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 wantedto 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 makeit 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 shecould 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 Ilied. 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.”
