“Slim pickin’s for company around here, Nick,” Ma said. It’s what she always said when Pa came home and asked why Uncle Ted was at the kitchen table, drinking Pa’s Budweisers and turning pink in the cheeks.
“Ain’t happy to see me, old man?” Ted stood and held his skinny arms wide for a hug, looking like a clothesline with a man’s work shirt draped over it. My dad was only two years older than his brother, but the grey at his temples and scowl lines on his forehead nearly made him fit the moniker.
“Shit. Third time this week, not givin’ me much time to start missin’ ya.” Pa pushed the paper bag he was carrying into Ted’s open arms, perhaps with more force than was necessary. Still, Ted’s smile didn’t waver. He was a little scruffy around the edges, and maybe he had a pencil neck and half a beard, but when he showed his teeth, Ted was a handsome man, God’s truth.
“Family is always welcome,” Ma chided, “’Specially on chili night.” She took the bag from Ted, put it on the counter, and started taking out cans of beans.
Pa opened the refrigerator, reached in deep, and came out with only an empty Budweiser box. “Welcome? Shit,” and he shot a sharp look at Ted. I was only eleven then, but I knew my father always had exactly as much patience as he had beers left in the fridge.
My uncle held his hands up apologetically: “Sorry about that Nicky, I’ll bring a case next time I promise. Have a bottle of whiskey I could use some help with, too. Well, half a bottle maybe. Anyways I ‘preciate the offer for dinner but I can’t stay.”
“Picked up a shift at the plant?” Pa asked pointedly, clearly already knowing the answer.
“Ah, something like that. Business anyways. Well, business adjacent.” Ted grabbed his coat from the hook on the well, started to put it on, then stopped himself. “Long ride to town, better hit the head.” He walked past Pa, patted him on the shoulder (Pa flinched), and went up the stairs to the bathroom.
The door wasn’t even closed all the way when my father turned to my mother, saying with quiet intensity, “You know I don’t want him here when I’m out.”
“Nicky, you’re always out. How can I turn away your own brother? Anyways, it gets so boring here, so far out of town.”
“Join a bible study. Put together a book club. A knitting circle,” Ma rolled her eyes at that one, “I don’t care what you do, but Ted is no good. I don’t trust him far as I can spit in a windstorm.”
“Alright honey, alright,” she said in the way that meant the conversation was over whether Pa liked it or not. Ted stomped loudly down the stairs and back into the kitchen.
“Alright Nicky, I’ll get out of your hair. What’s left of it, anyways.” Ted tapped the bill of Pa’s ballcap up, revealing his receding hairline. Pa set his jaw, glowering. Ted spun Ma around and brought her in for a tight hug, then ruffled my hair as he passed me towards the front door. “Nance,” he said, turning back, “Thanks for your… hospitality, as always.”
That’s when Ma winked.
Pa saw it; I was at the wrong angle to say for sure – it could have been a blink. Still, all the color drained out of his face as Ted left and Ma went back to her cooking, singing a chipper tune under her breath.
He stood for several seconds, looked at the empty box in his hand, the fridge, my mother. I could tell by the red returning to his ears that his core temperature was reaching a critical level. I was about to make myself scarce to escape meltdown, but I was too slow – his dark eyes turned towards me.
“Go tend to the stuffed man, Michael.” His voice was the grumble of an idling diesel engine.
I shuddered and looked at the ground. Ma, either throwing me a lifeline or not wanting to be alone with that voice, argued: “Hun, it’s so close to dinner. Can’t he do it tomorrow? He just washed! He’ll get dirty again.”
To my knowledge, Dad had never dared to raise his voice to my mother, just storing up all his volume in his belly until he could unload it on me. This was one of those times. “I HAIN’T GON’ TELL YOU AGAIN.”
I turned and slammed out the screen door at a good clip, skipped off the porch and around the corner, and then slowed to a dirt-kicking shuffle. I certainly wasn’t in a hurry to get out in that field.
