The Rough-Hewn One

“Am I seeing an apparition?” Bob asked through eyes so almond-shaped that I thought he was constantly squinting. Wrinkles brought by age sure didn’t help, either.

I swallowed the thick Louisiana air, eyes roaming the shelves for Milton’s Wheat Cereal. I wish I could say I was happy to see Bob. After all, there had been a time when I ran into the store and straight to the candy aisle, the gleaming boxes of licorice and gumdrops upright, like little soldiers. Now, my childhood memories are tainted with the inappropriate innuendos between my mom and him. “It’s been too long,” I said.

Bob grimaced. He may be close to blind, but he’s still quick as a whip. “You looking for something specific?” He reveals a branch of black licorice and takes a big bite, chewing thoughtfully.

“Milton’s Wheat Cereal. For my dad.” I paused. “They didn’t have any in the Stanton grocery.”

Bob gives a slow, easy nod. “Aisle three. Talked to Jimmy lately? Your mom says you’ve been keeping a distance.”

I start taking steps. The polite chit-chat was evolving into a personal connection, and I vowed to myself that for Father’s sake, I would keep the line between my mom and my brother short. “You should know Jimmy can’t stomach me.”

Bob harumphed and set his licorice on the checkout counter, an old antique piece long worn with scratches and dents.

“Chuck three of those cereal boxes in the bag.” Before I could grab them off the shelf, my brother used one hand and swiped them into the cart. My mom gave Jimmy a stern look, but Jimmy just turned his head stubbornly and stuck his tongue at me.

“Come on, kids,” my mom said with an exasperated look; her thick cotton blouse stuck to her sweaty collarbone like some pitiful glue. I instinctively went to fix my neckline. Jimmy started clipping the back of my dusty tennis shoes as we walked to the register, but I didn’t mind. I just wanted to look at the shiny jewelry case lining the back of the store. Jimmy went straight to the old pistols at the opposite end.

“Would y’all like a lollipop?” Bob asked even though he knew we would say yes. He was already reaching for my favorite, watermelon.

Mom was staring at a tiny screen. She scratched her head. “Twenty dollars? Let’s see … Coleen, take the tomatoes and ham back. Jimmy, maybe take the bacon back too.”

“The bacon, Mom?” Jimmy whined. With one quick step, Mom took the bacon out and shoved it in his hands, leaving him no choice but to turn back. I did as I was told, staring at the crunchy wheat cereal. Mom was wise enough to leave those christened boxes alone.

Milton’s logo hadn’t changed an inch. The front was even more lackluster than I remembered: a wrinkled old man holding a bowl of floating oats. One box was open, the cardboard flaps gnarled and stained with an unknown substance. Probably an overambitious kid. I grabbed two boxes in the back and shuffled my way back to Bob, who was waiting patiently.

“You don’t want any licorice?”

“Nope.” I casually looked around. Nothing had changed. Same rotten apple smell, same softball paraphernalia on the walls …

“Dad, this feels like theft.” I paused beneath an apple tree, swatting a branch to get a better look at my dad, who was a couple of trees down. The leaves shook as he tore apples off and placed them into the basket Jimmy was holding.

“Darlin, these people won’t even miss these apples.” He gestured wildly around him, nearly knocking Jimmy in the face. “You think they would miss three measly baskets out of these hundred or so trees?”

“But-”

“No buts, darling. Just fill the basket.” By the time we finished, my hair was matted and poofy enough to house a bird’s nest. Mom would be mad for having to rake through the tangles, and I had to prepare myself for misery and tears. Jimmy was bending beneath the weight of the apples, but even at fourteen, he was enough of a macho man to grip the sides and stagger forward.

We had almost reached the end of the orchard, where the barbed fence stretched along even more pasture, when we heard a dog barking. We all looked into the distance, spotting a black mutt kicking up clumps of grass. I dropped my crate and started running, dodging the little sticks that jutted through the straw and grass. I thought Jimmy and my father were behind me, but when I stopped, the only sound behind me was a pitiful whimper.

“GET, YOU BITCH!” My father growled as he hurled apples at the dog, who had stopped running towards us. Like a pitcher, my father threw apples again and again at the poor black pup.

