Painted Boots

by Mechelle Morrison

  I stay out of the way, watching. I’ve hardly seen my father since Monday, the day he and Kyle had their man-to-man. Kyle’s been picking me up for school all week. I’ve spent my afternoons at the Thackers’ house; dinner-time, too. Maybe my absence explains why I can’t read Dad’s expression. Or maybe I just don’t want to.

  Ray Thacker pulls a small pewter-colored plug, looking more like a chess piece than a bullet, from Rox’s flank. “Pellet gun,” he says. “A small one, though. The wound’s superficial. It scared her, more than anything.”

  Dad jabs his finger into Kyle’s chest. I flinch. Kyle’s eyes darken, like a threatening sky. “Why didn’t you call the cops?” Dad yells. “What were you doing out in the middle of nowhere? What were you thinking?”

  Kyle frowns.

  Ray Thacker says, “Best you answer, son.” He sprays antiseptic all over Rox’s rump.

  “People go up shooting all the time,” Kyle says in a controlled voice. He glances at me. “Most likely it was just a stray.”

  I gather an armful of stuff from the horse packs then slip from the barn, almost running as I head for the house. I don’t want Dad’s questions flying my way. And if Dad and Kyle are going to fight, well, I don’t want to see it. Dad left me in Kyle’s care this week because he believes my life is back to normal. Kyle isn’t suspicious only because he doesn’t know about the red cloth and black rocks and dead bird. The Thackers have mellowed about Em’s intrusive visit only because Ray thinks it gave him ‘definitive proof.’

  No one knows she was wearing my belt. No one knows about the handprint on our window or the black ribbon round our tree. No one—except me and Em.

  I’ve been telling myself all week that in the long run, none of this will matter. It was my plan to turn eighteen, tell Kyle everything and then sort it out, together. Dad would never know about the marbles and the feathers in the mailbox. And even if he found out he wouldn’t have the power to drag me off to Portland. I’d be an adult. Technically. But now, I don’t know. Everything is different, now that Rox is hurt.

  In the house I hang my coat then put away the stuff from the packs. After that I settle near the kitchen fire to think. Jesse’s leaning like a model against the counter, her thin-fingered hands orchestrating her talk. Her hair is woven into a thick braid—the curving strands shine copper in the firelight. When she laughs, her wide-set eyes crinkle. She has a nice smile, an open smile, like so many of the adults have here in Gillette. I’ve tried not to notice, but she’s pretty. Maybe even prettier than Mom.

  I wonder if Dad knew her in grade school. Maybe he knew Ray Thacker and Angella. Maybe he even knew Em’s parents. I’d bet anything he grew up in Gillette, that as a kid he knew half of the people he works with and runs into at the grocery. If he did know Jesse growing up it might explain why he fell into step with her so easily—it’s an old-friends thing. They lunch together most days. And sometimes she sleeps over, though she’s careful about it, even after the awkward sex-talk she sat in on with Dad.

  Jesse says, “You’re quiet tonight, Aspen.” I stare at my boots.

  “You could set the table,” Angella commands.

  I lift six heavy, hand-thrown plates from the cupboard near the sink, then arrange them around the dining table. Each one has a small branded-looking element at its center: a lizard, a roadrunner, a cactus, a horseshoe, a snake, an owl. The plates are beautifully glazed in natural earthy hues. I turn one over. It’s stamped AMT in an old-style letterpress font.

  “Where’d these come from?” I ask.

  “I made them,” Angella says. She wanders in from the kitchen and places a fist-full of knives, forks and spoons on the table’s corner. “The stamp’s mine. Angella Marne Thacker. I used to sell pottery, in my life before motherhood. I did art fairs and everything. I’ll make a set for you, if you’d like.”

  “I’d love that,” I mumble, but I can’t meet her gaze. For some reason her offer fuels my guilt. She asks, “Is something wrong?” and I shake my head. I wouldn’t know where to start.

  I need to talk with Kyle. I need him. But I can’t go back out to the barn. For all I know Kyle and Dad are pounding on each other. Maybe Ray Thacker is—at this moment!—asking Dad to leave. If I go out there they might question me too much. I’m not a good liar. Just a good avoider. If they pressed me I’d spill the truth, then Dad would take me back to Portland. I’d lose the happiness I’ve found here in Gillette. I’d lose Kyle.