We grew corn, so naturally, we had scarecrows. My mother made them herself. Their heads were wadded up plastic bags (Pa liked to joke that they still had more brains than Ma), wrapped in burlap and tied at the neck with twine. The bodies were sewn out of Pa’s old clothes, stuffed with hay, cotton batting, and whatever other old junk she was going to throw out. My father wasn’t one to get rid of a pair of jeans or a flannel shirt until it was completely unsalvageable, so the threadbare rags that she used, combined with the vicious wind that whipped through the valley, meant the scarecrows weren’t long for their jobs. It wasn’t a rare occurrence to look at the cross in the corn field as the sun was setting and see a headless silhouette, one sleeve empty of hay and flapping in the wind as if waving back – or, if you’re a child with an active imagination, beckoning for someone to come take its place.
Too young to get the words right, I used to call them “scary cows” and cry when I got near one: ”No! No scary cow! No scary cow!” It was Ma’s idea to call them “stuffed men”, thinking the term “scare” was exacerbating my anxieties. I never told her that, rather than a plush toy, the words “stuffed man” just made me imagine a fat, naked man tied up like a Christmas turkey, cornbread stuffing coming out of a bloody cavity in his nethers. Still, the name stuck.
Despite the rebranding, as a boy, I refused to go out with Pa to repair or replace the scarecrows. I didn’t even look in their direction if I could help it. That was acceptable to my parents for a while but by 8 years old, I was expected to start pulling my weight. One hot summer afternoon, Pa was taking BB gun pot shots at crows from the porch where I was whittling a three-pronged sai, like my favorite Ninja Turtle. “Lotta these bastards today,” he muttered, then cried, “That’s my corn, fuckers!” and fired off a couple rounds. That’s when he spotted the scarecrow dangling from its perch by one leg.
“Shit,” he said quietly. It was his favorite word. He said it when he was happy and when he was disappointed; when he was in awe of the Lord’s splendor and furious at the Devil’s tricks. This time it was the “shit” that meant, best get your gloves on, it was time to get to work. He looked at me. I looked out at the field, saw the task at hand, and shook my head, returning my focus to whittling. My heart was already racing.
“We’re going,” he said. And that was that. I pocketed my half-finished sai, just in case.
Ma didn’t have a spare stuffed man ready to go, so Pa just brought some rope and a staple gun. He had me carry a small bundle of hay.
I always liked the fields themselves. It was nice and cool in the shade of the corn. Sometimes I’d spot and chase after rabbits or chipmunks or snakes. The stalks at the height of summer were so tall, it felt to me like I was a hobbit in an ancient elven forest, sneaking past orcs lurking just the next row over. The scarecrow, from that angle, was never visible – the Eye of Sauron ever-present, but not an immediate threat, so long as I stayed away from the center.
Yet here we were, the two of us marching towards Mount Doom on an impossible quest. I told myself if Frodo could do it, then I could. Pa would be a better fighter than Samwise Gamgee, surely.
Before I had quite mustered my courage, we were approaching the small clearing at the center of the field, the empty cross made of leftover decking boards rising menacingly out of the soil like the sword in the stone, if it were made for a giant. The sun cast a dark, t-shaped shadow on the ground, reaching towards our hiding spot in the corn.
“Shit.”
Pa stopped before I could fully step into the clearing, so I peered through his legs. I scanned from the top down – the empty planks where the scarecrow’s head, arms, and torso should be secured; the one rope holding fast to the leg of my dad’s ratty Levi’s; the flannel shirt sewn to the top of the jeans, dangling down to the ground, some hay and fluff still giving the vague outline of a body.
At the foot of the cross, spilling out of the unbuttoned shirt where my dad’s round beer belly would otherwise be, a pink squirming mass of flesh, being pecked at by frantic, swarming crows.
“Shoo! Away, fuckers!” Pa said, flailing his arms and walking towards the scene. The birds flapped their wings and cawed.
“What is it?” I tried to say, but my words caught in my throat. When I tried again it was an embarrassingly childish shriek. “WHAT IS IT?!”
