The Poacher
“You’re gonna be good this time. Right, Daddy?”
His daughter’s words echoed through his head as he lay on the hard floor in his sons’ bedroom, a sleeping bag that smelled suspiciously like cat piss for his bed. The morning sun peeked around the crooked miniblind in the dusty window as guilt puckered his belly. He’d tried to be good. He really had. As usual, it just hadn’t worked out.
He still hadn’t told Vicki he’d been fired. He couldn’t take that look of disappointment on her face, the “I told you so” she was sure to dish out. He’d wanted to prove her wrong, to prove to himself that he could hold down a good job without screwing it up. He couldn’t even tell her that it wasn’t his fault he’d been fired, that he’d been wrongfully accused. She’d never believe him.
His parole officer had suggested he apply for jobs farther out of the city where there would be less competition, maybe make some cold calls. In the meantime, he’d found the Poacher another job, this one at a Christmas-tree lot. The work was part-time, temporary, and paid only minimum wage plus tips. Not many people tipped him, even when he got scratched and covered in sap tying the trees to the top of their cars. Cheapskates. He’d hoped to give Vicki and the kids a good Christmas with lots of presents, but there was no way he could even pay half the mortgage and bills on what he earned now, let alone his truck payment. He didn’t want to think what he’d have to do if he didn’t find a better-paying job soon …
Oomph!
His older son had jumped down from the top bunk and landed on his stomach like an anvil. The gut that had been puckering in guilt now exploded in pain. If the Poacher could draw any breath, he would’ve screamed in agony.
“Sorry, Daddy!” the boy said as he climbed off the Poacher. “I forgot you were down here.” With that, the kid traipsed out of the room, leaving his father to writhe in pain, wondering if something inside him had ruptured.
A moment later, Vicki came to the door to rouse their other son from the bottom bunk. Grimacing against the raw tenderness of his bruised belly, he forced himself to sit up on the floor. He gave her his best smile. “Good mornin’, gorgeous.”
“I quit my job last night,” she said, getting right to the point and making no attempt to work up to the big news.
“You what?” He felt as if he’d taken another sucker punch to the gut. But surely he hadn’t heard her right. Vicki had worked the dinner shift at the restaurant the night before, covered for a coworker. With dinner tickets being higher than lunch tickets, it had been a chance to put a little more money in her pocket. He’d already been asleep when she got home.
“I quit,” she repeated, crossing her arms and leaning against the doorjamb. “A customer tried to play grab-ass with me at closing time. The manager wouldn’t do nothin’ about it, so I walked out.”
As much as the thought of another man touching his woman would normally enrage him, the emotion that overtook him in that moment was pure panic. “Can you take it up with the owners? See if they’ll do something about it?”
“What’s the point?” Vicki snapped. “I’m sick of waitressing anyway. People are rude and demanding, and they treat servers like dirt.”
It felt as if hands had wrapped around his throat and were squeezing the life out of him. He could barely get words out, and when he did they sounded shrill. “What’re you gonna do?”
She shrugged. “You’re making good money. I figured I’ll take off through Christmas and New Year’s, look for a new job after the holidays. It’ll give me some time to spend with the kids and catch up on things around the house.”
He knew he should be honest with her then, tell her what had happened, that he’d lost his job and couldn’t support them on his measly earnings from the seasonal gig at the tree lot. But he couldn’t bring himself to do it.
He knew what he had to do. He had to take care of his family. He had to be bad again.