  I gather up the silverware with careful, trembling hands and set each place, making sure the twiggy handles align with the table’s edge. There’s nothing else to do.

  It’s two a.m. when I open the door and step into the coal-dark hallway of Kyle’s house. I walk slowly, keeping one hand on the wall as I move past the master bedroom. From somewhere I catch a whiff of the peach and raspberry cobbler Angella made for dessert—the one I ate four long hours ago with the Thackers and Dad and Jesse. Over dessert Dad had asked, if it wouldn’t be an imposition, if I could spend the night. Angella looked at Kyle. Ray said, “Sure.” Jesse glanced at Dad and smiled.

  I missed Mom a lot, just then.

  I touch rough stone and pause. It’s here the hallway branches. Two more doors and I’m standing at the entrance to Kyle’s room. His door is closed, like all the others have been. I rest my hand on the knob then twist, feeling grateful it isn’t locked. Once inside, I close the door behind me.

  “Kyle?”

  Nothing.

  Is he here? I can’t tell—it’s like I’ve stepped from a cavern into an abyss. I’m tempted to turn on the light, but I don’t. Instead I move carefully forward, listening for any sound of him, hoping he’s not in the Jam. My toes brush the floor in arcing sweeps; my arms stretch outward like a mummy in old cartoons. I step onto the faux bearskin rug. My thigh bumps up against his bed. Kyle draws one deep breath and I almost cry. I climb up next to him and sit just as a wild shiver wracks my body.

  “Kyle?” I clutch at my elbows. “Are you awake?”

  The covers rustle. Kyle reaches out and pulls me down, draping the comforter over me as he gathers me close. His warmth is instant relief. I kiss him on his chin, I think, then I find his mouth. His hand moves along my side, pushing my tee-shirt up. He says, “How naked do I need to get you girl, before you’ll tell me what’s going on inside your head?”

  I burst into tears. I can’t help it. I mean, once I tell Kyle what I know, everything will fall apart. But he doesn’t ask me why I’m crying. He doesn’t say anything at all. He holds me tight, waiting, I guess, while I find words for all the secrets I’ve buried deep.

  It takes a while, but once the truth surfaces it flows in torrents, spilling from me in breathy whispers. And I surprise myself. I mean, it’s not just my belt or the dead bird or the circle of stones in my driveway. It’s not just marbles tossed against my bedroom window.

  It’s Dad and Jesse.

  The more Jesse’s around the more Mom fades away, farther from me than she’s ever been. It’s like my mother’s making room for Dad to become someone else, but I’m not ready. I don’t know if I’ll ever be.

  When I’ve said all there is to say and Kyle’s asked all he can think to ask and we’ve debated and theorized and accepted that things are what they are, we let go of talking. Kyle curls around me, humming our song in my ear. I close my eyes and drift into sleep.

  35

  Journal Entry fourteen | Aspen Brand | AP English

  I stare at my journal, tapping the bruised pink of my pencil’s eraser against my desk. Mrs. Martin says, “I’ll thank you to stop that, Miss Brand.”

  I stop, but I don’t know what to write. Since Saturday night, the night Kyle and I spent talking until we fell asleep from communication-induced exhaustion, I’m sworn to silence. I write: The silence-thing was my idea. I study the words, then erase them.

  I’m convinced that if we tell my dad what Em’s been doing he’ll drag me off to Portland. Kyle didn’t disagree. He said, “I’m willin’ t
o see if we can handle things on our own. For now, anyway.”

  So we decided that if our communication has to do with Em it’s off limits: from our friends, our parents, from everything. If we talk about Em we do it face to face, though Kyle admitted, “I’m not willing to cover her tracks for long.”

  I doodle on the blank journal page, drawing stars and flowers and thinking about everything and nothing, all at once. Some part of me understands that Em is trying to scare me. But the other part doesn’t get her game. She shot Rox! Does that mean she’s trying to kill me? And the other stuff—like the red squares of cloth. I don’t get that at all.

  When I’d asked Kyle about it, he had shrugged. “She did that once, to a girl who ruffled her feathers.”

  “And the black ribbon?”

  “Call it a sick twist on yellow.”

