The Gospel of the Knife | Page 7

weakness.
He nods. "That's so."
You keep staring. There must be a trick. Finally, you say, "Okay."
"Rights come with responsibilities."
"I know."
"You don't act like it."
You walked into that one. You stay quiet.
"Come on." Dad walks out without another glance at you. If you're going to mow the lawn now that the day is cooling down, you ought to put on a work shirt or your jean jacket, but you won't give him a reason to come back for you.
You hurry down the hall. Mom is putting her purse down on the kitchen table as she flips through the day's mail. Tish lies on the living room floor with a notebook open, working through math problems. George is unwrapping a brick of yellow cheese food, which Mom and Dad say is as good as Velveeta and cheaper besides.
Mom says, "What's going on?"
"I gotta mow," you say.
"Now?
Dad, going out the front door, says, "The boy needs to learn some responsibility."
Mom looks at you. "I'll make you a sandwich when you're done."
You nod, following Dad.
George looks at you and shakes his head.
Tish says, "I told you-"
Mom is watching, so you can't even scowl at the kids. You close the door with a little extra force, loud enough that anyone inside will know you're angry, quietly enough that you could say you were just making sure the latch caught.
Dad goes to the garden shed. When he slides its doors wide, you expect him to pull out the push mower. Instead, he hands you a shovel.
You look at him, but he's walking away. He stops just short of the pine tree at the back corner of the lawn. You walk over. He says, "Hand me the shovel." You lift it by the shaft. As he takes it, his hand closing just under yours, you feel his strength. You could never yank it from his grip, no matter how hard you tried.
He puts the blade to the grass, rests a boot on it, and leans forward, as easy as stepping down. He lifts a scoop out of the ground, tosses it aside, takes a pace forward, takes another scoop and tosses it, turns and takes two more paces, scoops a third time and tosses it, then turns and takes another pace for the fourth scoop and toss. He jerks his head at the holes and says, "You don't have to mow inside that."
You know you don't want to hear the answer, but you ask, "Why not?"
"Tomorrow, dig that down six feet. I'll check the depth. Then you can fill it again."
You stare at the holes. Connect them, and they make a long rectangle. You say, "Besides mowing?"
He nods. "You want to be treated like a man, you get a man's punishment. In the army, if you wised off to an officer, you got put to digging pits. That one's yours."
You say, "Because I said 'goddamn'?"
He smiles a little. "Because you're too old to spank and too young to fight."
"You say 'goddamn" all the time."
"One of the few privileges of being Dad. Not having my kids smart off at me is another."
You look back at the rectangle.
Dad hands you the shovel. "Put that away and start mowing."
The shovel is heavy. The rectangle is the size of a grave.
Dad says, "Don't make me tell you again."
You jerk the shovel up, bringing its blade between you and him. He steps back. "Fuck you!" you scream.
His eyes flick between the shovel blade and you. He's waiting for you to attack, ready for it, maybe wanting it. You hurl the shovel aside. It hits the side of the house, loud enough to surprise you both. You scream, "Fuck you! Fuck your bullshit, you motherfucking fuckhead!"
He lunges forward with one hand out to grab you, but you're already turning, already running through the Jacksons' backyard, already crying while Dad yells, "Chris! Get back here! Get back here now!"
The Jacksons keep a German shepherd on a chain, a lean dog they call Buster, but all the kids in the neighborhood call Killer. He rises up barking. You cross the circle of his territory without veering and run on. Killer keeps barking behind you.
You don't know if Dad is chasing you, but you know you're faster on foot. The last time you raced was on a beach near Miami when you were ten, and you beat him.
The red camper fires up as you cross the Jacksons' front lawn. You dart past their truck and down the dirt street. Three routes meet ahead of you: the street, the county road, and the highway. You take the road without thinking, running along the ditch. Snot pours from your nose, tears from your eyes. Between the tears and the twilight, it's a miracle you don't trip and fall, but all you're thinking is, Run. Get away. Dad'll kill you.