war you caused ends now. Give me the girl.”

Papa looks at the middle man and cocks his head. His eyes narrow. “You always were a shit brother Sal,” he says.

My heart races in my chest. I’m sure someone out there can hear it. It’s that loud. What is Papa talking about and who the hell is Toni? Is that man related to Papa?

The fat one pipes up. “I’ll search the house.”

Papa doesn’t move. Of course, Papa knows I’m not in there so what does it matter if that fat, sweaty man goes in. The middle one, Sal, and Papa glare at each other the way wolves snarl and growl when protecting their own.

I hold my breath, scared. The skinny one takes a step toward the barn door, and I scurry farther back behind the hay bale.

Papa’s eyes glaze over as if he’s completely detached from, well, everything. He looks like he’s full of rage but also like he’s about to give up. Why isn’t he fighting? Why is he just standing there? Why does he look so resigned and not surprised?

“The girl is gone,” he says in a growl.

Those four words freeze my heart. Ice-cold blood runs through my veins. I stop breathing.

That’s the phrase.

Our phrase.

The one that is never uttered unless Papa means it. All those drills. Those are to practice for this moment. But, I’m rooted in my spot. Mind racing, heart stuttering. No, Papa. No. I’m not ready. What is going on?

“I don’t believe you,” Sal says.

“And I don’t care,” Papa retorts. A gun cocks. The sound echoes around us. “Go ahead, Sal. Shoot me. Mama would be so proud of you.” The words are not true. I can see it in his glare. Papa doesn’t mean them, but that man Sal only laughs.

“You wouldn’t know since you abandoned her when you disappeared.” I poke my head around the hay bale. “She died you know, a slow painful death.” Sal lifts his pistol and takes aim.

Papa stands tall. His free hand hanging at his side, the hand facing me, is curled into the ‘ I love you sign’ against his thigh. His middle and ring fingers curled in. His index, thumb and pinky straight.

I love you too Papa, I think.

Fight , I think.

Do something, anything. I don’t know if I’m willing Papa or myself. I have clear directives.

He said, the girl is gone . I know exactly what I must do but I can’t leave him alone.

Sal pulls the trigger. The crack of the shot splices the thick air. It bounces off the trees and barn and cabin and my brain. I don’t move or blink or breathe or scream.

Time stands still.

Papa, my father, my only family, drops to his knees. In the presence of death, everything seems to move slower. Thoughts, movements, speech…it all moves slower when death is involved.

Red runs down his forehead and drips off his chin. His body goes slack and he hits the earth with a dull thump.

I think, maybe, my entire world has stopped. Or perhaps, the entire world—not just mine.

There is no sound. No birds, no leaves rustling, the chickens are silent and the goats too. My thoughts click through like a combination lock being cracked by a thief, slow, careful, meticulous.

“Find the goddamned girl, now,” Sal commands.

I snap out of my frozen moment and crawl behind the hay bales to the opposite side of the barn, I grab the backpack, push through the Kid-sized doggy door and sprint into the woods.

I forget the rifle.