Chapter Three
Jack
I ’m the last one downstairs for dinner. I pull out my chair and take my usual seat. Dad is there chowing down on a drumstick while Michael picks at a thigh. We don’t follow many rules at the table these days. Michael’s hat with the sweat-stained band is on the table. Caleb is using his shirt to wipe his fingers.
I miss the feminine touch. Mom demanding everyone eat like we didn’t live in a barn. I dish up some of Patty’s famous potato salad and grab a couple of pieces of chicken. Dinner is silent. The only sounds are forks scraping plates and Dad’s heavy breathing between bites. Michael and Caleb keep their eyes down, like if they don’t look at me, they won’t get dragged into whatever storm is brewing.
I shovel too-large bites of salad into my mouth, barely tasting them. The tension is thick. My brothers didn’t see the slap, but I’m guessing the redness on my cheek when I returned to the field was enough to tell them what happened.
Dad clears his throat, breaking the silence like a hammer through glass. “Jack,” he says without looking at me. “You’ll be up at five tomorrow. No sleeping in. We’ve got hay to bale.”
I don’t look up from my plate. My fork stabs at a piece of potato with more force than necessary. “I’ve got my shift at Harwood’s tomorrow,” I say, keeping my voice steady.
The sound of his fork clattering onto his plate makes me flinch. “Not anymore,” he says. “We’ve discussed this.”
“No, you told me what you wanted, but that doesn’t mean it’s going to happen.”
“You heard me.” Dad growls and reaches for another piece of chicken. “You’re done with that hardware store nonsense. You’re needed here.”
Anger flares hot and bright in my chest, but I bite it back. “I’ve been up early every day this week. You don’t have the right to tell me to quit.”
“I have every right,” he shoots back. “Until you’re paying your own way, you’ll do as I say.”
Michael shifts uncomfortably in his seat. I don’t expect them to defend me. Truthfully, it would just make things worse. I’m used to catching my dad’s anger. I don’t care. The meal continues in silence. Dad abruptly stands, leaving his plate with chicken bones, and walks out of the kitchen. I hear the front door slam and know he’s gone back to the garage to work on the tractor.
I get up and start clearing the table. Michael puts away the leftovers while Caleb starts the dishes. We don’t speak, just in case Dad is near. If he overhears us complaining, he’ll be pissed. He reminds us often about how difficult his own childhood was. We have nothing to complain about.
I don’t wait for permission once the kitchen has been cleaned up. I just head to my room. I pull off my shirt and toss it in the basket in the corner. I sit down on the edge of the bed and start undoing the laces of my work boots, looking forward to a long shower.
I kick off one boot and start with the second when my door opens.
Michael slips in first, followed by Caleb. They don’t knock—never do.
“We heard,” Michael says. He leans against the dresser, arms crossed. “Just in case.”
“Just in case?” I repeat.
“We weren’t sure what was going to happen,” Caleb says. “Thought was should hang around.”
I understood what they weren’t saying. In case Dad finally lost his temper. Or I did.
Caleb flops onto my bed, making the springs groan. “Dad’s being an ass.”
I snort. “Yeah. Tell me something new.”
Michael rubs the back of his neck. “He wasn’t always like this.”
I know. We all know. But saying it out loud feels like poking at a bruise.
Caleb picks at a loose thread on my quilt. “You really going to quit the hardware store?”
I don’t answer right away. “Don’t think I have a choice.”
Michael exhales hard. “You do. You always have a choice.”
“Not with him.”
The words sit heavy between us.
“He’s just frustrated with that old tractor,” Michael says. “You know he gets like this when he’s stressed out.”
I stare at my guitar. Mom’s face flashes in my mind—her smile when I played her my first song.
I shake my head, clenching my fists on my knees. “It’s not just the tractor. It’s everything. He doesn’t get it. He’ll never get it.”
“He’s scared, Jack,” Michael says. “Scared you’re gonna leave and never come back.”
Caleb nods, his eyes serious. “Yeah, he’s been talking about it more lately. Says you’re too much like Mom—always dreaming, always looking for something bigger.”
“Bigger than this?” I gesture to the window, where the endless fields stretch out under the fading daylight. “This isn’t me, guys. You know that.”
“We know,” Caleb says softly. “But he doesn’t.”
Michael shifts his weight. “He won’t stop you if you really want to go. But he’ll make it hell for you to stay.”
I laugh bitterly. “It already is.”
“Just don’t take it too personally,” Michael says. “Dad’s just...different. He’s focused. This farm is everything to him. He had Mom and lost her. This farm is it for him.”
Caleb sits up. “I’m getting the first shower.”
“Hey!” I protest.
“Nope, me.” Michael smirks. “Oldest. I get to go first.”
I roll my eyes, knowing I’m going to be sitting in my own stink for at least the next hour.
* * *
M ORNING COMES TOO FAST .
Dad’s already been out. I can tell, because he’s got that hay smell clinging to him. He’s pouring himself a cup of coffee when I walk into the kitchen. I consider turning around and walking right back out, but I don’t get the chance. Dad doesn’t look up from the cup. “You quitting that job today?”
