The chill I was waiting for came, and it penetrated my whole being like an iceberg up my ass. I’d heard enough rumors to know what “deplored elsewhere” was code for; it would make Siberia look like a day at the beach.
Weston smiled benevolently at me. “Please give my regards to both Doctors Davenport. I understand your mother isn’t doing so well these days. Do be careful, Cadet Davenport . . . another loss, like your brother’s, would be catastrophic to your mother’s well-being.”
With one final warning pat, Weston strode from the room and closed the door with a resounding thud.
A paranoid is someone who knows
a little of what’s going on.
1
ALARM BELLS
Ah. Home sweet home, I thought as I scraped off the remaining traces of mac-and-cheese into the plastic bucket under the sink. I was getting ready to wash the dishes, me being the only dishwasher our house had. And by “house,” I mean the trailer kind, without it even having the excuse of being a doublewide. It could be worse though—we didn’t live in an actual trailer park. Although living in a trailer park certainly had its advantages: they generally had community pools and were within a stone’s throw of civilization.
Nope. We lived an official eleven point five miles out of town limits, on almost two hundred acres of dry pasture, located on the wrong side of New Mexico—the one without enchantment. This barren land, in the plains of Eastern New Mexico, was what my father was bound and determined to cultivate (without the benefit of an irrigation system, I might add). I mentally rolled my eyes at the number of hair-brained schemes our father endeavored to make his living at since leaving the military, ranching being the latest and greatest, and the one that seemed to have stuck, unfortunately. I thought ruefully of all the chores involved and shuddered.
Things didn’t used to be quite so awful. When Mama was alive. She would’ve given us breaks from the monotonous chores we set our clocks by, taken us to an afternoon movie in a cool theatre, put some clothes on layaway before school started.
My throat started to feel tight. I will not cry, I will not cry, I repeated this mantra over and over, willing the tears away.
“Katie-girl!” my father bellowed from the living room. “Time for bible readin’!”
I pictured his sunburnt face in my mind, the exact way he would be kicked back in his king’s recliner with a popcorn bowl balanced on his belly, and a sweating sody-pop, set carefully on a coaster next to him.
“Aw, come on!” Andrew protested. “Let’s finish till the end tonight—it’s still summer-time.”
Andrew was the only Connelly kid who could get away with “back talking” Daddy. But just a little. Sprawled across the sunken-in couch, he was dividing his time between perusing his library book for more information on his growing bug collection and listening to sound bites of World War II.
Last (and least) would be Mikey, lying on the linoleum floor. He was tossing puffs of sweet cereal into his mouth while inspecting their latest acquisition: a buzzing cicada. It was trapped in a jelly jar with punched-in holes in the lid—tonight’s honored guest.
Daddy started to lecture about “yearnin’ for learnin’ more than pearls.” And nobody could conjure, nor butcher, a bible lesson like my father, so I intervened before he really got going.
“Daddy,” I called from the sink, up to my elbows in dirty dishwater. “I ain’t done with the dishes yet.”
“You can finish afterwards. The boys gotta get on to bed . . . Mornin’ comes early.”
“Yes, sir,” I auto-answered. “But there’s a little bit of that strawberry ice cream leftover . . .” I knew his sweet tooth would be our best bet at getting our way.
During the pause that Daddy habitually used to make us sweat it out, I dried my hands, Mikey grumbled that strawberry was the worst flavor in the world, and Andrew began asserting his opinion that Rocky Road was the best.
“It’ll give me time to finish dishes and take out the trash while y’all finish your program and eat your ice cream,” I said, plunking frozen chunks of pink into bowls.
“Well alrighty then, Katie-girl. Just this once . . . Bring it on out to us.”
“Yes, sir.”
I was on my best behavior since returning from summer camp. I wanted to reward Daddy for rewarding me with that unprecedented slice of freedom. A smile curled my lips at the thought of my first real kiss. Right in the piney woods. Right after campfire. It was a doozy. Well, at least a doozy of a guy, I amended. Abercrombie and Fitch material all the way. If my old friends could’ve seen him, they would’ve swallowed their tongues.
A crisp whack from a rolled-up Farmers’ Almanac, followed by an outraged protest from Daddy’s usual scapegoat, Mikey, interrupted my thoughts.
“You can’t sit on the couch and eat at the same time.” My father had a strict no-drip policy where it came to food and furniture. Even though our couch cost less than most girls’ handbags.
“Yes, I can!” Mikey insisted.
“Whatdi’jasay?” My father released the lever that dropped his boots to the floor.
“You have the ability, but not the permission.” Andrew cleared up the confusion.
“All I wanna hear from you boys is yessir.” This was my father’s standard reply in a situation like this, being of the “Children Should Be Seen and Not Heard” school of thought when it came to parenting. Andrew was the only exception seeing as how he was exceptional.
“Yes, sir” was immediately forthcoming from the exception-to-the-rule, a boy who knew which side his bread was buttered on.
Daddy threw Mikey a dark look when he didn’t respond as prompted—a dark look reserved for his dark boy. Mikey retaliated by folding his arms into an X, his lips pulling in to form a tight seam.
Uh-oh. I knew the end to both these beginnings.
Daddy pushed pause on the remote (never a good sign). Andrew and I exchanged glances. He immediately went to peel Mikey off the floor, moving him to the other side of the couch . . . and farther away from Daddy’s boots.
“Three bowls of scrumptious ice cream comin’ up!” I barreled in, practically throwing a bowl into Daddy’s lap and another into Mikey’s.
Andrew said, “Hey Daddy, didja know radar was first developed to use as a death ray weapon to destroy enemy airplanes?”
Keeping Daddy’s mouth and hands occupied was essential to Mikey’s health and wellbeing.
“Huh? Yup. Think I might’ve heard somethin’ along those lines.” Daddy pushed play, popped his footrest back into position, and commenced to eating.
I handed the last bowl over to Andrew, and now we exchanged smiles of relief. I was struck again by his intelligence and little-boy beauty. His skin shone lustrous with good health, his blue eyes marbleized with green and framed by lashes a shade darker than his cornhusk hair.
Daddy always liked to claim Andrew like a winning lotto ticket, using him like a badge you flash to cut in line. “This here’s my boy!” was almost always the first thing out of his mouth. Good manners allowed me next: “Katie’s my girl. Don’t let the purty face fool you . . .”—wait for it—“she’s meaner’na Rottweiler!” This, his go-to public joke.