Prologue
June 1990
CADE
The drive with my father is no different than it always is—quiet and full of disappointment. I can feel it radiating off his stiff, hunched shoulders—see it dripping out of his watery, red-rimmed eyes every time he turns to look at me.
“Fucking waste of my day,” he grumbles for the fifteenth time as if I didn’t know he’d rather be doing anything but drive the long stretch to my uncle’s farm in Henson. Leaving me with his brother was something my father always threatened me with, but I didn’t think he’d actually do it. I wanted to believe that he wouldn’t throw me away, as I had always known he wanted to, or maybe hope that my mother would fight for me to stay. I could see in her eyes as he dragged me out the door that she wanted to—she wanted to help me—but my father’s fist flew both ways.
Too many times, I’ve had to step in front of her, catching his heavy-knuckled backhand to prevent him from knocking another tooth loose. For that, I guess, I’m fine she didn’t stepforward—happy she didn’t challenge my father. I’ve seen her bleed enough. I don’t need it to be the last image I see while being shoved out of the door. Her tears, though—those replay the entire drive across the state.
“Fucking waste of my time.” Sighing, I press my head against the uncomfortable headrest, watching the dead earth tumble against empty roads.
Yeah.
I fucking know.
By the time we reach my uncle’s farmhouse, the sky is dotted with stars. The headlights illuminate the dirt driveway leading up to the one-story white and gray home. I focus on the falling dust particles, ignoring my father’s booming yawn and the rough slap against my shoulder.
“Come on. Let’s do this, then.”
I hop out of the truck a moment after he does, slamming it closed just as the front porch light turns on. I haven’t seen my uncle since my seventh birthday. Ten years later, he’s not as big as I remember, but still a scary-looking motherfucker.
Taking long strides, his burly build approaches my father in a matter of seconds. They embrace as brothers who never talk, with half-assed greetings and awkward grins. While they mutter beneath their breath, I pull my belongings from the back of the truck—a pillow, blanket, and a single case of clothes.
“That’s all you get! You ungrateful piece of shit!”These are the words my father screamed at me as he tore up and burned the rest of my stuff. I didn’t deserve it, he yelled while my mother stood back, doing her best to drown out the noise withher hands clasped in prayer. She didn’t watch as he ripped apart my memories, but the look in her eyes as I walked out the door said she’d never forget it. I wouldn’t either. I vow to hold these feelings close to my chest until I can save enough money to get the fuck out of here. It’s a promise I echo in my mind as I hold my belongings in one hand.
“Hey, Uncle.”
“Cade.” He approaches me with the same indifferent embrace, slapping me on the back before heading off toward the side of the house. We followed him without a word. Only the sound of our marching feet over the gravel fills the quiet night.
“Ain’t got no room in the house for guests,” he suddenly utters, walking us toward the lit-up barn. “You’ll have to make do with this.” The doors open up onto a semi-clean space. The machinery is in its place, and the animals are locked up for the night. What lies on the floor is the accumulation of that day, the mess my uncle waited until now for me to clean.
“Here.” He takes my things under his arms and hands me a broom. “Make yourself at home.” Together, my father and he walk back into the night, their voices fading out until they disappear altogether. I stand in the barn’s entryway, my silhouette looming in the shadows.
Home, at least another empty version of it.
Before
December 1991
CADE
“Nelli,” I groan, “I need you to stop moving.” I kneel beside our oldest Holstein, trying to calm her irritation so I can relieve the pressure in her udders. In the eighteen months I’ve been here, she’s never given me any issues, but we’ve noticed over the last week or so that she hasn’t been producing anything. Bruises appear, and her temper has become increasingly erratic as the days pass. This morning, my uncle attempted to handle her, but she kicked him, only mere inches from his sternum.
“Nell,” I try to coax, rubbing her hide gently. “I know this hurts, but we’re almost done, and then I won’t have to touch you again. Okay?” I don’t know if she understands me; I don’t know if any of them do when I talk to them. But her big black eyes watch me as I go to squeeze her again, and she doesn’t move. She trusts me not to hurt her, and I won’t let her down.
My uncle storms into the barn as soon as I finish, staring from the entryway as I let her roam out the back. “How did it go?” he asks, staring down into her collection pail. The liquid is pink, a sign of blood, but thankfully not much. I go on to explainhow this morning went. “I think she’ll be fine. We just have to monitor her for infections.”
“Right. Right,” he mumbles, studying his booted toes on the ground. “I need you to drive down to Holly’s. I have a shipment ready for me.”
“Alright,” I respond, wiping Nelli’s residue on my jeans.
“Pick up some supplements and additives, too.” He hands me the keys to his pickup and walks off to tend to the other animals. None of my belongings are inside, so I head straight to the car, swiping my wallet off my hay bale nightstand.
The interior of his truck is covered in dirt, so I don’t feel any remorse for adding to it. Though I probably should have dusted it off so the air couldn’t blow it up my nose. I enjoy that breeze regardless, letting my hand run through the current. The blowing wind is as close to freedom as I’ve felt in a long time. As I drive on the solo lane, I imagine it taking me places, blowing me into my fantasies. Throughout my time here, I’ve considered taking what I have and going, disappearing so my family couldn’t find me. First, it was my father who attempted to beat me out of my goal of becoming a professional boxer. When he wasn’t enough, he sent me here, knowing I’d fear my uncle and his violent beatings more.
I hate to admit that he was right.