I grab a mug from the cabinet, forcing my voice steady. “I need that job, Dad.”
“No, you don’t.” He finally lifts his head, eyes cold. “I already called the college. Canceled your registration.”
The mug slips from my fingers. It shatters on the floor.
“You what ?” My voice cracks.
“Saved you the trouble.” He takes a slow sip, like this is nothing. Like he didn’t just rip my future out from under me. “You weren’t serious about that anyway.”
The anger hits me like a wildfire. “You don’t get to decide that!”
“I do when you’re living under my roof.”
“Then maybe I won’t!” The words burst out before I can stop them.
Dad’s chair screeches as he stands. “You ungrateful little—”
“I’m not ungrateful!” I snap. “I just want my own life! One that isn’t just... this .” I gesture out the window, at the endless fields, the red dirt roads that lead nowhere.
His face darkens. “This farm is your life.”
“No. It’s yours .” My hands shake. “I don’t want it. I never did.”
For a second, he just stares at me. Then he laughs—a sharp, ugly sound. “And what do you want, huh? To waste your time on that damn guitar? Get yourself stuck with some useless music degree? That shit doesn’t pay the bills. It won’t keep a roof over your head or food in your belly.”
The words sting, but I don’t back down. “If that’s what makes me happy, then yeah, that is exactly what I want.”
“Happy.” He spits it like it’s a joke. “Life ain’t about happy, boy. It’s about work. Responsibility. You kids these days think your happiness is most important thing in the world. You can’t eat happiness!”
“Mom wouldn’t have said that,” mutter under my breath.
The second it’s out, I regret it.
Dad’s face goes still. I never bring her up around him. I know he loved her. She was his sun, moon, stars, and everything else. He’s never figured out how to move on. He decided that was his one and only shot at love and happiness. I’ve always respected that. I don’t know the first thing about love and can’t possibly understand what he’s feeling.
“Your mother’s gone. And so is your college spot. You’re staying here. End of discussion.”
He walks out, leaving an air of finality. I shake my head, knowing it’s pointless to argue. Instead, I go to the broom closet to sweep up the broken mug.
What the hell am I doing?
Instead of heading out to the field, I grab the keys to the old Ford. It was a hand-me-down truck. Michael and Caleb both learned to drive with it and they beat the hell out of it. When it was finally my turn to lay claim to the truck that had been my dad’s way back in the day, I spent some time and money trying to fix it up.
I drive into town, dreading what comes next. George looks up from the counter when I walk in. His smile fades when he sees my face. “Rough morning?”
“You could say that.” I twist my baseball hat in my hands. “George, I...I gotta quit.”
He doesn’t look surprised. Just nods and reaches under the counter. “Figured that might happen.”
He pulls out an envelope and hands it to me. I check inside and find my last week’s pay, plus some extra.
I shake my head. “I didn’t work this week.”
“Consider it a bonus. You’re a good kid, Jack. Don’t let him make you think otherwise. You’ve been a huge help.”
My throat tightens. “Thanks, George. I’m sorry I couldn’t give you notice. This has been coming to a head for a while.”
“I know. I’m proud of you for sticking it out for as long as you did. Your dad is a good man, just needs a Ghostbuster.”
I smirk. “Yeah, or an exorcism.”
He claps me on the shoulder. “Go make your mom proud.”
“Thanks, George.”
I get home and don’t bother going inside. I go straight to the barn to get busy with chores. The last thing I want to do is have another argument with my father. I don’t stop to go in for dinner. Michael tries to convince me to come in before he and Caleb head to the bar, but I stay out. I wait and watch my father’s bedroom light. When it goes off, that’s when I go inside.
All my work in the barn has given me plenty of time to think and plan.
I know what I’m going to do.
My dad will always control what I do as long as I stay here on the farm. As long as I let him. Call me a coward, but I’m out.
I creep upstairs and grab my duffel bag. I start stuffing it—clothes, my notebook full of songs, the photo of Mom and me at my kindergarten graduation.
Then I see it.
Her necklace. The one with the tiny silver guitar pendant. She wore it every day. I took it from her jewelry box a long time ago. If my dad knew it was missing, he never said anything. I stick it in the side pocket of my backpack.
She’d want me to have it.
It was the closest thing to a good luck charm that I had.
I scribble a note for Michael and Caleb: Gone south. Don’t worry. Tell Dad... hell, I don’t know. Tell him whatever you want.
I hesitate, then add: I’ll call when I can.
The screen door creaks when I push it open. The night air is thick with the smell of hay rain in the distance.
I throw my bag, along with my guitar, onto the passenger seat. I grab some old camping gear from the shed. I don’t know where I’m going, but I know where I’m not staying.
I take one last look at the house. At the fields. At the life I’m leaving behind.
Then I turn the key.
I turn on the headlights and bounce down the driveway with a bundle of emotions I don’t dare try and decipher. If I think too hard about it, I won’t go anywhere.
And I am getting the hell out of here.