Lineage by Joe Hart Page A

rain, revel in the sun! But there was only silence that met him, unhindered in the small room.
    Lance hobbled over to the entry, scanned it quickly, and made his way back down the hallway to his parents’ room. He reached out and grasped the knob, the memory of the last time he had entered their room floating to the surface of his mind.
    He’d been doing almost the same thing that he was now, looking for his mother. He’d come home from school early, the trundling yellow bus that so often left him at the foot of their long drive over twenty minutes late had been sparsely populated that day. The stops had flown by until it was Lance’s turn to step down the three long steps onto the brown snow that coated the edge of the road.
    When he had entered the house and looked into the kitchen, he was surprised at the absence of his mother. She was always there, waiting with a small treat for him when he arrived home. It was their ritual. One of the things he looked forward to on the weekdays when it was just the two of them in the little house. His father picked up odd handyman jobs with a local contracting company most days of the week and he rarely came home before suppertime most nights. That hour or so after each school day was precious to him. There was no yelling. There were no cold fingers gripping his arm as he was reeled inexorably closer to a mouth that breathed foul air and threats. There was only his mother, a cookie or two, and the silence between them. At times Lance wished that his mother would speak to him as she sat at the far end of the table, sometimes puffing mindlessly on a Virginia Slim, the smoke dancing around her blank features as it wove pictures before her that only she could see. But he knew it was fruitless to try. This was what they had. An hour, and a sugary sweet. Nothing more, nothing less.
    On that particular day he had stripped off his outside clothes, hanging them up to dry near the door before walking into the kitchen. There was nothing on the table to signify that his mother hadn’t forgotten him and when he listened he heard no sound within the house but for the creaking of the rafters and floorboards as a particularly strong February wind buffeted the house from the west.
    He had gone silently across the kitchen and placed his hand upon the cold doorknob of his parents’ room and twisted it. The door had opened only an inch before a sight that stopped his breath also stayed his hand.
    His father stood motionless several feet in front of the bedroom door, his back to Lance. He was shirtless and barefoot but still wore a soiled pair of jeans that hung off of his stick-like frame as if he were more scarecrow than man. Lance’s mother was huddled beneath the blankets of the bed that ate up most of the small room, her bare shoulders hunched in fear, a line of blood running freely from the right side of her torn lip. Lance only glanced at his mother before returning his gaze to what had stopped him dead from opening the door in the first place.
    A blanketed patchwork of scars so dense and thick that it looked as if his father were wearing a pink and puckered cape ran down the entire length of his back. They began gradually just below where the neckline of a shirt would ride and spread out in a sweeping swath that covered Anthony’s thin lats and disappeared, as if they had been tucked in to his pants line. Some of the scars were narrow and delicate like someone had done calligraphy there with razor, while others were wide and deep like the paths of ancient rivers, running seemingly without end from an inexhaustible source. 
     Lance gazed upon his father’s ruined flesh and wondered how a person could have survived after enduring something as such. Without realizing it, he drew his breath in sharply, partially in fear and partially in revulsion, and the wind passing his teeth made a small hissing sound.
    Without pause, Anthony had spun and pulled the door fully open, exposing Lance in the