Page 8

Past

“ D rill!”

The word booms from Papa, and instantly, I’m running around like a chicken after its head has been chopped off.

I run to the barn’s back corner, grab the backpack and rifle hidden in the corner, and bolt through the small doggy door he built behind the hayloft.

I cut through the woods, tiny, seemingly inconsequential branches scratching at my face as I go.

The heat causes little droplets of sweat to drop from my chin down between my breasts as I sprint.

What the hell is in this backpack anyway?

I’m at our rendezvous point in under three minutes, which is a new record for me. I huff and puff to catch my breath.

Papa shows up a couple minutes later to find me leaning up against the base of a tree relaxing.

“Backpack?” he asks while eyeing the rifle. I yank it into view from the other side of the tree by its ratty strap.

He narrows his eyes. “You didn’t aim at me.”

I shrug. “I know your footsteps; I didn’t need to aim at you.”

“You always need to aim. Any man of similar size would sound the same walking through these woods.” He shakes his head, mildly disappointed.

“You are paranoid, old man,” I quip.

Years ago, I thought our drills were fun little games. A break from the monotonous schooling routine. Now, they’re just irritating. I was right in the middle of harvesting broccoli for dinner when he called drill.

“Next time we drill, that gun better be aimed right here—” he points to his heart “—when I arrive.”

“Yes, sir,” I answer. “Now, can we go eat?”

Papa holds out his hand and helps me to my feet. “Did you open the backpack?” he asks.

I shake my head. “No. Should I?” I have to ask.

Maybe one time he will say yes.

“No.” His answer is short and gruff. He always asks. And he always looks slightly afraid when he does. Relief sweeps over him each time I answer no.

One of these days, I will break that cardinal rule he stated so many years ago: the only time you open that backpack is if I’m gone. Do you understand, Kid, never open that backpack .

I understood all right.

One time he took longer than usual to meet me, and I’d decided I was curious enough to open the damn thing. I had one of the two buckles unclipped when he showed up. I’d been spanked, yelled at, and made to do thirty push-ups and pull-ups before bed that night.

I never dared to try it again. It just didn’t seem worth it. It was probably full of nothing but bricks anyway; the damn thing was so heavy.

After dinner, I’m beat. Too tired for chess. Too tired to read and too tired to think.

I kiss Papa on the cheek, he smiles and gives me the ‘I love you’ sign, his pinkie, index finger and thumb up, as I walk away and close myself in my room. I lay on the bed and stare at the beams of the ceiling.

A tiny spider sits in a small spider web at one of the beam’s intersections. I mouth thank you to it silently because I know it’s eating all the mosquitoes that come in during the night when I leave my window open.

I count my breaths. Slow and steady. In and out. One by one, always the same, yet unique, too and I wonder if in three months, when I’m eighteen, Papa will tell me it’s time to move out. To go to college like normal kids. To experience the world for myself. I like to imagine that day.

He’d help me with my duffel bag to town, where once a month, a bus comes and picks up travelers. As we stand there waiting, his eyes would glisten, but he wouldn’t shed a tear. Not until I was gone, and he was back at the cabin.

He would tell me how proud and excited he was for me, and he’d tuck some money in my back pocket just because. I’d cry. I’d cry and cling to him in a ferocious hug until the last moment when I had to board the bus. I’d tell him and he’d tell me all the things we rarely say out loud.

I love you. Be safe. I’m proud of you. You did good. I’ll miss you so much.

I would promise to send him a postcard from every stop. And then, as the bus pulled away, He’d sign ‘I love you’ and I’d wave at him until he was out of sight.

Maybe I’d sit next that boy Truman. Maybe we’d talk endlessly as the bus drove us away.

It’s a nice thought. I love Papa. I love our home, but I crave finding out what the world is like.

He has sheltered me my entire life and I know there is more to life than our home and the tiny mountain town of Moffitt.

I continue to count my breaths and stare at the tiny spider. I wonder what happens to all the blood when they catch their prey. Do spiders drink it up or does it evaporate over time while they sit trapped in that web helpless?

I fall asleep before the sun fully sets.