Page 115 of Poison Wood

“Dad!”

I race over and try to help, but the twine cuts into my fingers, so I end up just following him, like the three dogs.

He drops it next to the stalls, takes a pocketknife from his jeans, and cuts the twine.

“Two biscuits for each,” he says, using the term he likes.

I grab two sections of hay and take them to the first stall while he opens the feed room. I can hear him dishing out feed inside.

I toss the hay in each of the three stalls, one for my father’s old sorrel gelding, one for Debby’s mare, and then one for my old guy, Buddy. He came to us one day when our neighbor rode him up the road and said he couldn’t care for him anymore. We took him in, and he helped fill a giant hole in my heart. I was eleven.

Even though this place was a rotating foster home for cats and sometimes dogs, once the horses were here, they never left. The horses stayed until their last breath. A thought comes in so quickly I can’t stop it:Just like my father.

He comes out carrying three buckets of feed.

I grab two from him. “I can help with that.”

He keeps all three. “I’m fine.”

I shake my head. At least I know where I get it from.

He doles out the feed and locks the buckets back in the tack room. There are no more chores to be done.

When he comes back over to where I’m standing, I point to two outdoor patio chairs sitting against the tack room wall. “Can we talk?”

Butterflies flutter in my chest. I’ve covered mass-casualty events, countless murders, and car accidents, but confronting my father about this truth feels like it could cut deeper than any of those things.

He sits in one of the chairs, and I sit next to him.

“What happened with Mom?” I say.

The dogs tussle with each other in the grass in front of us. “Boys, cut it out,” he says.

I give him a second, but when he doesn’t speak, I say, “Dad?”

He keeps his eyes straight ahead. “It was an accidental overdose.”

My chest starts to feel tight. Four things I can see: the barn, the dogs, the hoses on the wash rack, the white iron fence. Three things I can hear: the horses eating, the dogs playing ... my father ... crying?

I open my eyes as he’s wiping his eyes on the sleeve of his plaid work shirt. I can’t tell if there were tears in them, but it sounded like there were. He inhales slowly, then releases it.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” I say.

He looks at me and clears his throat. “I just wanted to protect you. That’s all.”

“Lies don’t protect people, Dad.”

“Yes, they do.”

Something cold settles in my bones. I wonder if he is talking about more than my mother now. “Is there something else you’re trying to protect me from?”

“Just yourself.”

I lean back against the chair. “Why did you change the death certificate?”

“That was wrong,” he says, “I know that. But I did it when I was grieving because I didn’t want that to be her legacy. I didn’t want you to think she ... she may have taken her own life. Which she didn’t,” he adds quickly. “It was an accident,” he says again. “But I still didn’t want those words on the certificate. So I asked a friend for a favor. If I could go back and change it, I would.”

“If the media know, your reputation is about to be picked apart.”