Page 7

DURING SPRING thaws, mud holes popped up in random areas of the far back pasture. Legend has it that our land was once part of a glacial path and could be unstable, which was probably the reason Dad had been able to pick up so much acreage at what he called a “steal.”

Unbeknownst to me, one of these mud holes appeared along the fence line, and before I could turn the John Deere, it practically swallowed Dad’s new tractor. Three quarters of the front tires and most of the frame were under the heavy muck.

I swore into the wind before I turned the engine off, hopped down from the platform, and surveyed the situation.

As I kicked the ground with each step, I figured how the bucket could be used to pull the tractor out.

Relieved that my dad wouldn’t have to know about this, and I would avoid another bruised rib, I climbed back into the seat and turned the key.

Nothing.

Shit . I hadn’t checked the gas level before I left the barn.

Dad had bragged how he spent more money on this piece of brand-new equipment than both of our cars, combined.

I called bullshit under my breath; new equipment wouldn’t have so many dents and scratches.

Even so, my new job was to clear brush along the fence line and to mend any breaks before we brought the reindeer home.

Before he handed me the keys, he grabbed my arm in his fist, lifted me enough so only my tiptoes reached the linoleum floor, and touched his nose to mine. Through the whiskey on his breath, the warning was clear: if I broke his tractor, he would break me.

The closest barn was nearly a mile walk through woods, around a pond, and across two more pastures. I had plenty of time to think. Visions of how hard Dad would hit me raced through my mind.

I always tried to brace myself for the blows far before his fists connected. If I ducked at the right time, he would miss, which would just piss him off more. If I turned, though, he would at least get my shoulder or the middle of my back, which was better than my eye.

I pushed away the bad present and dreamed of a better life after graduation.

More than anything, I wanted to be an archeologist. Glaciers and volcanoes both frightened and fascinated me.

Fire and ice, good and evil, content and angry; just like my life.

Mom and Dad and the way they lived together and hated each other confused me.

I thought people were supposed to love each other and help make the other’s life worth living.

Television shows sold a complete line of crap. No one’s life was that good. Was it?

Why couldn’t it be, though? The day I decided to open my eyes and really see—observe—their marriage was the day I promised myself to cherish that special woman I knew I would find one day.

Sally Mae Jones made my heart skip a beat every time those dark eyes flickered with mischievousness.

There was no reason she shouldn’t want to fall in love with me and accept my proposal.

I’m a nice guy, pretty good looking, I have some handy-man skills from fixing stuff around here.

I’m smart—my grades should allow me to get into the University of Alaska; I didn’t care if I went to Anchorage or Fairbanks, either one would do just fine.

Some girls let their boyfriends kiss them under the bleachers.

I wondered what it would be like to kiss Sally Mae.

My best friend—my only friend—Scott Harrison said it was like nothing else he’d ever experienced.

Once he did it, he wanted to keep doing it and nothing else could make him stop thinking about how he could make it happen again.

Scott moved to Alaska in fifth grade when his mom divorced his dad. I never asked why, didn’t care. He sat next to me in the back row and every day we found reasons to giggle about some skinny girl or geeky boy.

We laughed in class; something I had to be careful about at home. I asked my mom if he could come over to see Soloman, but she said no. That’s it, just no. No reason. All the other guys in my class ignored me, so it was nice to have a friend.

Summer loitered right around the corner; wildflowers and pine scented the air and temperatures soared to sixty degrees.

The walk to the barn would have been enjoyable with the mountain range set behind the house like you would see in a magazine, and puffy clouds which stretched to the heavens, if I lived someone else’s life.

Sunshine warmed my face enough to bring a smile to my lips; it was the little things that made me happy. A moose caught my eye in the distance, and I paused to watch it graze. Majestic, yet common, in my eyes they were the most beautiful animal in all of Alaska—maybe anywhere.

If I kept my grades up, I should be able to get money for college. That’s what Mom said. Then I’d be able to get away from my dad. I would make a good career for myself and buy my mom a house where she could stop worrying about her every move.

I knew better than to daydream; it made me lose focus of what was in front of me.

Tangled in the barbed wire, my already-torn overalls ripped even more as I shimmied between the fences.

Mom wouldn’t notice—because she had other things to worry about—but Dad would.

Anything for him to find a reason to kick my ass. Again.

Maybe every old guy hit their kids to keep them in line—so they wouldn’t grow up to be weak—and I shouldn’t whine about the pain in my body after I made a mistake. But maybe not. Scott never complained about his dad getting rough with him.

Every now and then, I decided not everyone was raised with a fist in their side and if I ever had kids, I would hug them instead.

My mom confirmed my suspicions when she told me to keep our family matters to myself; no one wanted to hear about my hardships.

For the life of me, I would never understand how she could keep letting him treat us worse than he treated the animals. At least he fed them regularly.

Expensive toys found their way into the barn and driveway even though Dad complained non-stop about how much he spent to keep the farm running. He deserved to live a better life and Mom and me were an expense he despised.

When he left the house, he dressed in the best- looking clothes, and drove a Hummer, which I think was pretty pricey.