Jimmy had stopped. He reached for our Father’s forearm, but Father tore the prying hand off and shoved Jimmy to the ground. He continued raining hell down, evening chasing it as it attempted escape, until it lay on its side, motionless. Only the tail slowly thumped against the warm grass, like a fading clock. I think Father was just frustrated. He was just trying to protect us.

“It’s sleeping,” Father mumbled to me on our way back home. He held my basket of apples and let me view the world from his shoulders. “Say, Bug, how do you feel about learning some softball?”

…

“Total is five bucks. Dirt cheap,” Bob said. I handed him a ten-dollar bill, grasping the plastic bag.

“You know you don’t have to take care of him,” Bob said, still holding my change. “Just because you're his grown daughter doesn’t mean you have to answer to his alcoholic ass.”

I had heard the same version of this many times from my mom and my brother, so it didn’t faze me in the way it used to. “My father isn’t a monster, Bob.” I snatched my due and breezed out the door. What people didn’t understand was how my Father understood my dreams, understood that I needed protection.

...

“Stay outside,” Mom pushed me onto our porch, a four-by-four box Father had built for us when we first came to North Dakota. Poison Sumac and Ragweed had grown up through the wooden slats, despite Jimmy's chore to trim the weeds down; it was the only task he had outside. He liked being close to Mom.

The door shut behind me, and I heard my Father roaring at Jimmy. “NOW YOU GOT THE DAMN COPS SNIFFING OVER HERE.” A glass plate shattered, most likely Mom’s wedding china.

“What about em’ apples we stole? You said that was alright,” Jimmy objected.

“Stealing a gun is quite another thing, honey,” my Mom said gently. Ever since she forgot to buy liquor and wheat cereal one day, she had lost her kick. She was always gentle nowadays.

“Where is the gun, boy?” Father asked.

“I’m not telling you,” Jimmy said. I didn’t tell Father I had helped Jimmy distract Bob in his pawnshop while Jimmy slid behind the counter to grab a Glock. When I asked Jimmy why he needed it, he gave me one of his dark looks.

“WHERE. IS. THE. GUN?” Father screamed.

“Go to Hell!”

Even when I heard more glass shatter and my mom’s frantic objections, I obeyed and stood still. Even when the door opened, and I heard Mom gasping and wheezing from within, I stood still. Even when I felt no light from the house, I stood still. Even when I didn’t hear Jimmy, which with his loud mouth I always heard, I stood still.

“Father?” I asked hesitatingly.

Father emerged, reaching out his arms to wrap me around in a hug. He purposely let one of his shoulders cover my head. “Everyone is ok, Bug. Your brother just needed to be taught a lesson.” He closed the door and stood beside me, looking past the line of fir trees that protected our house and the messy gravel road. He ruffled my hair and threw me onto his shoulders, even though I was almost too big.

I looked down. I could see crystal sequins in his thinning hair. I tried brushing them off, but Father reached up and gripped my arm. “Don’t touch that Bug, it’s sharp.”

...

I gripped the worn leather of the stick shift, and my father’s old Ford truck engine roared to life. Father had insisted that Jimmy and I learn how to drive shift, and now it was as natural as being right-handed. Cranking down my window, I let one of my hands hang out the side window as I drove down the interstate. Father’s truck still stank of cigarette smoke, so rolling down the windows was the only way to tolerate it. That was, perhaps, one of Father’s flaws. And, his obnoxious way of cussing people out who drove dumb on the road. At least he couldn’t drive now.

Bend Drive fast appeared on my right, and I cranked the steering wheel in response. Just like the bullet hole making the “e” disappear from the road sign, our steering wheel always rejected one crucial element: Steering fluid.

“Damn it. That Allen neighbor was supposed to clear the driveway this morning.” The pathway was littered with sharp rocks, and for the hundredth time this month, I begged the gods for no flats. When I parked the truck under our shoddily built awning attached to our shack of the house, my father was waiting on the porch, cigar in hand, rocking back and forth on the old rocker with his eyes closed.

