Boys in the Valley(2)

Father enters my field of vision, all beard and worn leather. A beat-to-hell Stetson wedged over black hair. He pulls out a chair, sits heavily. The rifle butt clunks against the floor and he looks at the old Winchester as if willing it to speak.

“Nothing?” Mother says. “Nothing at all?”

Father waits for the gun to answer but it stays silent.

“I’ll have what’s in that pot, Sissy. And some coffee.”

“It’s heatin’,” she says, stirring. She keeps her eye on the stove, off my father. “You’ve been drinking.”

I inspect him more closely for signs of drunkenness—wondering what my mother sees that makes it apparent—but nothing stands out. He looks tired and wronged, but that’s his natural state.

“Sheriff is shooting poachers. Land’s dry.” Father shakes his head. He takes off the Stetson, sets it on the table. He still holds the rifle.

I want to open the door and go to him. Sit with him and talk like men about the Sheriff and the land.

The kettle starts to whistle.

“What are we gonna do, Jack? The garden can provide some, but we need meat. Winter’s coming.”

Father runs a hand through his long hair. “Please . . .” he says, and I tremble at his voice as well as the cold. “Shut up, Sissy. Just shut up and bring me some coffee.”

I will my mother to stop. To leave him be. She knows what he’s like. I close my eyes for a moment and silently pray. Then I watch.

The kettle is screaming, and I know if I hadn’t been awake already, I would be now. The house is filled with the high-pitched shriek of rushing steam. “I see . . . I see . . .” Mother says. “You go out with the boys for two days, drinking and who knows what else. Leave me and Peter here to starve. To starve!” She screams this last at him and I see my Father’s face redden. His eyes close tight, then open wide.

“Shut your goddamned mouth!” he yells, spit flying in the lantern light like mist. “Shut it. Shut it. Shut it!”

“You’re horrible, Jack! You’ll wake Peter . . .”

Father slams his hand on the table and Mother, realizing she’s gone too far, pushed him too hard, quickly removes the kettle and pours coffee into a cup next to the stove. The reprieve of the kettle’s whistle is luxurious. “You’re a disappointment,” she says as she pours. “How dare you swear in my house. Use the Lord’s name in vain . . .”

He mumbles something. It sounds like “that’s enough,” but I’m not certain of the words. I just know he’s upset. I’ve never seen him in such a state. His downcast face is stone, his eyes black pearls.

Mother brings the coffee cup to the table. Lips tight as a pulled drawstring. “You aren’t no husband,” she says. “You aren’t even a man!”

He turns to retort just as she arrives with the cup. His elbow knocks it from her hand and the hot coffee drops into his lap.

Father screams in pain, leaps up. The chair clatters to the floor and Mother backs away, hands raised in supplication. Apologies and terror spill from her mouth.

“Enough,” he says.

I watch as Father, with a practiced and casual movement, raises the barrel of the rifle and cocks the lever with a hideous smoothness.

Mother holds up her hands. “Oh Lord Jesus!”

The eruption of the gun shatters the air.

Mother jerks backward as if tugged by the hand of God. She hits the stove with such force that the door pops open and coals fly out in a shower of sparks like burning souls. A lantern on a nearby hook crashes to the ground and fiery oil splatters the floor and wall. Frail curtains catch the hot spray and burn.

There’s a moment where time stands still, and then Father is howling.

“Oh, Sissy!” He puts a dirty hand over his mouth as the room brightens. “Oh damn it, Sissy!” He kneels beside her and sobs.

Wet heat runs down my leg and I look down to see a puddle forming around my foot. When I raise my eyes, Father is once more seating himself at the table.

One wall crawls with flame. Dark smoke rides the low ceiling like storm clouds.

Father turns his head toward my door and for a moment our eyes meet. I imagine how I must look to him. A sliver of son. A bright probing eye in the dark, watching his sins.

Father holds his eyes on me. I make a study of him. Wet eyes and mussed hair. Straggled beard. A sweat-sheened face smeared in prancing red flames. He looks away, back to my mother.

He doesn’t turn toward me again.

I want to cry out, to scream. To run to him.

My teeth chatter. I begin to moan and can’t stop.

I can’t move. I can’t breathe.

All I can do is watch.

He slowly cocks the lever of the Winchester—the very one he’d taught me to shoot with that past summer—puts the grip between his knees and the barrel’s lusterless tip beneath his chin.

Something inside me comes awake and at the last second I shut my eyes.

This shot is duller than the first.

Breathing fast and heavy, I pull open the door and stare boldly at the scene.

For a moment, I see myself as a spectator—a thin shadow shaking before a fiery dragon—crotch-stained and whimpering.

Before me is nothing but death and blood and smoke and flame.

My whole world is fire.