Burned

  Damn the new Pattyn! She flat

  wouldn’t take the hint. “Do you know

  how many tons of radioactive crap

  will move through Carson City?”

  “Crap” was Aunt J’s term for it. Dad

  was suitably impressed. Did I hear you

  say “crap”? What kind of word is that for

  a daughter of mine to use?

  I should have stopped. I didn’t.

  “Crap is exactly what it is, Dad.

  Tons and tons of poisonous poop,

  traveling right down Highway 395.”

  Dad pushed back from the dinner table,

  jumped to his feet. I will not tolerate

  that language from you. You will respect

  me and all the things I stand for….

  I really don’t know what got into

  me, but I brought my eyes level with

  his and said, “Not if one of the things

  you stand for is Yucca Mountain.”

  Dumb Idea, Oh Yeah

  In one very quick movement,

  he came around the table,

  grabbed my hair, pulled

  me out of the chair, tossed

  me to my knees on the floor.

  I could hear the girls scramble,

  suffered a hot wind of Johnnie WB.

  You little bitch. You live in my

  house. Eat my food. I’m not

  putting up with your shit anymore.

  He pushed my head against

  the floor and my face scraped

  dirty linoleum. That was the

  best of it. Because then his fist

  began to hail against my back.

  You will remember who I am.

  You will remember who I am…

  remember who I am.

  His mantra fell, rhythmic

  accompaniment for his drumming.

  Finally, he tired, or he could

  no longer resist Johnnie’s call.

  I just lay there, afraid

  to move, hoping he’d

  missed everything vital.

  Journal Entry, Sep 15

  Okay, I was really stupid.

  Spouted off to Dad.

  And boy did he give me a major

  reminder about manners

  at the dinner table.

  I’m lying here on my stomach

  because my back feels mushy

  and I know it must be a mess.

  It doesn’t really hurt, thanks

  to the eight aspirin I took.

  That’s probably enough

  to kill me. Wonder if

  aspirin dulls the pain

  of its killing you.

  Jackie helped me to bed, iced

  the worst of the bruises.

  Mom just sat glued to

  reality TV, like it could

  be half as good

  as the very real show

  in the kitchen tonight.

  I’m trying hard to despise

  Dad for what he did to me.

  But part of me thinks I deserved

  it. Besides, compared to other

  episodes in the Stephen

  Von Stratten saga,

  this chapter

  was nothing.

  Dad Took Off Hunting

  In the dark of the next morning.

  I heard him go. Once the aspirin

  wore off, I didn’t get much sleep.

  It sort of surprised me that he’d

  head off into the hills, with

  Mom so close to her due date.

  But Mom insisted she wasn’t

  ready to go into labor yet.

  And I guessed she should know.

  At least I didn’t have to look

  at Dad, make him breakfast,

  bring him ice cream.

  In the afternoon Jackie took

  the girls outside to play while

  Mom indulged in a nap.

  I used the time to sneak

  a call to Ethan and tell

  him what had happened.

  I got his voice mail, so

  didn’t admit more than

  how very much I loved him.

  Then I called Aunt J, not to

  detail my destruction, but to hear

  the voice of someone who cared.

  Easy Enough

  Come Sunday

  to find things to

  despise, starting with

  Bishop Crandall, sitting up

  front, defining at least three

  of my favorite swear words. He

  should want to help me, help any

  woman condemned to a man’s fist.

  I looked at Sister Crandall, all gray

  and wrinkled like a rhinoceros, and

  I wondered if she had ever had to

  come to church propped up by

  a half-dozen aspirin. Other

  women passed my seat.

  I assessed each,

  seeking signs.

  This building,

  disguised as a house

  of worship, was rather like

  a hive. A backward hive, for

  honeybees, at least, have the good

  sense to worship the female that gifts

  them all with life. They do not hold

  their drones in such high esteem. But

  here, in this hive of hornets, the males

  flitted flower to flower, pollinating and

  stinging and injecting their poison. I

  hated everything this place stood

  for, except the one thing it

  claimed—and miserably

  failed—to represent:

  my Heavenly father.

