August and Then Some by David Prete Page A

have been fifty percent of one parent and fifty percent of the other one, but seeing the faces of these people I was supposed to love—and worse, answer to—I couldn’t recognize one crease, curve or color of resemblance. And those visions of Dad hurting and burning came back. You son of a bitch. If God really is your manufacturer then I’m gonna sue the bastard for faulty design.
    â€œDon’t you say thank you to your son?” my mother asked.
    Dad lifted his can. “Here’s to us, Jake. There’s few what’s like us, and they’re all dead.”
    I said nothing. How could I? I had no idea what was really going on. So I stayed put and pushed food around my plate.
    And Danielle. Her face was pointed down at her dish. She was trying to cut her salad with a butter knife that kept slipping out of her hand.
    For the record here’s a couple other things about my hate. I’ve tried to kill it, but that’s like trying to punch out a fly—the damn thing just bounces off my knuckles and keeps buzzing around my head. And the other thing: it’s burning out my own insides.

Frostbite
    We were standing at the counter in the stationery store when my sister hauled off and punched my dad in the balls. Dad pulled a twenty out of his wallet to pay for his lottery ticket and outta nowhere … fist to the crotch. Dad folded over and held himself. Dani ran outside and the bell on the door clanged behind her. I thought, Holy fuck, did she just do what it looked like she fuckin did?
    The dazed guy behind the counter goes, “Umm … Excuse me sir … I’m sorry, but … you have anything smaller?”
    Dad said, “Keep the friggin change,” and busted out of the store.
    The guy held the twenty out to me and he said, “Tell your dad it’s on me. I hope it’s a winner.”
    I pocketed the bill and left.
    Dani was standing next to the car. Just waiting. Not for our dad to yell at her or hit her back, just waiting calmly to be let inside. Dad unlocked the back door, she opened it and climbed in. I got in the front. Dad slid in the driver’s seat, put his seat belt on, and turned the ignition. He sat with his hands on the wheel for a second, staring straight ahead. All three of us in silence.In the back seat Dani folded her arms over her chest with an attitude like don’t even think about burning my ass on this one . Dad tilted his head up to see her in the rearview, but she didn’t look back. Then he looked at the dashboard and nodded. A nod that seemed to say he knew he had that punch coming and wasn’t going to do anything about it. Nope. Not a damn thing. Not gonna retaliate, not gonna ask for an apology. Not even mention it. Just gonna put the car in reverse, pull out of the parking lot and drive home, twenty dollars in the hole.
    Â 
    A week after the lottery ticket incident—or the crotch-punching incident, or the twenty-dollar embezzlement incident, whichever way we’re gonna look at it—I woke up to my mom yelling, “Go in the bathroom, wash your hands and face and brush your teeth!” Every school morning with the accuracy of an alarm clock my mother hurled these words from behind her bedroom door into our ears. You’d think after a few years she would have cut out the “Go in the bathroom” part. Like if she didn’t specify, we would have climbed up to the attic to look for running water.
    Mom’s about five-one on a confident day, but has a set of pipes that can fill the house. She carries what little extra weight she’s got below the waist like a slender bowling pin. She looks like someone who spends a few days a week in a gym, but she’s never stepped foot in one. Her shape comes less from exercise than it does from anxiety and dread burning the extra calories. Her nervous energy keeps her hands constantly occupied, always moving things that don’t need moving. In between