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Acresville, May 24
7:47 a.m.
The empty whiskey bottle fell from Hoss’s hand and clinked on the ground by his feet. Through a drunken fog, he looked at it for a second and then moved his gaze to the spot a few feet away where he had buried his father, eighteen years before.
“So here we are again,” he whispered. “You and me.”
He stood there under the twisted branches of the crab-apple tree, the warmth of the early-morning sun on his shoulders, the susurrus of wind through the grass around him.
However difficult, he had been able to leave his father here. Move on from that tragic autumn day and run the farm himself in relative peace. Only in recent weeks the memory and pain of his terrible past had reawakened in him like some dead fiend suddenly brought back to life. Even worse, there seemed to be no way to kill it.
Hoss didn’t know why he had come up here now. Maybe it was the courage brought on by the whiskey. Or maybe he just needed to finally put his matters to rest. Resolve those lasting issues that ate away at him.
Still he found it hard to do.
In his haunted mind, he relived the day he had killed his father.
> > > < < <
It began as it had many times before—his father, drunk and on the prowl for someone to take his anger out on.
In the weeks since his wife’s passing, his state of mind seemed to deteriorate; his drinking worsened. Nightly binges at Gary’s Tavern became custom. Often he would come home in the early-morning hours with the slam of the door.
When it happened, Hoss would lie still in his bed, as he had so many times as a young child, a sense of panic creeping over him because at any moment, he expected his door to burst open. But it rarely did. Seldom did his father come upstairs anymore.
Maybe he was too intoxicated to climb the steps. Maybe he didn’t want to face the empty bedroom he had once shared with his wife. He would stay downstairs, sometimes ranting to himself, sometimes breaking things.
In the morning Hoss would find pieces of those things scattered across the kitchen floor—a broken glass, a shattered whiskey bottle, a cracked picture frame that had once held a family photo. His father, broken like everything else, would be passed out on the chesterfield in the living room.
Whenever possible, Hoss avoided him. He would leave early for school, hang out with Slick afterward, and go home as late as he could. Only his chores on the farm brought him together with his father. Even then, they barely spoke.
Years had passed since the man last put a hand on his son.
But on this early Saturday morning, all that would change.
Alone in the milking parlor, Hoss prepped cow udders. Milking was done twice a day, spaced at twelve-hour intervals. As he had been taught, Hoss forestripped, predipped, and dried each teat before attaching the milking cups. He worked quickly and diligently. Three cows hooked up. Then four.
Over the noise of the vacuum pump, he didn’t hear the staggering gait of his father’s footsteps coming up behind him.
“What the hell are you doing?” he snapped. “You worthless piece of shit.”
Hoss swung around, dropping the cluster assembly from his hands. Swinging from hoses, it struck the wall of the operator pit with a smack.
His father’s face was flushed with a mix of whiskey and anger. Hoss just stood there, petrified, unable to answer.
Incensed by this, the man yelled, “Tell me!”
“Try...trying to get the milking started.”
“I can see that.” His father snarled. “Did I ever say you could start without me?”
“It was past six.” Hoss swallowed. “And you were asleep.”
A scowl deepened the seams in the man’s face. “Do you check for mastitis?”
“Yes. They’re all fine.”
The man’s molten stare moved up and down his son with something akin to contempt. Then, without warning, he struck Hoss across the face with a savage backhand slap. Hoss fell sideways, landing hard on the concrete floor. His eyes began to water. His nose felt swollen, perhaps broken; blood trickled from it.
Slowly, he lifted his gaze up to his father. The man stood over him, glaring down.
“You’re just like your mother,” he growled. “You never fucking listen.”
Hoss got to his feet. Backing away, he ran from the building to the house. He rushed upstairs to the bathroom, where he spat blood into the sink. Then he tore off a strip of toilet tissue and wadded it against his nose. His hands were shaking.
The face he saw in the mirror belonged to the small child he had once been. Frightened. Helpless. Alone. He suppressed the urge to cry. Found it difficult.
Tears filled his eyes. He tossed the bloodied tissue into the toilet and flushed it. As he watched it spiraling around the bowl, a painful memory came flooding back to him.
In the backyard the man pushed his son to the grass by the flagstone walk. Afraid to move, the boy lay there, facedown, breathing in harsh gasps. At any moment he expected to feel the jab of the cold rifle barrel.
Seconds passed.
A minute.
Nothing happened.
Curious, the boy brought up his head. His father stood a few feet away with the 30.06 cradled in his arms, barrel pointing toward the ground. The man seemed fixated on something off to his right.
The boy looked. Thirty feet away Jessie watched them from the side of the poultry coop. Inside it came the light clucking of hens.
Nervously, the boy’s eyes jumped from the dog back to his father. Was the man going to shoot Jessie?
Like an automaton, his father started toward the spaniel.
“No, Dad,” the boy cried after him. “No.”
Halfway between the dog and his son, the man stopped and raised the rifle.
The boy leapt to his feet and bolted to his father. As he reached him, he began to strike the man with his little fists. With a scowl, his father spun around and struck his son across the face. Arms flailing, the boy staggered back and fell.
He became hysterical now. He screamed for his dog to run. But Jessie didn’t run. Tail tucked between its hind legs, the spaniel sheepishly lowered its head.
Everything seemed to lapse into slow motion. His father aimed the rifle, one eye screwed shut, the other sighted down the barrel.
“Don’t do it, Daddy. Please...” The boy’s words were lost in a detonation that split the air.
