Empty by Suzanne Weyn

see her father standing at the front door.
    â€œDad, turn the heat on!” Niki demanded.
    Her father trudged forward, and Niki instantly knew he’d been drinking. It wasn’t the first time she’d seen him drunk, but this time there was something wild and desperate in his expression that frightened her.
    â€œDid you have a difficult time in the city?” her mother asked cautiously, going toward him.
    â€œDifficult?” he scoffed, slurring the word. “This is my tenth interview in two weeks. It’s not dif-fi-cult anymore. It gets easier every time.”
    â€œSit down. I’ll make you something to eat,” Niki’s mother nervously offered.
    He shooed her off with a flailing swipe of his arm. “No, our baby is cold,” her father insisted. “We can’t have that. I have to get her some heat!”
    There was a frightening madness in his voice. Niki could suddenly hear just how drunk he actually was.
    â€œIt’s okay, Dad,” Niki said, wringing her hands. Her words had set him off. If only she could call them back somehow. “It’s not really that cold. I don’t mind.”
    He stumbled toward a button beside the fireplace and hit it. Gas jets ignited into blue tongues of flame around a ceramic log.
    â€œThat’s better. Thanks,” Niki said quickly. “I’m warm now.”
    â€œYes, much better,” her mother agreed. “Now let me get you something to eat, George.”
    â€œI’m not hungry,” her father replied with a rumbling, disdainful laugh. “That flame won’t last. Didn’t you know? There’s hardly any propane left in the gas tank. The price of propane gas has gone through the roof. And you can’t get any, anyway. It’s all being sent to the war effort.”
    George Barton lunged forward and grabbed hold of a straight-back chair. Niki jumped back as her father lifted the chair above his head and smashed it hard against the fireplace, sending its pieces flying. “Here’s firewood!” he announced as he pulled open the protectiveglass fire window and tossed in rungs of the shattered chair. “This will burn.”
    â€œGeorge! Stop! Please!” her mother pleaded. “That chair was an antique.”
    â€œGet used to it, Kate. This is how we’re going to be living now. If we can’t eat it, we’re going to burn it.” George Barton pulled a mirror off the wall and banged it onto the fireplace mantel.
    â€œStop it!” Kate Barton screamed, but her husband ignored her as he yanked the wooden frame from the mirror.
    â€œFire sale—everything must go!” he cried as he threw the mirror frame into the now roaring fire.
    Niki clutched her mother’s trembling arm. “He’s gone crazy! What should we do?”
    Her mother began to cry and covered her wet eyes with one hand. “I don’t know,” she admitted, her voice quavering, tears brimming. “I don’t know.”
    Â 
    An hour later, Niki stood as close to the bonfire as she could get. Her mother had been right: The night was unexpectedly frigid for September. In the fire’s jumping light, she could see Tom beside her, his face a shifting landscape of shadows. She kept hold of his hand for warmth and also for guidance, since beyond a small circle close by, everything was a blur.
    â€œYou okay?” Tom checked.
    She smiled tightly and nodded. “It’s cold, though.”
    He shifted her around so she was closer to the fire. “Better?”
    â€œBetter,” she confirmed.
    â€œYou sure you’re all right?”
    She was still shaken by the scene at her house. When Tom had finally rung her front doorbell, she’d abandoned her mother, leaving her alone to deal with her drunken, raging father. Grabbing Tom’s hand, she’d fled down the front walkway into his old wreck of a truck. Normally, she’d have been horrified to be seen