  “What, like yellow is a welcome home and black’s a grim good-bye?”

  “All I know is it’s a power thing. Em likes control. A lot. And something more, girl.”

  “What?”

  “She’s back in school come January. The principal called my dad and told him Em’s been a model citizen, paying her society debt. He said she’s allowed to return as long as she keeps up with her community service and remains free of trouble. I’m sure your dad knows. Our parents have probably talked about it. Your dad just isn’t saying.”

  That Em is coming back to school bothers me. I had hoped she was gone for good. But her return is not what bothers me most. It’s that Dad knows. He had to know Kyle would tell me. Why didn’t he just tell me himself?

  My dad is a secret-keeper—especially when it comes to his extended family. He hid them from me when I was growing up. He still does. I don’t know if he has brothers and sisters. I don’t know if my Brand grandparents are alive. The only thing I know is that Dad’s from Wyoming—maybe even Gillette. Maybe that’s why we moved here.

  I’ll admit, when my mom was alive his secrets seemed normal. I was younger then, and a world away, in Portland. I took it for granted that his life happened before my time. I had questions, but I learned not to ask them. Now I wish I’d been more insistent. I wish he’d gotten over whatever happened in his past. I wish he’d open up about the stuff he still hides. But he won’t.

  The truth is, I’m turning out to be a secret-keeper too. I don’t know if it’s just Dad’s example, or if it’s in my DNA.

  Dad and I have struggled to communicate since Mom died. I swear every time we turn around we’re discovering things about each other that are different from what we thought we knew. But Saturday night I found out my dad is hiding something I have the right to know—something he should have told me a week ago.

  I hold it against him even though I shouldn’t—I mean I’m no different. I hide stuff from him all the time, mostly because I’m afraid of how he’ll react if he knew the truth. But now I wonder. Do we hide things as a way of protecting the other? Or ourselves?

  Mrs. Martin’s phone quacks and I startle. My knees hit the underside of my desk. Kyle touches my shoulder and says, “What’s going on?”

  I turn around, but I don’t say anything. Can he tell, from just looking, how much I wish I could disappear into his Monet-blue eyes? If I could do that, then maybe the only thing going on would be us.

  As Kyle and I exit the building Dad’s Jeep is there, in the teachers’ lot, parked along the sidewalk curb. He’s idling even though he knows the planet’s in a global warming crisis.

  “This won’t be good,” I say.

  “Maybe it’ll just be interesting.” Kyle takes my hand.

  When we’re close, Dad rolls his window down. “Hey, baby,” he says. “Hey, Kyle.”

  Kyle nods. I smile and say, “Hi.” Dad’s wearing a leather jacket lined in lamb’s wool, a heavy pale blue denim shirt and a scratchy-looking scarf. I don’t think he’s shaved in days, but I wouldn’t know. I’ve been at the Thackers since Saturday night. The Jeep’s passenger seat is piled with work stuff: a computer, manila folders, geological maps. “What’s going on?” I ask.

  Dad laughs. “I worked through the weekend. This morning I realized we haven’t seen each other for a while. Is it okay if I take you home today? Spend some time with my girl?”

  Kyle glances at me from the corners of his dreamy blue eyes. “I’m good,” he says.

  I look past Dad to the passenger seat. “All right, but—”

  “Oh. Sorry about the mess.” Dad nods. “Hop in the back, ‘kay?”

  Kyle opens the door for me. He holds my bag as I climb in, then passes the bag across me while he kisses me good-bye. “I’ll come over tonight,” he says, and closes my door. I wait until I can’t see him anymore, then I fasten my seatbelt.

  “I’ve got a few errands,” Dad says. “Hope you don’t mind.”

  “No worries.” There’s a paper coffee cup sitting in the console next to Dad. “What’re you drinking?” I ask.

  “Oregon Chai.” He lifts the tall-sized cup from the holder and hands it to me. “It’s almost gone. Want to finish it?”

  I love Oregon Chai. Love it. It’s sugary and tastes like warm spice. Dad always has his made with whole milk, which makes the tea extra-creamy. “Thanks,” I say, taking the cup. I test the flavor, smacking my lips. After one sip more I peel away the black plastic lid and gulp the Chai down, swilling the last of it round and round before draining it into my mouth. “Delish,” I say. “As usual.”