“Stay back there!” Pa shouted, kicking away the last couple of stubborn birds. They retreated and gathered at the edge of the clearing, watching us, waiting. He squatted down and examined the body of the stuffed man. I stayed back, frozen more by fear than my father’s command. Pa picked up a stick and started poking inquisitively.
After a minute, he said, “Come over here.” The calmness of his tone broke the spell, and I approached cautiously. I still wasn’t sure what I was seeing as I got to my father’s side, but it reminded me of the state fair, when they put all the greased-up baby pigs in a tiny pen right before unleashing them for the children to try to catch – only a miniaturized version. Pink, wet sacks of saggy skin climbing over and around each other, blind and scared.
“These are pups. Baby rats. Can’t be more than a day old, maybe a few hours. Mama rat must have made a nest in our friend here.” He looked around and gestured with his stick. “There she is. The crows got her, too.”
A few yards away, a black and gray rat lay splayed open, its tiny white ribs sticking out at odd angles from the gelatinous pool of red guts. There were dark purple pits where the eyes should have been. I imagined a crow digging them out with its beak and I shivered despite the heat. I looked back at the babies. Dad poked at the open shirt on the stuffed man.
“Dunno if the crows ripped him open or if the weight of the rats took him down, and they just seized the opportunity. Don’t much matter, reckon.”
“What are they gonna do without their ma?” I said solemnly. I was already imagining furnishing a shoe box into a little rat hotel, with a bed, and a food dish, and maybe some paper towel tubes coming out of it connecting it to…
“Well, they’ll die, sure as shit,” and he turned to watch my face for a reaction.
It wasn’t the meaning of his statement that hit me; my dad was a hunter and a fisherman, plus we raised chickens for food. Even at that age, I’d seen animals die countless times. It was the tone – not cold and matter-of-fact, as I’d grown to expect, but light and almost joyful. With a twinge of teasing to it, maybe. I instantly knew his game. He wanted me to crack, to look weak. It was a test. I tried to keep my face blank, imagining the statues at Easter Island I’d seen in school, willing my churning stomach to calm itself. But Pa saw something anyways.
“What, did you think we’d save them? Make ‘em pets?” he chuffed, standing and brushing dirt off his hands. “They’re rats, Michael. Vermin. Disease-ridden. They exist to feed the predators. I hate these bastard crows, Lord knows it, but if they’re good for one thing, it’s exterminating pests.” With the final word, in one smooth motion, Pa lifted his knee and brought his big brown boot down on the writhing pile of babies. There was a wet crunch and a few drops of blood flung themselves in my direction. I jumped back, fell on my ass, and watched in horror as my dad brought his boot up again and again.
“I’m doing. Them. A favor,” he said loudly between grunts. “The birds would eat. Them. Alive.”
That was about all I could stand. I ran home and cried in my room for what felt like weeks, but in reality it was only until Ma called me down for dinner. He must have told her what happened because she spoke in her “it’s okay sweetie” voice and made my favorite: pot roast. When she stuck the carving knife in, the brown-pink juices pooled on the cutting board, and I vomited.
Maybe Pa felt some remorse, or maybe Ma cashed in some of her good will in my favor, but he didn’t make me go with him to the stuffed man after that. Could be, as I was getting bigger and stronger, there were just more important things for me to do around the farm. He certainly kept me busy, but he handled the scarecrow on his own.
Until that day when Uncle Ted drank all the beers. I shuffled down the driveway, delaying the inevitable, keeping my eyes down to avoid the scarecrow, and wondering what I did to make Pa change his mind. I had been pretty good all week, getting my work on the farm done, helping Ma with the house while he was away, keeping quiet when he was home. Just then, I heard him screaming at Ma, and I realized the answer: whatever power she had over him, keeping her from raised voices, and me from stuffed man duty, had broken. Things would be different from here on, I just knew it.
I didn’t want Pa to catch me lollygagging while he was in that state, and anyways the sun was going down and I didn’t want to confront the scarecrow at night. I grabbed some duct tape, some cotton batting, and a ladder from the barn and headed off into the cornfield with a steady, determined pace. I wasn’t eight anymore. It was just some dumb old clothes and hay. I’d patch him up, string him up, and get back for chili cheese dogs, a triumphant hero returning for his spoils.