  My Earthly Father

  Returned from his trip very

  late that Sunday night.

  He pulled Jackie and me

  out of bed to help him

  unload a five-point buck

  from the top of the Subaru.

  Gutted but not skinned,

  the deer from behind

  looked merely asleep.

  But when we came around

  in front, death was everywhere—

  in the thick

  crimson ropes and spatters

  on the hood, windows, and doors;

  in the repulsive perfume leaking

  from the animal’s gaping belly;

  and in its frigid stare. Oh, most

  definitely, death was rampant there.

  I staggered a few steps away

  from the car and vomited foreboding.

  By the Time I Got Up

  For school the next day,

  the buck had been neatly

  butchered, wrapped, and

  stacked into freezer-size

  packages. The hide, head,

  and other detritus were

  bagged and left for the trash

  man. Dad’s speed and skill

  with a butcher knife were

  straight out of a novel:

  The Silence of the Fawns.

  Just another reminder to

  keep my mouth shut about

  Friday night. I sat in class,

  pulsing pain as my muscles

  struggled to heal themselves.

  Around me the everyday

  sounds of classrooms and

  hallways—laughter, locker

  doors, feet skids on polished

  wood—echoed. It was all

  so normal, all so right. And

  I could relate to none of it.

  In the past I’d always

  felt possessed. Neglected.

  Unloved. School had offered

  escape from home’s daily

  suffocation. But now I felt

  marked. Branded. Abused.

  Those scars would follow

  me there from home. School

  would never again gift me

  with haven. It became just

  another chore, something
r />   to get over with. Very soon.

  Dad Fired the Next Volley

  Three weeks later.

  It was only Thursday,

  but Johnnie accompanied him

  through the kitchen door,

  up the hall, and into the bathroom.

  The two of them found

  a flood of toilet water.

  A plunger revealed

  the culprit—a sanitary

  napkin, become quite

  unsanitary by that time.

  It belonged to ’Lyssa,

  just past thirteen and

  never instructed in correct

  disposal methods. But

  it could have been

  Jackie’s. Or mine.

  Dad called all three of us

  into the hallway. Which one

  of you did this? Spit

  dribbled from his mouth

  and his red eyes were

  rimmed with anger.

  And when I dared look

  up into them, I found

  the hunger of the cougar.

  ’Lyssa crumbled. But

  before she could own up,

  I lied. “I did. I’m sorry.”

  The Cougar Pounced

  And this time I had no

  Ethan to save me from his

  lethal

  claws, shoot him down,

  dead and harmless. A

  vicious

  paw struck the side of

  my face. The nasty

  slash

  tore a pierced earring from

  its lobe. A second blow

  caught

  the other ear, smack where

  sounds went in. It made

  me

  reel, but I managed to keep

  my feet, despite the clanging.

  At the

  moment I lifted defensive

  arms, Dad caught my

  throat,

  held tight, applied pressure.

  And as his calloused hands

  closed tight,

  I barely heard his snarl,

  betraying absolutely

  no pity:

  You don’t know what sorry

  is, little girl. But you will.

  When He Was Finished

  The only thing I was sorry

  about was coming home

  in the first place.

  I could barely hear,

  through the throbbing

  quicksand in my ears.

  I could barely swallow

  through the puffing finger

  marks around my neck.

  I could barely taste,

  beyond the bulging

  of my tongue,

  the coppery flavor

  of blood, crusting

  my gums.

  But I wasn’t sorry

  I stepped forward.

  ’Lyssa might have died.

  And as I crawled off to bed,

  a couple of very important

  things forded my soupy mind.

  The first was how much easier

  it was to hate my dad that night.

  I’d said nothing but “sorry.”

  The second was, flushed or not,

  the Kotex probably should

  have been mine.

  August…August…?

  It had been almost seven

  weeks since my last period.

  Jackie Tried to Comfort Me

  In bed that night,

  but all I could do was cry.

  And I couldn’t even tell

  her the real reason why.

  I couldn’t be pregnant,

  could I?

  (Could!)

