The second hand tick, tick, ticks. It’s like an omen, the fact that it still works. My father takes it from me. Recognition floods his face.
“I’d as soon bust anything of Mama’s under my heel,” I admit, “but one day, Jenessa might want something from her gran. She learned time on that watch.”
He tucks it into his pocket for safekeeping. I glance at the delicate watch on my wrist, the one Melissa gave me. Funny how we can’t hold on to time, even when it’s strapped to our wrists.
I survey the skeletal remains of the rest of my poetry books, burned to a crisp. I thought I’d be taking them back with me, the stack sliding back and forth across the backseat as we drove. Something for me to read in prison. Instead, the sight of them hurts so hard, I can’t breathe.
My father clears the snow from the rickety stairs, using the rake that’s missing two teeth. I watch him, his red scarf a streak of color against the gray surroundings, this man who doesn’t fit in here at all. Willing my feet to move, I gather wood, branches and kindling, and he uses the matches from his cigarettes to light the fire.
It’s time.
I swallow hard, raising my eyes and then lowering them. It’s not so much what the man did to me. It’s what I did to him.
The savage in humanity.
Funny how a person knows what shame is, even when you don’t have a name for it. No matter. It feels the same.
“Something happened out here, didn’t it?” he asks, lighting a cigarette.
“Yes, sir.” Please, Saint Joseph. “I did something wicked wrong.”
I look straight into his eyes, gathering myself into the baptized Carey, shoulders back, ready to put a finish on things.
“Tell me.”
“I was the real thirteen, and Jenessa was five. . . .”
I pause, wavering.
“Go on.”
“We were eatin’ dinner by the fire. A man came out of nowhere, lookin’ for Mama. He said she owed him money for drugs.”
His jaw sets. The cigarette burns down toward his fingers, but he doesn’t smoke it.
“He was on the meth. Drunk on moonshine, too.”
My father eyes are so sad. Pained.
He already knows.
“He took off my jeans and he hurt me,” I whisper. “I couldn’t push him off.”
I look away, but not before I note the tears slipping down his cheeks.
“I fell asleep in the middle of it.”
“Passed out,” he says gruffly. “It happens to people when they’re seriously hurt or shocked.”
I nod in agreement, filing the phrase away for future use.
“Where was Jenessa?”
His words cling thick as tree sap, hoping against hope.
But I can’t give it to him.
“She was sittin’ right there, like you are now.”
I flinch when he stands up suddenly, turning away from me. He swears under his breath, kicking the ground with his boots, his hands in fists.
“She saw what happened?” he asks.
I talk to his back.
“Yes, sir. When I woke up, he was gettin’ ready to hurt her like he hurt me. So I snuck into the camper and got my shotgun.”
He spins around and finds my eyes. I nod. He heard right.
“I shot him in the shoulder. I was aimin’ for the heart, but he moved. I told Ness to lock herself in the camper and not come out until I gave the say-so.”
He watches me with eyes I can’t read. No matter.
I pause. “He promised he’d come back to hurt us. He said he’d keep comin’ back.”
I kick dirt, leaves, and snow onto the fire until it sputters and dies, then motion for him to follow. I retrace the trail we trekked that night, not surprised I remember the way, as these woods were my whole world. The trail leaves off and the undergrowth thickens, the tree branches blocking the sunlight. I move by instinct, noting the terrain and the sound of the creek, the babbling water first to my right, then over my shoulder.
In the light, it takes only thirty minutes to reach the spot. I know it’s the place because of the tire graveyard. We both tripped over the discarded tires that night. I slide down the bank of the ravine. The body will be just like the bear carcass we found last year. Aheap of bleached bones and telltale hide.
My father slides down behind me, his breath heavy with exertion. He stands next to me, surveying the area.
We kick around.
“Here,” I call.
Side by side, we stare at the hump under the cover of leaves and a dusting of snow. I push the end of it with my toe.
A jawbone falls away, stopping against a rock. Some teeth are missing; others are rotted. Meth, I think.
This time, it’s my father who turns and retches.
I chant to myself.
Ness will be okay. Ness will be okay. That’s all that matters. Ness will be okay.
My body shakes. I can’t make it stop. My father holds me against him, warming me like he’d warmed Shorty. I close my eyes, making a memory.
Then: “I reckon you won’t be wantin’ me no more, sir.” I shove out from under his arm, ready to accept my punishment. “But Ness had nothin’ to do with this. I put her in the camper, and took care of b’ness.”
“Listen to me, Carey. Look at me.”