“Dad? I’m home.” A pang exploded across my chest when his sunken eyes popped open, revealing the blue rheumy irises and droopy eyelids. Each day, life seemed to wither a part of his body away. Today, it was the eyes. Maybe tomorrow it will be his speech.

“Were you talking to that foolhardy store owner? I told you to stay damn near away from his, Lucille.” His mouth trembled, and he already had one fist clenched as he struggled to get up.

I laid my free hand on his forearm. “Dad, it’s Jackie. Your daughter.”

My Dad’s mouth turned neutral, and he collapsed back in his chair. “Did you get Milton’s cereal?”

I held the white plastic bags up. “Yep. I’m going to put them away inside.” I switched on our one dim light bulb and stuffed the items in our cupboards. “Dad? Did you see Allen this morning? He was supposed to clear the driveway, but it looks untouched.”

“I sent him away.”

I twirled around, watching him lean against the doorframe in his attempt to get to the couch. “Why?”

“Because I can do it, Bug.”

“Dad … you can’t. Remember what the doctor said? You’re in no condition to do anything but rest.”

“That damn fool knows nothing.” Dad raised his scrawny chin, revealing his laborious, spider-thin neck muscles. It had been hard seeing his transformation. “I can take care of myself. I can take care of my daughter.”

I shook my head, trying to appear nonchalant. What did my dad know? That I had been the one to sacrifice everything to take care of him, that despite knowing what he did to my brother and mother, I loved him and looked past his sins. After all, he spared me. He loved me the most, I know, and this is why I listened to the doctors and bore his frustration and insults when he thought I was Jimmy, or Lucille. Or when I swiped the alcohol, the poison, from his lips. I smiled and brought out the cereal, placing it on our checkered tile counter. “Don’t you want some?”

Dad moved painfully slow from the threshold to the counter, watching my every move as I set a bowl and spoon beside the cardboard box. “Just like the old times, huh?” He actually chuckled, memories resurfacing behind his dying eyes, in his dying brain.

...

“Come on, Jackie!” Jimmy yelled from inside the lean-to toolshed. He was breathing heavy as he hefted one bike out. He disappeared back inside to get mine. I sat down on our porch and watched him reappear, his greasy locks sticking upright from the humidity.

“Why do you want me to come anyway? You know I’m slow,” I complained. But the idea of helping Mother with chores sounded just as awful. Even with the daily scrubbing, the house was never clean enough. I jumped down onto the ground and reached for my second-hand bike, the pretty pink streamers on my handlebars either stained or ripped out completely. I still thought it was one fantastic bike, though.

Jimmy was already zipping down the road, avoiding the potholes and other deep rivets. Our long eroding driveway was connected to other houses, so Dad always told us to strain our ears for incoming vehicles. Jimmy always had a sixth sense, but I often was so focused on not falling that I paid barely any attention to what was on either side of me.

“We have to hurry before Dad comes home!” Jimmy yelled from up ahead. I stuck out my tongue and let gravity lead me forward.

I didn’t hear the car creeping down the driveway, and I guess they didn’t see the girl in the potato sack dress as they whipped out. Even before the front bumper connected with my bike frame, I screamed bloody murder. My vision became horizontal. I didn’t catch myself in time, landing in a pothole with my bike pedals biting into my legs. I let out a guttural cry as the cursed car inched backwards to its home, stalled, and went silent.

“BUG?”

I looked up and saw my father racing towards me, kicking up clumps of grass like that dog in the orchard, and saw for the first time in my life, my father become a fearful man. He threw the bike off of me and cradled me against his chest as he raced back to his car.

“It’s ok, bug. We’re going to take care of you. I’m taking you to the hospital.” He nearly ran over Jimmy, who stared with an open mouth as my dad reversed back into the highway. Jimmy told me later that it was like an epic action movie, the way my dad flew over the rocks and gravel and flung them out onto the overarching trees. What I remembered wasn’t that, though; instead, I knew from that day forward that my dad would do anything to preserve his little girl. And I knew I would preserve him, too.

...

“Yeah, Dad.” I dunked one spoon in his cereal for my own personal treat. “Just like the old times.”