I walked right up to stuffed man, climbed my ladder, and started checking for damage. Ma had painted the burlap sack on this one with big red lips and blue eyes with long lashes; straw was glued haphazardly to the top and sides of the head. She even balled up some rags to puff out the chest of the blue button-down work shirt. A stuffed woman, then. I couldn’t help but smile at that.
None of the limbs had come unfastened. The stuffing was all holding up nicely. The clothes weren’t even damp or torn. If I had to guess, this had been out here no more than two days. It was in perfect shape. Why was I sent out here then?
I descended the ladder, put it on its side, and sat on it, peering up at the scarecrow as if it had some answers for me.
A test. Of course, it was another of my father’s tests. He wanted to see me break, to show my weakness so he could feel strong. My mother made him feel small, and he had to prove he was big, so he’s making me do this stupid, pointless errand. He wants me to come back sobbing, telling him I couldn’t do it.
I sat there looking up at that damned doll for a long time, thinking about my father, working my own core temperature up to a critical level. Fuck him. I wouldn’t break. What was I even afraid of? A bunch of trash on a stick. I was so stupid to have ever been afraid of it. Of him. I wasn’t weak. I would prove it to him. To myself.
I stood the ladder up and took out my pocketknife. I hacked at the ropes on the neck, arms, and legs until they gave way, and she slumped to the ground in a heap. Then, I hopped down and kicked her. I stomped on her head until the plastic bags came out of the burlap. I ripped at the shirt with my hands, tore out the stuffing. I took my knife and stabbed her, dozens of times, hundreds, until nothing was left of her body but scraps of cloth and a puddle of hay and cotton. Finally I stopped, sat on my ass in the dirt, panting. Once I caught my breath, I looked around the clearing. Pitch black crows stood around the edge of the clearing, surrounding me. Staring at me with their little marble eyes.
I let out a primal scream and ran at the closest one, sending it flapping frantically into the corn stalks. I chased them all out of my circle, cursing and screaming like a lunatic. When I was done, when they were all completely out of my sight, back to the pits of hell where they came from, I laughed. I laughed and laughed. Then I cried like a baby. I curled up in a ball, shaking, and let everything out of me. My shirt was soaked with sweat, tears, and snot.
It was dark by the time I recovered. I may have fallen asleep. I picked up the burlap cloth that was once a head, and looked it in the eye. This would be my trophy for my father. Just then, I heard the engine of Pa’s F-150 roar to life, and the sound of crunching gravel as he backed out to the main road. I felt a pit in my stomach, but I couldn’t put my finger on what, exactly, was wrong. I should have been happy the asshole was leaving. Hopefully forever.
I got back as quick as I could, dropped the stuff off in the barn and jogged up to the house. Pa’s truck was still gone. The door wasn’t locked so I let myself in. The chili smelled heavenly, cumin, cayenne, and garlic seasoning the air in the kitchen. I stirred the pot with the wooden spoon sitting on the counter; the chili was cold and starting to congeal. I turned the burner on. My stomach rumbled. “Did you eat already, Ma?” I called out to the empty house.
No response.
I walked through the house, flipping on lights. Nobody in the living room. My bedroom on the first floor was empty. Maybe in the shower? I went upstairs to the bathroom. The door was open and the light was off. I switched it on.
The vanity mirror had been shattered; the sink was hanging slightly askew on the wall. There were drops of blood on both. A larger pool of blood on the ground with what looked like hair. The shower curtain was off the rod and in the shower. There were bottles and hygiene products strewn all over. “Ma?” I shouted, panic starting to take hold.
I ran down the upstairs hallway to their bedroom, flinging open the door and hitting the light. She was there. On the bed. Facedown. Her blonde hair looked black from blood, which also colored her yellow dress, which had been yanked lewdly up to her back. One shoe was off and her underwear lay on top of it, thrown haphazardly on the ground. In half an instant my mind raced through what would happen next: she’d have no pulse, I’d call 911, they’d come and declare her dead, and I’d be alone with Pa. Forever.
