Immediately the boys moved into action, scrambling toward the sheds, propelled by the excitement of another hunt so soon, leaving Luke alone to stare at the gnawed remains of his brother, the smoke burning his eyes, the smell taunting his belly.
To anyone watching, the small shake of his head would appear to be a gesture of sympathy, or regret.
But it was none of these things.
It was anger, pain.
And envy.
“Pa?”
The old man sat in a chair by the fire, chin on his chest as if asleep, but his eyes were open and watching the door, one hand on the stock of the rifle he’d set across his lap, the other on the neck of a bottle of rye whiskey.
Pete, right ear still ringing from the blow his father had dealt him when he’d caught the boy looking in the injured girl’s window, wasn’t sure if he should head upstairs to bed, apologize again, or just keep his mouth shut. But he wanted to hear his Pa speak, because since they’d come home, the old man hadn’t said a word. This in itself was nothing unusual, but something about the silence tonight was different. It unnerved Pete, thrummed through his stomach until he thought he was going to be sick. Even the crickets and bullfrogs seemed to sing with less enthusiasm, the birds sounding tired and wary, as if eager to warn the old man and his boy of something bearing down on them, but unable to find a song they would understand. Night had come fast too, the unseen sun sinking down behind the trees at the edge of the property, sending out a low cold and steady breeze like a ripple after a rock has been dropped in a pond. Quietly, Pete moved to the table and took a seat, his arms folded on the chipped wood among the remains of a hastily thrown together rice and corn dinner, which Pete had cooked, and had seemed to have been alone in enjoying. From here he had a clear view of his father, whose sharp profile was silhouetted by the flickering flames, but should the old man erupt into a sudden violent rage, the table was between them, and would afford the boy protection, however briefly.
“Pa?”
Slowly, so slowly Pete imagined his neck should have creaked like an old door, his father turned his head to look at him. His eyes were like smoked glass, a cold fire flickering beyond them.
“You hush up now,” Pa said. “Need to listen.”
“For what?”
His father sighed, but didn’t reply, then went back to looking at the door with such intensity that Pete found himself checking it himself for something he might have missed all these years—a word, maybe, or a carving or engraving, something that might justify his father’s scrutiny.
“You scared’a somethin’?” he asked then after giving up on the door and focusing instead on his father’s taut, aged face.
He didn’t understand a whole lot about his old man, but figured himself a pretty good judge when it came to moods. Anger was the easiest one of course, given that it was, more often than not, a whole lot of blustering, heavy breathing and cussing, followed by a couple of open-handed smacks across the head if the fault was Pete’s, and a couple of kicks in the ass if it wasn’t. Sorrow was a tougher one, but over the years Pete had learned to recognize that too. He reckoned his Pa had never really gotten over Louise—who Pete considered his second Ma—leaving him, and the boy thought he understood that. Sometimes late at night when he lay in bed, Pete would watch the stars, untainted by city light and sparkling like shattered glass in the moonlight, and go over the constellations in his mind, summoning the memory of her, imagining her there beside him, listing off all the names. Sometimes he imagined so hard he could almost feel her there, could smell that scent which had always brought to mind images of spring flowers and clean laundry as she sat next to him on the bed, her fingers stroking his hair, her other hand on his wrist. There’s Cassiopeia, she would whisper in his ear, looks just like a double-u, see it? And there’s Orion, and those three stars right there, that’s his belt. Up’n the corner, see that one look’s red? And he would nod and wait for an answer that wasn’t coming, because she hadn’t stayed around long enough to offer it, and so there his imagination would falter and the loneliness would rush in like cold water through holes in a sinking ship. But there were always dreams, and in dreams she never left him, was still here cooking mouth-watering food for them, singing with that beautiful voice of hers, and messing around with Pa, who would scowl and look irritated but only because he was struggling not to smile.
It had been a long time since Pete had seen his Pa smile about anything, and he often wondered how much of that was his fault. He knew because he wasn’t all that smart, he wasn’t likely to ever get the kind of job that could give his Pa and him a better life. He wasn’t ever going to be mayor or President or an astronaut like his second Ma had told him he could. She’d said he could be anything he wanted, just like she aimed someday to be a famous singer, but he knew that wasn’t true now, and Pa knew it too, even said as much when he’d had a few days drinking under his belt and didn’t seem to know what he was saying, or that he was saying it out loud. Coulda been somethin’ boy. Coulda been a real man, but you ain’t never gonna amount to nothin’ more than a farmboy with cowshit on your shoes and straw in your head, standin’ at that door waitin for somethin’ better to come along that ain’t never comin’. Not for you, boy, and sure as hell not for me. Pete would listen carefully to his father’s words, and feel the pain that came with them, but told himself Pa was only saying those things out of disappointment and anger, and because it was better to throw mean words at the boy than at his own reflection in the mirror. Pa had wanted a better life too, but as soon as second Ma walked out, bound for Detroit with some man Pete had only seen once, and that by accident, the old man had given up hoping for a future. He had given up, period. The woman he’d loved had left him here with a son that wasn’t of his own blood, a dying farm, and plenty of time to sit and drink and wonder why she’d given up on them.
“I reckon I am,” his father said, in such a low voice that Pete had to strain to hear it, and even then he had to struggle to remember the question his father was answering. His thoughts had set him adrift from their conversation and now he had to search quickly for the thread. He found it as he watched the old man raise the bottle of whiskey and study the remaining dregs.
Pa was afraid, and as it was a state Pete seldom, if ever, saw in him, it had the effect of galvanizing his own discomfort. He stood, shoving the chair back with his knees, and came around the table to stand beside his father. “What’s wrong?” he asked.
The old man lowered the bottle, but kept his eyes on it as he spoke. “I don’t reckon I did much of a job by you,” he said. “Don’t reckon I could even if I tried. My own Pa wasn’t much of a man neither, and never treated me right, though I don’t expect that’s much of an excuse.”
Hearing his father talk of such things disturbed Pete more than the odd silence and the sudden sense that their house had shrunk around them, but he shrugged and forced a smile.
“S’okay, Pa. Don’t nobody know the right way to do everythin’.”
His father considered this. “Maybe that’s true, but there ain’t no excuse for not tryin’.”
“You did try,” Pete told him. “You looked after me pretty good. I ain’t wantin’ for nothin’.”
A small bitter smile twisted his father’s lips. “You wantin’ for plenty, boy. Some of that I can’t do nothin’ about. Some, I reckon I could’ve fixed.”