be living in it.” Then she turned and stormed out of the room, did a quick pivot, and stormed right back. “Oh!” she said icily. “And another thing! I saw that toy airplane he won in a card game, and mark my words—you will never get in it . Never! ” Then she stormed out again.
6
It took two days for Dad to march into my room and cut me down to size. He knew he had gotten me in trouble with Mom and so he quickly wrangled a construction job in West Virginia for a couple days of paid work. He thought Mom might cool down, but he could have been away for two years and she would still have been just as angry. It was as if she could preserve her anger and store it in a glass jar next to the hot horseradish and yellow beans and corn chowchow she kept in the dank basement pantry. And when she needed some anger she could just go into the basement and open a jar and get worked up all over again.
When he returned from West Virginia she ambushed him in the kitchen, and after she gave him a tongue lashing a second time around I knew he’d be seeing me next. And then he walked down the hall, one loud footfall after the other in a very deliberate way, as if he was letting me know in advance that he had no choice but to do the awful thing he had been told to do.
My room was as small as a monk’s cell. I had a single bed, a dresser with an attached mirror, and a small closet, but I didn’t have a Bible. If I did have a Bible I would have been down on my knees and reading it with an angelic look on my face. The only religious book I had in my collection was the Landmark biography Jesus of Nazareth . I had it on my lap when Dad pushed open my bedroom door. He quickly stepped into my room and roughly closed the door behind him. But he didn’t look angry. It seemed to me that he had willingly retreated to my room after the scolding Mom gave him about the corn and airplane. He took a deep breath and slowly ran his hand back and forth across his mouth as if he were trying to erase it and the lecture he was supposed to deliver.
Before he could get the first word out I sat up and asked, “Hey, Dad, how come we don’t have any good information on the boyhood of Jesus?” I held up the book I was reading so he could see what I was talking about. “I mean, it seems that outside of the fact that he was entirely Jewish, we know that he didn’t have to go to school and study because God funneled all his preaching knowledge directly into his brain.”
Dad shrugged. “I don’t know,” he said, and pulled up a short stool. “I wasn’t around back then. But I wish I could cram some knowledge directly into your brain.”
“I guess that would take a religious miracle,” I ventured.
“I didn’t come in here to talk about Jesus,” he said, trying to sound stern. “I came in here to talk about gun safety.”
“What about the corn?” I asked.
“Your mom will handle that beef,” he said. “I’m here because she told me about you firing off the Jap rifle, and that’s my beef with you.”
“It was an accident,” I explained. “Honest. I didn’t know it was loaded.”
“Don’t you remember last winter when we went deer hunting and I taught you about gun safety?” he said, raising an eyebrow. “Don’t you remember anything I teach you?”
How could I forget?
* * *
It was the first Monday after Thanksgiving. Deer hunting was popular in our area because shooting and dressing a deer provided a lot of winter food for a family, so we had school off for the first day of hunting season. Through one of his friends Dad had bought me a secondhand camouflage hunting coat, pants, face scarf, and gloves so that if I stood next to a tree you would never see me—which was not good because people sometimes shoot on impulse when they hear something move, and that something could be a person.
“Itchy trigger fingers,” Dad had said, aiming his trigger finger toward me and giving it a pull, “and
6
It took two days for Dad to march into my room and cut me down to size. He knew he had gotten me in trouble with Mom and so he quickly wrangled a construction job in West Virginia for a couple days of paid work. He thought Mom might cool down, but he could have been away for two years and she would still have been just as angry. It was as if she could preserve her anger and store it in a glass jar next to the hot horseradish and yellow beans and corn chowchow she kept in the dank basement pantry. And when she needed some anger she could just go into the basement and open a jar and get worked up all over again.
When he returned from West Virginia she ambushed him in the kitchen, and after she gave him a tongue lashing a second time around I knew he’d be seeing me next. And then he walked down the hall, one loud footfall after the other in a very deliberate way, as if he was letting me know in advance that he had no choice but to do the awful thing he had been told to do.
My room was as small as a monk’s cell. I had a single bed, a dresser with an attached mirror, and a small closet, but I didn’t have a Bible. If I did have a Bible I would have been down on my knees and reading it with an angelic look on my face. The only religious book I had in my collection was the Landmark biography Jesus of Nazareth . I had it on my lap when Dad pushed open my bedroom door. He quickly stepped into my room and roughly closed the door behind him. But he didn’t look angry. It seemed to me that he had willingly retreated to my room after the scolding Mom gave him about the corn and airplane. He took a deep breath and slowly ran his hand back and forth across his mouth as if he were trying to erase it and the lecture he was supposed to deliver.
Before he could get the first word out I sat up and asked, “Hey, Dad, how come we don’t have any good information on the boyhood of Jesus?” I held up the book I was reading so he could see what I was talking about. “I mean, it seems that outside of the fact that he was entirely Jewish, we know that he didn’t have to go to school and study because God funneled all his preaching knowledge directly into his brain.”
Dad shrugged. “I don’t know,” he said, and pulled up a short stool. “I wasn’t around back then. But I wish I could cram some knowledge directly into your brain.”
“I guess that would take a religious miracle,” I ventured.
“I didn’t come in here to talk about Jesus,” he said, trying to sound stern. “I came in here to talk about gun safety.”
“What about the corn?” I asked.
“Your mom will handle that beef,” he said. “I’m here because she told me about you firing off the Jap rifle, and that’s my beef with you.”
“It was an accident,” I explained. “Honest. I didn’t know it was loaded.”
“Don’t you remember last winter when we went deer hunting and I taught you about gun safety?” he said, raising an eyebrow. “Don’t you remember anything I teach you?”
How could I forget?
* * *
It was the first Monday after Thanksgiving. Deer hunting was popular in our area because shooting and dressing a deer provided a lot of winter food for a family, so we had school off for the first day of hunting season. Through one of his friends Dad had bought me a secondhand camouflage hunting coat, pants, face scarf, and gloves so that if I stood next to a tree you would never see me—which was not good because people sometimes shoot on impulse when they hear something move, and that something could be a person.
“Itchy trigger fingers,” Dad had said, aiming his trigger finger toward me and giving it a pull, “and
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