In comparison, our refrigerator rarely held more than a gallon of spoiled milk, some cheese, and a case of beer.

Sometimes there were hotdogs, but condiments like ketchup and mustard were nonexistent.

Because Dad ate dinner at work every night, there was no need for him to spend money on food. All our meals came from the meat and vegetables from our farm. Last year, Mom and I lost so much weight we had to wear clothes a size smaller than our normal wardrobe.

I offered to help with money by taking a mowing job or helping neighbors around the yard, but she discouraged the effort.

Dad wouldn’t like other people to know we needed money.

He didn’t want his reputation ruined. Architects made a good living—from what he said—and he wouldn’t want anyone to know that his family needed a job because he couldn’t make smart financial decisions.

Twenty minutes later, I reached the barn and located the gas can. It was about half full, which should have been enough to get the job done.

“Where’s my tractor?”

Shit . I stopped in my tracks and held my breath.

Nonchalance was not one of my superpowers, but I turned and almost smiled anyway.

I pushed my glasses to the top of my nose.

“Just need a little more gas to get her back to the barn.” My voice always shook when I lied.

It was a trait I wished I could control.

Dad knew me well enough and had heard me try to lie in the past. Even though I told a half-truth, he could still tell I wasn’t wholly honest.

He stepped closer and hovered over my head, his voice low. “Where. Is. My. Tractor?” His large hand clasped my bicep and I winced. He squeezed tighter and smirked at my pain. “Now, fat-ass.”

“In the back pasture. Just ran out of gas, is all.”

“Is that all?” His voice raised and his eyes squinted.

I tried to step back, but he held me still.

“Tore up your clothes, too? What don’t you understand about respect, son?

” Spitting out the unusual term of endearment, my cheek caught the liquid, and I knew better than to wipe it away.

A sour odor oozed from his pores; he’d been drinking, as usual.

My muscles tightened in anticipation of his hand striking me.

“I spend my hard-earned money to keep you in the best clothes just for you to rip them apart. No respect.”

I turned my head as he raised his hand. With my arm glued to his palm, the blow would certainly leave a mark on my chin.

“Robbie?”

Shit, shit, shit. I would always rather take a beating instead of watching my dad hit my mom. It broke my heart that I couldn’t save either one of us from turning black and blue. When she rushed into the barn, I knew his focus would turn to her.

“Leave us be, Susie. This doesn’t have anything to do with you.”

“He’s just a kid, Robbie. Let him go, huh?”

His eyes turned dark, and he released me with a shove.

I stumbled backwards until the wall stopped my motion.

With my mom in his sights, he reached under his shirttail and backed away.

For a minute I actually thought he would leave us alone.

I relaxed for about two seconds before he brandished a small handgun.

BLOOD POURED from her head into my lap as I held her lifeless body. Thick and warm, the fluid ran between my fingers, staining my jeans and shoes. In a fog, the scene before me was simply unbelievable. I tried to wrap my mind around what had just happened.

Not in a million years would I be able to come to terms with how my dad killed my mom. He pulled a gun from his waistband, pointed it at her, and mumbled something under his breath. An explosion came from the weapon, then my mom sank to the ground. It all happened so fast.

Her dirty blonde hair flowed around my legs as her empty eyes stared up into mine. She couldn’t be gone—just couldn’t. Absolutely no way could I believe she was dead, I needed her here to show me how to live a good life. She promised she would never leave me.

“Mom, now’s not a good time to fall asleep. I need you.” I shook her and begged her to wake up. “Please. Mom.”

She turned her head—or did it turn because I shook her so hard?

The exit wound became visible, and my stomach churned.

Bits of sticky substance filled my hand.

Bile rose up my throat when I realized it was her brain.

I shuddered and just wanted to run away, but I knew if I showed fear or weakness, my dad would capitalize on his power.

“Shame suicide is so rampant in these small towns.” My dad’s voice reverberated off the heavy wood pillars. “Some people just don’t know how to handle life in the Pass.”

A puff of air beside my leg caused me to glance at the straw; he had tossed the gun. The same one he had just used to murder my mom. It was almost a tease; he knew me well enough to know that I would never find the gumption to use the firearm.

The first time he tried to teach me how to use it during target practice, I shook my head and backed away. Dad just shrugged and said, “If you want to be a pussy your entire life, fine. Suit yourself. Maybe one day you’ll listen to my advice and be a man.”

I hated using his guns when he made me hunt elk or bear.

“How sad that a mother would kill herself in front of her chubby little son. She found it impossible to be happy with all the things her husband provided. A beautiful piece of land, all the animals and tools needed to live freely—just like she begged me to give her when we got married.” He chuckled and crossed his arms. “Well, being a momma’s boy, I guess you have nothing left to live for, either.

Why don’t you hurry up and kill yourself? Come on, now, just get it over with.”

Something snapped inside me. I literally felt reality shift.

Careful not to disturb Mom, I lifted her head, scooted from under its heaviness, and rested her on a pile of straw. “Shh … it’s okay. I’ll take care of everything. I’ll take care of you.” Why couldn’t I save you?

I reached for the discarded weapon, stood, and aimed. Dad watched my every move; right up until the moment I pulled the trigger.