JD’s shiny eyes squint. “There’s no tension. Stanton and I get along great.”
Sure. And as far as I’m concerned, we’d get along even better if he moved to China, tried climbing Mount Everest . . . died.
Jenny raises her hand like we’re back in school. “I agree, Carter. There’s tension.” She pats JD’s leg. “You’re just too sweet to see it, baby.”
“We have to purge the negativity,” Carter explains. “I have a foolproof plan to reestablish the natural order and reinforce a functioning hierarchy we can all be happy with.”
JD scratches his head. “That’s a lot of words, man. You wanna run that by me again?”
Natural order.
Hierarchy.
It might just be the whiskey . . . but that sounds like a damn good idea.
? ? ?
It was definitely the whiskey.
“This is a terrible fuckin’ idea!”
Life’s funny. One day you’re wearing a suit that costs more than most people bring home in a month, impressing the boss with your skill and expertise. And a week later, you’re in the middle of a cattle pasture at two o’clock in the morning, too drunk to see straight, getting ready to race a tractor.
Yes, a tractor.
That was Carter’s grand idea. Healthy competition, may the best man win, and all that crap. Now my father’s tractors are spitting diesel smoke, rumbling like thunder—me in one, JD in the other. Carter’s got the song “Holding Out for a Hero” blasting from my truck speakers and Jenny’s standing in front of us. “Ready, set, go!”
She throws JD’s hat in the air and we take off. It’s a quarter of a mile to the tree, then we have to circle around and back. I push the pedal to the floor, shifting into high gear.
I hear Jenny scream, “Kick his ass, JD!”
And Carter, “That’s the way, boys! Feel the balance comin’ back—it’s all about the balance!”
Sofia cups her hands around her mouth and yells, “Go Stanton! Drive that fucking tractor!”
And I laugh, loud and hard. I glance over at JD and he’s laughing too. Because it’s all so goddamn ridiculous . . . but in the best kind of way. As I start to turn around the tree, that’s when I decide I want to win. It’d be a great way to end a good night. With a victory.
But there’s a reason you’re not supposed to operate heavy machinery under the influence of drugs and alcohol. That reason becomes clear when JD and I don’t leave enough clearance as we both try to make tight U-turns and end up scraping the machines against one another. I move my leg just in time to not get pinned, but the tractors get hung up, caught on one another.
“Back it up!” I tell him, jerking the wheel.
“You back it up!” he retorts.
And just when I consider punching him out and backing up the fucking thing for him, a gunshot rings out, echoing across the field.
I instinctively flinch down. With my ears still ringing from the sound, I look over . . . and see my daddy, dressed in a blue robe and black boots, holding his shotgun.
The party’s definitely over.
? ? ?
“What in holy hell were you thinkin’?”
The six of us sit at the kitchen table, heads down, mouths shut.
“The two of you with a child! You didn’t act this way when you were in goddamn high school!”
It’s best to just let him get it all out. The more you talk, the longer he’ll yell.
“My son, the lawyer, tearin’ up my winter grass like a fool, with my other son—the drug dealer—helping him along!” he hollers, his cheeks bright and rosy, like a pissed-off Santa Claus.
Carter takes this moment to interject, “It was a bondin’ exercise. I’m a healer, Daddy.”
“You’re an idiot!”
And those are the first words my father speaks directly to my brother in two years. Makes sense.
Carter stands. “You need to relax. Stress is a silent killer. I have some herbs that can help you with that.”
“You can help yourself to my boot up your ass!” my father yells louder.
But Carter is not deterred. He throws his arms around my father’s neck. “I love you, Daddy. I’m so glad we’re talkin’ again.”
For just a moment, my father pats Carter’s back and his eyes go gentle. And I know he’s happy to be talking to my brother again too. Even if it’s just to yell at him.
Then he pushes him away and he’s back to glaring at us. “Every one of you are gonna get up at dawn to reseed my goddamn field, or I’m gonna break some asses!”
“Yes, sir,” JD answers.
“Yes, sir,” Jenny replies.
“Definitely don’t want any asses getting broke,” I agree.
And because she’s a smartass, Sofia adds, “Or cracked.”
I cover my mouth so my father doesn’t start up again. Marshall giggles behind me.
Just as he turns toward the stairs, Mary comes strolling in the back door wearing the same outfit she had on earlier—denim shorts, red top, white denim jacket, blue sneakers. Of course it’s the same outfit—because she hasn’t been home yet to change into anything else.
She screeches to a halt just inside the door, looking at the group of us like a deer in the light of an oncoming tractor trailer. “What’s goin’ on? Did somebody die?”