  It’s a cold day, but sunny, and as Dad parks next to the dry cleaners the sun falls through my window, warm as a fleece blanket. I close my eyes and lean against the seat. A fuzzy, empty feeling washes over me, like the power’s out inside my head. Dad opens his door and I hear the rustle of thin plastic as he tosses his cleaning into the back next to me. He starts the engine then asks, “Feeling sleepy?”

  “Mmmmm,” I say.

  The car becomes a moving cradle, the music on the radio a distant lullaby. Dad is talking on his cell phone, though his voice is soft. I hear, “Yeah. Yeah, I know. We’re on our way.” And then I’m gone.

  36

  I HAVE TO PEE.

  I have to pee I have to pee I have to pee! I stumble out of bed, trip over something on the floor and walk into a piece of furniture sitting exactly where my bedroom door should be.

  “Ouch! What the?” For a moment I stand on one foot, rubbing my aching toe as a dull throb ignites in my head. The throb becomes a rush of pain, like my blood has been dammed and now it’s found a way to flow again. I lean against the furniture, which is covered in coarse fabric. What is it? I don’t remember anything like this in my room. I feel along its edge, trying to place it in my house. When I reach its end I stretch my hands into the dark and move forward until I touch a wall.

  I can’t find the light switch. I can’t find the way into the hall, or even see a hint of light beneath what has to be my nearby door. Why is my room so confusing? Nothing is where it’s supposed to be. I’d say I’m dreaming but my bladder knows I’m not. I’ve got to pee. So bad I’m going to cry.

  The wall makes an abrupt turn and I follow it until I reach a broad expanse of emptiness. The flooring changes from carpet to tile and I swish my hands around, keeping low, praying I’ll make contact with a toilet. When I finally touch cold porcelain I burst into tears.

  I almost lose it before I can get my jeans undone. I yank everything down, lift the toilet lid with a bang and sit, nearly falling in because I’ve lifted the seat, thinking it was the lid, and I’m sitting on the rim.

  But it’s too late to care. I zone into my childhood habit of counting and make it to ninety-four before my bladder runs dry. It’s a stupid thought, but I might be the first person in the world to pee for a minute thirty-four seconds straight. I flush—the handle seems different—and pull up my pants. Then I feel around the walls until I find a switch.

  A panel of four clear bulbs bursts with light, illuminating a bathroom I’ve never seen before in my life. The walls are papered in faux knotty pine. Two
hand towels bunch from horse-shoe rungs. Hanging below the light fixture, and framed in an old barn-wood mirror, is a view of me, dressed in the clothes I wore to school today. My hair sticks this way and that. Pillow creases track the left side of my face. Tears glisten on my cheeks.

  Where the hell am I?

  Above the toilet is a rack filled with fresh white towels and washcloths. There’s a box of tissue, bottles of shampoo and body wash on the toilet tank. Hand cleaner, toothbrushes, paste and lotion, shaving cream and feminine products take up half the counter. I wash my hands slowly, trying to back-track from this moment to the one where I got into Dad’s Jeep. We stopped for something. Laundry, right? Dad had given me his Chai. I was tired.

  No matter how hard I concentrate I can’t find a single memory more.

  I hear a soft click. Pale yellow light blossoms along the wall outside the bathroom door. I follow the light, still wringing my hands in a towel, and walk into a cramped, western-styled motel room.

  I had been sleeping in the room’s only bed. A small table, two wooden chairs, a corduroy-upholstered armchair, our suitcases and about a weeks’ worth of groceries are stacked in front of heavy, deep red drapes. Dad has pushed the couch up against what I’m sure is the outside door; the rough fabric of the couch’s back faces me. He’d been sleeping there, I guess, ‘cause now he’s sitting up, his elbows resting on his knees, his eyes oddly alert for how sleep-worn he looks.

  We glare at each other for what could be a second or a century. Then I scream.

  Dad jumps over the back of the couch like he’s been catapulted. I run at him, swinging my fists and cursing, kicking at his shins. He grabs my wrist and whirls me round until my back is tight to his chest. He holds my arms across my body like a straight-jacket. I go crazy, stomping on his feet and rearing my head against his throat. He yanks my arms so hard my shoulder pops. “You’re hurting me!” I say.