Hoss shut his eyes. This was all too much to bear. The abuse. The ever-present anxiety. The uncertainty of his father’s volatile mood swings. Whatever the outcome, something had to be done, and it had to be done now. He could no longer live like this.
Mechanically, he went downstairs. Displayed on a rack over the fireplace was the 30.06 rifle his father had used to shoot Jessie, many years ago. For a moment, Hoss stared at it. Hatred coursed through his veins, murderous intent through his mind.
He turned and faced the living room. Where, he wondered, were the bullets?
The closet seemed the likely place. He edged toward it, ever vigilant of his father, the sound of a door opening and closing.
He tore through the closet. There were coats and jackets, boots and shoes belonging to his parents. Not much else. Tucked in one corner he saw two fishing rods, a tackle box. It was strange, Hoss thought; he had never known his father to fish.
The box contained lures, hooks, and jigs—all looked to be brand new. Hoss checked the top shelf. Hats and gloves. As he began to push these items aside, he saw an object that stopped him abruptly—a hunting knife, one he had never seen before.
In an act of will, Hoss brought it down. Slowly, he pulled it out of the leather sheath. The knife was attractive, with a shiny drop-point blade and black Micarta handle. Holding it in his hand, Hoss felt a transformation come over him; he became empowered, confident. In his mind he watched his father cowering before him. Hands raised, eyes widened in fear, he pleaded with his son to stop.
Hoss heard a voice telling him to do it. He needed to end this.
With a tight grip on the knife, he left the house in search of his father.
In single file, cows were exiting the milking parlor into the feedlot. Hoss knew his father would still be inside the building, cleaning up. He began to approach the parlor, his footsteps becoming slower the closer he got.
His father was there, standing with his back to him, spraying the floor with a hose. Completely still, Hoss watched him. He felt unable to move.
Do it, the voice repeated. Do it now.
Hoss swallowed. On tiptoes, he crept up behind his father.
Twelve feet.
Then ten.
Suddenly, the hose shut off and the man paused, as if he had heard something. Breath held, Hoss stopped in mid-step. He expected his father to spin around and catch him. His heart pounded in his ears, his nerves jangled.
With a shrug that was almost undetectable, his father turned on the hose again. Water showered the floor.
Eight feet.
Six.
Eyes narrowed on his target. Soon the man must look behind him.
Four feet.
Three.
Hoss could feel the hesitation in his hand.
Do it now.
In one convulsive motion, he lunged at his father, thrusting the blade deep into his side. A loud squeal echoed off the walls. The hose fell to the floor. Snapping sideways at the waist, the man reached for the cause of his sudden pain.
Hand shaking, Hoss wrenched the blade free. Then he recoiled in horror, staring at his father. The man turned to him, wobbling a bit. His eyes were stricken, his face a pantomime of surprise. He touched the wound and then looked at the blood on his fingertips.
“What...what have you done?” he said. “You little shit. You fucking little shit.”
He charged at his son.
In a panicky reflex, Hoss shot the knife out in front of him, felt the blade penetrate his father’s abdomen as the man’s forward momentum carried him into it. He grunted, sour breath expelling from his mouth.
Hoss pivoted out of the way, and his father tumbled to the floor in a heap. He struggled to get back up, fell down again to his hands and knees. The handle of the knife stuck out of his belly.
Hoss gaped in disbelief.
To him, his father suddenly seemed old, broken, vulnerable. His look at his son was furtive, almost timid. The fury in his eyes had dissolved.
“I was your father,” he choked. “Your flesh and blood.”
To Hoss’s amazement, his vision became blurred with tears.
“You were never a father to me.” He fought to steady his voice. “Never.”
A look of incredulity crossed the man’s face. Gingerly, he touched the handle of the knife. His shirt was becoming red around the guard. Throat working, Hoss watched him with a pity that he never thought possible.
“I was better...” The man coughed, and blood flecked his lips. “I was better to you than my father ever was to me.”
Hoss couldn’t stand to hear any more. He ran out of the parlor for the house. Behind him he could hear his father calling after him.
Hoss burst open the door of the kitchen. Overcome with emotion, he crumpled against the cupboard and sobbed.
Hours later, after he had summoned enough courage to return to the parlor, he found his father dead on the floor.
> > > < < <
Swallowing, Hoss’s thoughts shifted back to the present.
A tremor ran through his words as he spoke aloud to his father. “What would it have been like had you only loved me?
“Childhood is supposed to be a time of happiness, of magical things. Not of suffering and worry.”
Hoss touched his eyes and exhaled a shaky breath. He gazed out at the green sweep of mountains. The sky above them was a flawless splash of blue. In the quiet he could hear a few crows cawing.
When at last he looked at his father’s grave again, tears rolled down Hoss’s face. He didn’t try to stop them. This reservoir of emotion had to be emptied—just like the unresolved matters he had to finally get off his chest.
“You only fostered in me,” he said, wincing, “everything that was bad in you. I guess there never was any hope that I could live a normal life. Even with you gone, the pain never left. Nor did the memories.
“Maybe it’s only now that I can understand the circumstances that shaped the prick you were. As much as I tried to avoid it, I turned out even worse than you. God only knows what I might’ve become had I left this place before everything happened.
“I’m sorry, you old bastard. But even now on the eve on my own end, I can’t forgive you. All I can ask is that you understand why I did what I did. And maybe forgive me.”
Hoss turned away and began walking back to the farmhouse with his head down.
He didn’t plan to see this time tomorrow.
