Gale #2
A light was on in the barn, the door propped open, but I wasn’t ready to confront Dad yet, so I trudged downstairs, started a load of laundry, and had a long, hot shower to calm my nerves.
As the water sluiced over my sensitive skin, my mind kept pulling me back to the Jeep.
To the kiss. To the sensation of Ozrik’s lips.
His tongue against mine. His hand on my face.
My body responded. Unlike the thousands of times before when I’d soaked up these private sensations and fantasized about things that would never happen, that night, I refused to acknowledge them. I flicked the temperature to cold, hoping to numb my skin so I didn’t have to feel anything anymore.
It didn’t work, and after the frustrating shower, I put on clean clothes and checked the time. Ten after eight. I wandered upstairs like a man marching to the death chamber.
Dad had an uncanny ability to see everything I didn’t say, and since the last time we were in the same room together was the night he’d discovered the photograph of Ozrik, I had no idea what this confrontation might look like.
I felt exposed, like the truth was written all over my face and Dad would see it the second he looked into my eyes.
I headed to the kitchen and out the sliding door to the backyard.
Taking my time, I crossed the yard, listening to the chirrup of crickets, and debated jumping the fence instead.
I stood in the open barn door and found Dad hunched over the workbench, fussing with a strange piece of machinery I couldn’t identify.
An ancient crackly radio played rock ballads from the seventies and eighties. Olivia and I teased him about his taste in music, but the old man wouldn’t give up his Cat Stevens or Billy Joel for anything.
He hummed along as he used pliers and a wrench on a rusted bolt that refused to move. Every so often, he adjusted his grip and cursed as he strained to undo it without luck. He tossed the tools aside and rubbed his sandpaper jaw as he puzzled over the contraption.
He had yet to notice me. The barn was filled with yard and woodworking equipment of every variety.
Some of it was usable, but much of it wasn’t.
Dad collected junk from estate sales and secondhand stores.
He would either fix them or scrap them for parts.
He wasn’t much of a mechanic, but he liked tinkering and enjoyed refurbishing furniture, then selling it for three or four times what he paid. It kept him busy.
I scanned the wall of tools and supplies until I located the WD-40 on an upper shelf. Crossing into the barn, I snagged the can and brought it to the workbench. The heat of Dad’s gaze warmed the side of my face as I set the can down, refusing to meet his eyes.
“This might help,” I said.
Instead of asking where I’d been for the past week or questioning my clearly unstable mental health, he thanked me and sprayed a generous coating over the rusty bolt. “Smart kid. Who raised you?”
“Some guy.”
“Huh. And here I was ready to get the angle grinder and cut the bugger off.”
“No need for drastic measures. Bet it’s easier now.”
“Let’s give ’er a try.”
With a bit of elbow grease and determination, the bolt finally moved, and Dad was able to remove it. He tossed it aside and examined whatever he was deconstructing. “Nearly done. Want to find me a Phillips?”
“Sure.”
We spent twenty minutes in relative silence as Dad disassembled what he claimed was a vintage rowing machine he’d found at an antique shop. I didn’t ask why he had felt compelled to buy it and who he was restoring it for. It barely mattered.
Once every piece was laid out on the bench, Dad grabbed a rag and wiped his stained fingers. Only then did he look at me properly. “You’re in one piece. That’s good.”
I nodded, unsure what to say, unable to move my gaze from the workbench and the rusty parts spread over its surface.
“Good camping weather?”
“It was okay.”
“Get some good pictures?”
“I think so.”
“Good. Your sister’s been looking for you.”
“I found her.”
He nodded, still examining me. Tossing the rag aside, he sighed. “You doing all right, Gale?”
No, I wanted to say, but I went with a strangled, “Yeah. I’m fine.” I was clearly not fine, and he knew it.
Dad took me at my word and didn’t ask further questions. It was our way. “Well, I don’t know about you, but I’m starving. There’s stuff for taco bowls. Are you hungry?”
My stomach was in a knot, but I nodded. “I could eat.”
We headed inside and moved around one another in companionable silence as we prepared and microwaved supper. Deconstructed tacos over a bed of white rice was one of Dad’s favorites. He liked his spicy, but I passed on the extra jalapenos and hot sauce.
“Are you hanging around for a bit?” Dad asked as we ate.
“I guess.” I snapped a Tostitos in half and nibbled the edge. “Did you get the lawn mower fixed?”
Dad chuckled. “Nope. Travis from the car lot said he’d send his nephew to take a look at it. Not sure when. Kid named Lex. Do you know him? I guess he runs around with Ozrik.”
My blood turned to ice. I focused intently on my dinner. “We’ve met once. I don’t really know him.” Then, steering us back to the original conversation, I asked, “Do you need me to take the push mower out?”
“We can share the job tomorrow if you’re around.”
“I’ll be around.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
Nothing more was said. We washed the dishes together, and once the kitchen was clean, I announced my intent to head to bed.
Before I slinked away, Dad ruffled my hair and yanked me into a hug. He held on longer than was usual and squeezed, like he knew my pieces were coming unglued.
Before releasing me, he kissed my temple and whispered, “I love you, kiddo. Don’t forget that.”
“Love you too, Dad.”