“Hrrm.” She made a noise. I ran over to her, thought of flipping her over, saw the blood and thought better of it.
“Ma, it’s Michael, are you okay? Are you okay?” I pulled her dress down to cover her nakedness and then started checking her head wound. It was clear most of the blood was from there, but I couldn’t see how bad it was. She started to move her shoulders in an attempt to roll over, so I helped her, gently. I gasped.
Her face was unrecognizable. With all the bruising and swelling, it looked more like a bowl of plums that had gone slightly rotten. Her mouth was open and I could see some of her teeth were broken or missing. “Ma what happened?”
“Thed,” she croaked out. “Ockle Thed.”
“Uncle Ted did this?” I instantly felt white hot rage in the back of my eyes.
“Noooo” she moaned. “Noooo. Caw Thed. Caw him. Geddim heah.”
“Call Ted? Why, Ma? I need to call 911, the police…”
“Nooo!” She managed to open her eyes just a crack through the swelling, and she stared at me frantically. “Thed, Thed!” She started clawing at my shirt, repeating it over and over.
“Okay ma, okay, I’m calling him. I’ll be right back, I’ll get some… ice? Yeah ice, and some bandages too.”
The phone was in the kitchen, so I flew down the stairs and had the strange clarity of thought to turn off the stove. Then I picked up the receiver, realized I didn’t know Ted’s number, and went to the sheet of paper on the refrigerator where my mom wrote down all her contacts. Next to “Ted” were three numbers. I ripped the paper from the magnet it was under and went back to the phone.
The first number I called got Ted’s answering machine. “Uncle Ted, it’s Michael. Something bad’s happened to mom. Real bad. She needs you here, as soon as you can. Thank you.”
The second number reached a gruff, gravelly voiced man who sounded like he had just woken up. “Yeah?” is how he answered.
“Hi, uh… I’m looking for my uncle, his name’s Ted Cranson, I’m his neph…”
“Not here,” he cut me off, and hung up.
I dialed the third number. “Shot Spot, this is Kim,” came a woman’s voice, cheery but with the texture that comes from decades of unfiltered cigarettes.
“Hi Kim, I’m looking for my uncle Ted, it’s important.”
“Sure honey, one sec,” her voice got further away from the receiver, “Ted! Sounds like a kid. Are you not here for this one?”
“A kid?” I could just make out his voice in the distance. “I always pull out honey, ain’t got no kids. Knock wood.”
Kim came back. “What’s your name, sweetie?”
“Michael. Tell him my mom is asking for him. Right away!”
Kim, away from the receiver: “Says his name’s Michael, his mom needs you. Sounds urgent.”
“Fuck. FUCK!” Ted shouts. “Tell him I’m coming. Sticks, Jonboy, we got business. Let’s GO! Shut the fuck up! I’ll cover those. I’ll pay for ‘em, ALRIGHT? Take ‘em with you then, Jesus Christ!”
“He says he’ll be right there, Michael. Buh bye. Hey you can’t leave with…“ There was a click as she hung up and I stared at the phone for a moment, unsure of what to do next.
A moan from upstairs snapped me out of it and I burst into action. I put a glass in the sink and started the cold water. I grabbed an ice cube tray and the hand towel from the stove. I turned off the tap and took the full glass, the ice, and the towel upstairs. I sat on the bed and tried to hand Ma the glass but she couldn’t handle it without spilling, so I tipped a bit into her mouth. I set it down and popped some ice cubes out, wrapped them in the towel. I put it on what I thought was the most swollen bump on her head, then gently placed her hand on it to hold it in place. Then I went to the bathroom to find bandages to stop the bleeding.
From the bathroom window I saw headlights poking holes in the solid blackness where the road wound through the woods outside the farm. They blinked like morse code as they cut through tree trunks, but I couldn’t catch the message. Could be Ted, I thought. Could be Pa. Could be fucking Santa Claus.
