Protector by Laurel Dewey Page A

herself two shots of Jack Daniels, downing them one after the other. Within minutes, the ache in her head became bearable. Jane opened the living room windows to release the pent-up stench of beer, rotting leftovers and other debris. She moved with purpose around the living room and worked her way into the kitchen, collecting discarded beer and whiskey bottles, cardboard take-out boxes and chucked them into a large garbage bag. As always, the repetitious movement put her into a kind of Zen state. Once there, her focus was on whatever memory chose to rear its ugly head. To drag her out of this trance was pointless. She was thrust back in time to a place that was as real as when it happened. The smells and sounds were as acute as when the misery was fresh. It had gotten so bad lately that anything could trigger the memories. To be back in the moment again—this time as a witness to the vicious beating—was like reliving the trauma anew. Every time she emerged from the memory, she felt that she was missing a piece of herself. Post-traumatic stress disorder. That’s what the psych counselors at DH called it. But Jane balked at the label. For her, it was just another tight fitting box that somebody wanted to force her into.
     
    Suddenly, another memory snuck up on Jane. It wasn’t the usual one that haunted her soul. She’s twelve. She and her father, Dale, are in the living room watching To Tell The Truth on the TV with the tobacco-stained screen. They sit apart, Jane on the sofa and her father in his recliner, puffing on his cigarette and knocking back his fifth whiskey of the night. It’s not just a television show; it’s a study in human personality traits. It’s two people lying and one telling the truth.
     
    “Watch the fucker on the left,” her father says pointing at the screen with the lit end of his cigarette. “See how he licked his lips when Kitty Carlisle asked him that question about how long he’s been in business? That’s nerves. It’s a simple question. And there! Watch! Did you see that? The fucker looked to the left for a second. He’s not telling the truth. Neither is the bastard in the middle. It’s the one on the right. The one on the fuckin’ right!” he yells toward the screen.
     
    Young Jane leans forward, elbows embedded into her thighs, studying the television screen and waiting patiently for the subtle nuances that pinpoint those who lie from those who don’t. She is learning at the foot of the master. Her father lights another cigarette off the one that’s about to go out. It’s time to find out who is telling the truth. Finally, the man on the right stands up and her father lunges forward. “I told you! The goddamn fucker on the right!”
     
    He never missed an episode of To Tell the Truth and he always picked the right guy.
     
    As quickly as that memory clicked into Jane’s head, it was over. She was in her bedroom and all the scattered debris was in the trash bag. She stood silently for a moment and felt the numbness wash over her.
     
     
    Jane left the house at 4:30 to beat the traffic out to her dad’s place. Before leaving, she changed the bandage on her burned hand and coated it with the burn gel. It was a good hour’s drive to her dad’s house and she had to pick up the beer. She knew Mike would drag his heels after work. The only thing that guaranteed her brother’s appearance at their father’s house was a cold, six-pack of Corona. Call it bait to the trap.
     
    At thirty years old, Mike was five years younger than Jane, but he acted more like twenty years her junior. He had a reticence to his step and a soft, unassuming voice that spoke volumes to anyone who was perceptive. Mike had shuffled from one construction job to another, always cutting out when the boss got too demanding. No matter how often Jane encouraged Mike and told him to stand up to whomever was bothering him, Mike never followed through. She was his older sister but she was really his mother