10. Cole
The scrape of my chisel as it runs against the wood is the only sound that hangs in the air. The only one that rivals the wind rustling through the woods behind the cabin. Two sounds—along with the soft pat of wood shavings as they fall to the ground—that I would happily live with for the rest of my life in place of any other.
I exhale with the next push, releasing some lingering tension from yesterday, as I work on turning this slab of wood into a birdhouse for a client. The last-minute order came through yesterday morning, and I decided to go ahead and complete it here in between cabin repairs instead of waiting until I get back home.
Working with my hands like this always gives me an escape, and I can feel the tension melting away with each stroke. Being in Baudette yesterday was too much. It’s one thing to be on Takini Island, but I tend to avoid the city altogether when I’m here. If there was a closer city with a hardware store, I would have gladly avoided the chance to immerse myself back in that environment at all.
Even though my father moved away several years ago, Baudette is riddled with ghosts of him and our tumultuous, mostly hidden, father-son relationship. I’ve moved on about as much as a person can from a childhood like that, but it doesn’t mean I enjoy being surrounded by the memories. I’m all for avoiding it if I can.
Running into Sydney obviously didn’t help my mood either. Talk about adding insult to injury. Although, I have to admit, her friend recognizing me as the guy from the rumor—effectively pointing out the reasoning for my irritation—was pretty satisfying.
Pushing any thoughts of her out of my mind, I set the chisel down to inspect my work in progress. It’s a standard birdhouse with an A-frame roof and a single hole positioned above the perch. A faux chimney stack sits atop the roof with a hook on top.
With a satisfied nod, I set the birdhouse on my workbench with the goal of sanding and staining it later this afternoon. I need to get moving on repairing the cabin, otherwise I’ll never get out of here.
Dusting any leftover slivers of wood off my jeans, I head to the shed that looks like the whole thing could blow over with one strong breath.
The door actually does fall off its hinges when I pull it open, and I curse under my breath as I let it fall onto the grass.
“For Pete’s sake,” I grumble, shifting through the random, unorganized contents inside. A cracked shovel leans against the wall, and a disassembled rake is scattered between discarded buckets. Debris and foliage dust every single available surface inside.
Once again, I’m fully aware that I have no one to blame but myself for this mess. This is exactly what I get for not putting more energy into maintaining this place.
Making a mental note to add fixing this shed to my to-do list, I grab the small step stool ladder buried way in the back and get to work on the roof.
Then
I slam my bedroom door shut and slump my weight against the frame. My back slides down to the floor as my chest heaves with staggered, painful breaths. My bicep aches from my father’s harsh grip, and my cheek still stings from that last blow of his fist. I squeeze my eyes shut, every inch of my body feeling too exhausted to move.
His truck revs to life outside my window, no doubt disappearing to blow off steam like he does every time we get into an altercation like this—that part, at least, is predictable.
What’s not predictable is what I do to trigger him in the first place. That’s something I’ve been trying to figure out my entire life. His behavior has become more and more volatile lately, and while I used to be able to at least sense when he was in a mood, I can’t seem to anticipate it as well anymore.
An overwhelming heaviness squeezes my entire chest as I hang my head, not feeling mentally strong enough to keep the whirlwind of conflicting emotions at bay.
Shame.
Anger.
Defeat.
Hurt.
All of it washes over me in waves. Anger screams the loudest in my head—I absolutely hate that he has this effect on me. That I don’t stand up for myself. That he left me yet again with my soul just as bruised as my skin.
As a kid, I felt hurt and confused more than anything when he would lay his hands on me. I couldn’t understand why someone who I knew was supposed to love us could hurt my mom and me the way he did. That was way back before Mom left, on days when I had to watch him put on an act in public and then squeeze her arm with a little too much force inside the confines of our home. A little shove here and there that he reasoned his way out of at first before the aggression toward her slowly escalated—and eventually expanded to include me.
At this point, a few months out from graduation, it’s hard to feel anything but infuriated. I’m furious that he can hide it so well in front of the entire town who was dumb enough to elect him mayor. Angry that none of them have a clue what he’s like behind closed doors. I’m also livid that he ran Mom off years ago, forcing her to leave town with not much more than a train ticket and an addiction problem.
Most of all, though, I’m angry at myself for not being man enough to stop any of it.
With a grunt, I push myself off the floor, swiping my palm against a rogue tear I hadn’t noticed fell down my face. When I pull my hand back, it comes away covered in blood from a cut on my cheek that he must have made with the wedding ring he still wears for show.
I stumble across the room, press a Kleenex to my cheek, and pull open the drawer of my nightstand. There sits the one glimmer of hope I’ve been clinging to all week.
A letter from my uncle Paul.
The only person in the world who knows the truth about the man he calls his brother. He’s been off roaming the country for some time now, but he sends me a letter from time to time to check in and keep me updated on where he is. I cling to them like a buoy in stormy waters. This one in particular came a few days ago with the postage stamped from Albuquerque.
Hey there, slugger. Greetings from New Mexico! I hope you’re doing okay. Just think, you’re almost done with school. A high school graduate, can you believe it? I’m so proud of you. I can’t wait until I can take you on adventures with me. Show you the world and get you out from under your dad’s thumb. Soon enough. You won’t believe the beauty I’ve found in so many different places. You’re going to love it, I promise. I’ll write again soon.
Hang in there.
Paul
I fold the letter, letting his words comfort me the way they do every time I get a message from him.
A few more months.
Then I’m free.
Free to leave this town and go meet up with him—wherever he’ll be at that point. It doesn’t matter where. All that matters is that I get out of here.
A few more months… I can handle that.