I didn’t have time to wait and watch; I found some gauze, some Bandaids of different sizes, and a few clean towels. I also found some antibiotic ointment which Ma would always put on my skinned knees when I fell off my bike.
I got back to Ma, and she had dropped the towel full of ice, strewing the cubes on the bed. I put my fingers under her chin and felt a pulse. That was good, at least. I gently parted her hair where most of the blood was coming from. I daubed it with a towel… not good enough. I took the cup of water and dumped some on the area. That cleared it up enough to see a deep gash, still bleeding. She’ll need stitches, I thought. I put some antibiotic on my finger and gently dabbed at the wound, nearly gagging. Ma moaned from the pain and I stopped.
“Shit shit shit, sorry Ma. I don’t know if I can do this!” I heard a car door slam.
I ran to the bathroom window, which had a view of the driveway. It was my father’s truck. He had the passenger door open and it looked like he was gathering some things together, but I couldn’t see what. He went to the bed of the truck, and I could see clearly what he grabbed, there. A shotgun. He leaned it against the truck and went back to the passenger door.
A cold lightning strike of fear hit my spine. I remembered his red ears, his gravelly voice, the shouting. My nerve endings screamed at me: don’t let him in. I ran downstairs and slid the deadbolt on the porch door. I checked the locks on the windows, locked the side door and the rear one. I wished that I had left the lights off.
I thought again of calling 911. Ma was so adamant that I don’t, she was pleading with me – but she was also seriously injured and possibly out of her mind. Yes, I decided. She can be mad at me all she wants while she’s recovering, but if she dies, I can’t forgive myself. I started for the phone again.
“Michael!” It was Pa, from the porch. “Michael, why’s this door locked? Michael, open it! Hurry up!”
Carefully, I walked towards the front door, slinking against the wall. I could see Pa peering through the window on the door. I prayed that he couldn’t…
“Michael! I see you there! Stop playing, this isn’t a game! Open the fucking door! Quick!”
Years of obeying my father battled against my instincts for self-preservation. I knew if I didn’t open it in the next few seconds, it was better if I never did – he’d be so angry, he’d probably just kill me.
“Pa, I can’t,” I shouted back. “I’m scared. What happened to Ma? What did you do to her?”
“Do to her? Are you fucking serious?! Stop this bullshit and open the door!” He banged and banged on the door, so hard that I thought it would cave in. Then, he stopped, and his voice was a much calmer. “Okay. Okay, Mikey. I get it. You found her like that and assumed it was me. Makes sense. Good boy, protecting your mama. But you’re wrong, okay? I found her like that, just like you. I woulda told you but you were gone, nowhere to be found, so I went to get some medicine and someone who can help.”
“Why didn’t you call 911?”
“I tried! I tried and it wouldn’t go through. I dunno why, I swear to God, Mikey. I had to drive down to the station myself. They are on their way, but I need to get your mama this medicine, RIGHT NOW. This is life and death, you hear me? It can’t wait!”
I wanted to believe him so badly. I didn’t want to live in a world where my father would do that. I didn’t want to have that poison in my bloodline, waiting for me. But I remembered a hundred little moments. Flashes of anger, outbursts of violence quickly forgiven and forgotten. I heard Ma crying when she thought I couldn’t hear her. I saw bruises that she laughed off. I had plenty of my own.
“Alright, Pa, I believe you. But I need to be sure. I’m going to call 911 and then…”
“NO!” Pa bellowed and at the same time, a booming gunshot, and the window exploded. I dove on the ground and covered my head.
Pa used the butt of the shotgun to start clearing off the remains of the window. “Stupid, stupid boy! You have no idea! I’ll fucking kill you!” His big brown boot stepped through the window, and my fight or flight system failed me. I was paralyzed on the ground, praying I could run, but all the muscles in my body had just given up. His head pulled through next, and he smiled at me – or rather, bared his teeth in a primitive show of rage.
Then I heard another gunshot, a rifle if my hunter’s ears were right, and the grin melted to a look of confusion. He dropped his gun and fell through the window on his face, right there in the kitchen. I heard a yip and a holler from outside. Feeling returned to my legs and I was able to get up and run up the stairs to the bathroom window.