  If I was, what would

  I do?

  (Would it even

  be up to me to decide?)

  Would Ethan do the right

  thing?

  (Was getting married

  the right thing?)

  Even if he would, would

  Mom and Dad let me?

  (Would they rather have

  me a single mother?)

  Even if they’d let me,

  is that what I wanted?

  (Considering my whole

  take on marriage and kids?)

  If I did want to and they

  said no, what then?

  (Could we sneak off

  somewhere and do it?)

  Was I pregnant?

  (Of course I was.)

  Would Ethan marry me?

  (Of course he would.)

  Was there a way around

  Mom and Dad?

  (Of course there was.)

  So was that what I wanted?

  (???)

  I Couldn’t Go to School

  The next day

  (I looked like I’d crawled

  off a battlefield),

  so I had plenty

  of time to think about it.

  The more I did, the sicker

  I became. Just my luck,

  one reject condom

  and the end of my life—

  one way or another—

  was well within sight.

  And then, out of nowhere,

  Mom’s water broke.

  She made a hasty phone call

  to Dad, but he was busy

  with a bomb threat

  and couldn’t get away.

  After seven babies, this

  one was destined to come

  fast. Mom’s contractions

  were immediately strong

  and close together. She

  started to panic, when I

  volunteered, “I’ll drive you.”

  As Mom grabbed her bag,

  I loaded Georgia into her car seat,

  then climbed behind the steering

  wheel. Mom did think to ask if

  I really knew how to drive, so

  on the way to the hospital,

  I told her the whole story.

  Why not? At that point I had

  nothing much to lose.

  When we arrived, she asked

  me not to go inside, using some

  excuse about not wanting

  Georgia there, and the girls needing

  someone to come home to.

  But the real reason was obvious.

  At hospitals, people ask questions

  about kids with swollen faces.

  Driving Home

  I thought how easy it would be

  to just keep on going.

  Except

  I had Georgia.

  Except

  I had no money

  and the van was riding near empty.

  Except

  it would change

  nothing. I still had decisions

  to make if my fears proved correct.

  Except

  I needed to talk

  to Ethan before I made any

  decisions. And I couldn’t tell him

  I was pregnant until I knew for sure.

  Except

  I really, really

  needed to talk to him right

  that very minute before I went

  completely crazy about The Way

  Things Were—incomprehensible.

  Now Dad Believed

  A good Mormon woman

  should have to ask her husband

  for money. Even grocery money

  was supposed to be a joint decision.

  But Mom had a secret cash stash,

  funded by singles and small change,

  “borrowed” from Dad’s pockets

  when he and Johnnie passed out.

  Like everything in her life, her cash

  jar was chaotic. I was pretty sure she

  had no real idea just how much money

  was inside. So I swiped a few dollars.

  Georgia and I took a little ride to the store—

  and not our usual grocery store, but one

  where everyone looked like strangers.

 
There I purchased an Early Pregnancy Test.

  Good thing Georgia couldn’t read yet,

  and to keep her from asking too many

  questions, I bought her a lollipop

  and a carton of milk for the refrigerator.

  We made it home just minutes before

  the first of three school buses dropped

  off a brood of Von Stratten girls.

  I put them straight on their homework.

  Then I went into the bathroom,

  carefully followed the directions,

  and within a few minutes I had

  my answer, in a little blue line.

  Pounding on the Door

  Brought me out of my semicatatonic

  state. I scrambled to hide the evidence

  so Roberta could come in and pee.

  On the way past the mirror, I caught

  sight of a face and had to do a double

  take. Could that battered hag be me?

  I looked just like my mom, give

  or take maybe ninety pounds.

  Was that who I’d be in a few years?

  I had only one person to turn to…

  okay, maybe two. Aunt J would never

  turn me away. But I needed Ethan.

  I went into my bedroom and removed

  the bottom drawer of my dresser,

  revealing the hollow underneath.

  I had discovered the place quite

  by accident—no one but me ever

  moved a dresser to vacuum!

  This was my personal secret hiding

  place, and as I reached for the cell,

  my hand brushed something