The People We Keep(9)

I set out a pencil, my math notebook, a can of diet pop, and grab my guitar. I need to write at least three more songs by Friday. At least.

Strumming through the chords I know, I flip-flop the order until it starts to sound like a song—E, C, D, G, back to E—before I move on to lyrics. I’m trying to come up with rhymes for lies—surmise, prize, tries, french fries—when I hear a twig snap outside. I want to pass it off as TV static, but then I’m sure I hear footsteps.

I grab my dad’s buck knife and inch toward the door, trying to keep the motorhome from shifting. If whoever it is didn’t hear my guitar, maybe they don’t know I’m here, and that has to give me a better chance.

Those footsteps get closer. The blinds are closed and I don’t know if I can peek out without being seen. The door is locked, but the handle moves a little as someone tries to turn it. I hear the scrape of metal on metal, maybe a lock pick. I use the point of the knife to part the blinds and see bright blue eyes shaded by brows like fat fuzzy caterpillars. It’s my father.

“You’re supposed to be at school,” he says as I open the door.

“You’re supposed to be at work,” I say, stepping aside to let him in.

He eyes the knife. “What the hell you doing with that thing?”

“What the hell you doing leaving your kid to fend for herself in the wild?”

He laughs. “Ape, it’s not even close to wild. And I told you, Irene will let you crash on her couch if you babysit for her kid.” He wriggles out of his jacket, sits at the kitchen booth and pulls my notebook over. “Skies,” he says studying it. “That would be my vote.” He scribbles skies on my list and pushes the notebook back to where it was. “See you’ve got the old guitar out.”

“Yeah, I’ve got my guitar out,” I say, picking it up by the neck with my free hand. “I got a gig.”

“A gig?”

“Yeah. Friday night at Gary’s. You should come.” Then I add, “If you can get away from Irene and the boy,” so he knows Irene isn’t welcome, although I’m guessing he figures anyway at this point.

“I’ll see what I can do.”

“Yeah, well it’s probably going to be a regular thing and all.”

“I think you can put the knife down, Ape,” he says, and I realize I must look crazy, standing there, guitar in one hand, dirty buck knife in the other. I set the knife back under the kitchen sink but don’t let go of the guitar.

“Coffee?” my dad asks.

“We’re out.” I sit down without offering him anything else.

“I’ll bring some by next time.” He pulls a cigarette from his shirt pocket and slides to the end of the booth to light it on the stove.

“What are you doing here?” I ask.

“Why aren’t you at school?” He takes a long drag and looks around for an ashtray. I down the last swig from my pop can and slide it across the table. “Thanks,” he says, dropping ash in the can. A wisp of smoke curls from the hole.

“Why aren’t you on a job?”

“You first.”

“I quit,” I say, staring him down. I’m not apologizing.

“Me too,” he says, staring back. He takes another drag and blows smoke out his nose. When I was a kid, he’d do that and tell me he was a dragon. I thought it was hysterical. “Laid off. Faust doesn’t need as many men in winter. Decided to keep the young guys. Says he don’t want a heart attack on his hands.” He holds his cigarette in his mouth, leans back and cracks his knuckles. He looks thinner than he used to. His cheeks are hollow. I thought a good woman was supposed to fatten a man up, but I’m pretty sure the only thing Irene is good at is convincing my dad she’s a good woman. “Sucks to get old, you know what?”

“Interesting,” I say. “I’ll avoid it at all costs.”

He shoots a finger gun at me and clicks out the side of his mouth. “She’s a quick one, I tell you.” He says it like he’s talking to God, or an imaginary friend.

“So why you here? School tell you I quit?” I lay the guitar in my lap and make chord formations with my fingers, but don’t strum.

“Naw, didn’t tell Irene about work yet. We’re supposed to buy the kid some Nintendo thing for Christmas. She’s gonna be pissed now.” Ash falls on his shirt; he brushes it off before it burns through.

Last Christmas, Irene and my dad gave me a card with five scratch-off tickets tucked in the envelope. I won three bucks on one, but I couldn’t even get the money because I’m not old enough. The card had Merry Christmas to you and yours printed inside. I made my own card for them out of a folded up piece of loose leaf. It said Merry Christmas on the front, and on the inside, Up yours and yours. I drew every letter alternately in green and red crayon. Irene went in the kitchen after I gave it to her at Christmas dinner. She stayed in there a long time and when she came back, her mascara was runny and she smelled like Peachtree, so the card was a success.

“You’ve just been hanging out here when I’m gone?” I ask. I don’t like the idea of him in my space.

“Here or the duck blind. Depends on the weather.” He picks at a callus on the side of his finger until the skin comes off. He just leaves it on the table, this little round piece of skin.