It was Uncle Ted, his rifle still in hand, getting back patted by two bigger men I had never seen before. They started walking up to the porch, shouting obscenities at Pa.
“You better hope you’re dead already Nicky!” Ted said.
“Please still be kickin’, we ain’t done yet!” Yelled one of the other men.
I went back downstairs, and saw that Pa was still moving, but barely. His arms were scratching at the floor in front of him. A pool of blood was forming around him and he was muttering, “I can’t move my legs. I can’t move my legs.” Over and over.
Ted poked his head through the window. “Hey there Mikey! We made it! Can you open the door so we can finish this?”
I thought about refusing. Maybe I did have it wrong. Maybe Pa wasn’t a monster – maybe the monster was smiling that handsome smile through the window at me. But accepting that reality would mean that I ruined everything, that I got my Pa killed and possibly Ma as well. I couldn’t live with that reality. Opening that door for my uncle was just as much an act of survival as refusing to open the door for Pa. So I slid open the deadbolt.
Ted came in first and ruffled my hair. Then he kicked Pa in the ribs. The other men came in without even a look at me – they spat on my father and started beating him, with bats and boots. That was about all I could stand. I went upstairs to check on Ma. She had made it onto her side and was reaching a shaking hand for the glass of water on the bedside table. I don’t know when I had started crying, but I became aware there were tears continuously running down my face, and I felt a brief, foolish moment of shame that my mother might see.
“Ted’s here. They are hurting Pa.” The corner of her mouth seemed to curl up in what I guessed was a smile. I got the water and poured some into her mouth. “He did this to you?”
She moved her head ever so slightly, which I interpreted as a nod, and I felt a rush of emotion. A combination of relief that I didn’t just get an innocent man killed, and utter hatred for my father. Suddenly I wished I was downstairs, smashing a boot on his head myself. “Alright, I’ll go get Ted and we can get you to a hospital. I’ll be right back.”
When I got to the kitchen, the violence had subsided for the moment. Pa was still gurgling on the ground. His arm was bent in a sickening way. The men were debating what to do with him. A case of Budweiser was open on the table, and all three were sipping bottles.
“Cleanest just execution style. Put a tarp down, gun to the head, bang. Put him in the ground.”
“Fuck him, skip the first part and just put him in the ground alive.”
“We could still get the authorities involved,” the largest one said.
“Fuck off,” said the other two, derisively.
“I know,” I offered quietly from the stairs. This startled them. They didn’t know I was there. “Put him in the tarp. Alive. I know where to take him.”
Ted looked at me, considering. “There’s more to ya than meets the eye, huh kid?”
I shrugged. “Put him in the tarp. I’ll meet you in the driveway in a minute. If you got flashlights, grab ‘em.”
I collected the things I needed and got there just as they finished dragging Pa on the tarp. He was making noises still. He couldn’t quite form words but he was making pleading sounds. He was pathetic. “Follow me.”
We went out into the field, the guys half-carrying, half-dragging the tarp. Every furrow in the tilled field caused a bump that made Pa whimper. I liked that.
We got to the center when the moon was high in the sky, and full. The crows stood like statues around the clearing, bearing witness. I did not chase them away.
The cross stood where I left it, empty.
“I like where this is going,” said Ted.
“Strip him,” I said, and they did. I opened one of the bags I brought, took out a squeeze bottle of honey. I emptied it out on Pa’s stomach, eyes, and, in a sudden stroke of deranged genius, his crotch. Then I opened another bag and poured bird seed all over his fat, naked body. The crows flapped their wings, anticipating, but they remained patient.
“String him up.” And they did.
When I got back to the house it was near dawn. Ma had died. From the porch I could see Pa’s pale body, still half-covered in frenzied black crows. I watched it for a good long while.
“Shit. They are good for one thing,” I said to nobody.
In a trick of the dim dawn light and the flapping wings, it almost looked like one pale arm lifted and waved at me. Or beckoned.