Page 76 of Thug

My father prohibited my mother from having a job. In his mind, he was the family’s provider. Fed up with our financial difficulties, when I was old enough to work I did just that. I worked two part-time jobs after school and on the weekends, swearing we’d never have problems with paying the utilities again.

My issues with my father weren’t because of how infrequently he was home or that he was drunk more than he was sober. I didn’t care on each occasion that he was accused of murder, or when I was sure that he was guilty of the crime. When they made a television show about him, claiming that he’d killed dozens of his rivals, I was appalled but I wasn’t shocked. Strangely, the television show’s revelations didn’t cause me to detest him.

His incessant lying and unreliability did.

My mother and I knew what he did. Everyone did. Nevertheless, he lied about it. He lied about everything else, too. He’d swear he’d be home for the weekend, and we’d often make plans. Rarely did he show. For him to be gone four or five days at a time was common. A week of absence didn’t raise an eyebrow.

The one thing we could always count on was that whenever he chose to return, he’d lie to us about his whereabouts.

Consequently, I learned to detest lairs.

Price cleared his throat. “I keep coming up with the same thing about my mom.”

I opened my eyes, not realizing I’d nearly fallen asleep. “What’s that?”

“Baking cookies. She loved to bake. She loved sweets, too. She said she ate them when she was happy, sad, or tired. Seemed like she was always eating something sweet.”

“Happy, sad, or tired. That’s funny. Did she eat lots of candy?”

“Candy?” He gave me the crazy eye. “No. She ate home-baked sweets. Cake. Cookies. Brownies. Donuts. If you could buy it in a store, she baked it. Hers were better than anything you could buy.”

His eyes took on a new light. His facial expressions, posture, and the tone of his voice were all different when he spoke of her.

Seeing the changes in him caused me to smile. “That’s awesome.”

He glanced toward the kitchen. “She was a great cook.”

It was almost as if he could see her there, cooking his favorite meal. His gaze hung there for a moment. A light sigh escaped him, and he looked away.

“What about your dad?” I asked.

“He couldn’t cook shit.” He laughed a dry laugh. “Fry an egg, maybe. He cooked a pretty good burger.”

He gazed blankly at the ceiling for a moment, as if scanning his memory for something to tell me about his father. A glimpse at the man who was labeled a bank robber, but was also a father, a husband, and an awful egg cook.

“My best memory of him is this. There was this time, back when I was about seven or eight…” He rolled to his side. “My dad was cleaning his gun and I walked into the back room.” He gestured to the other side of the house with his hand. “Over by the laundry room. The door was closed, but it wasn’t latched. He went back there quite a bit. It wasn’t off-limits or anything, but I knew I wasn’t supposed to be in there. He had a small safe in there and he kept several guns in it. Well, he looked up and said, ‘Come in here. I want to show you something.’ So, did as he asked, and went in there. Hell, I was scared he was going to ground me.”

“Did you get grounded a lot? I bet you did.”

“Probably about as much as most boys my age. Couple of times a year. Mostly for disobeying something he’d said. Not for grades, or anything like that. What about you?”

“I’ve never been grounded.”

He gave me a quick once-over. “Figures.”

I hadn’t been grounded because my mother was a pushover and my father didn’t care. “Keep going,” I said. “Sorry.”

“So, he showed me the gun, the mechanics of it, and explained how the importance of the safety and how it worked. He explained that it would kill whatever what shot with it, and then went on to tell me what he called the golden rule of guns.” He sat up and rubbed his thighs while gazing at the ceiling. After a moment, his gaze met mine. “‘If you ever point a gun at something, be prepared to shoot it,’ he said. ‘Not ready to shoot it, but prepared.’ Then, he looked at me and asked if I wanted to know the difference. I said I did. ‘Ready,’ he said. ‘Is being physically ready.’ He unloaded the gun, showed me it was unloaded, and pointed it toward the window. ‘Prepared, is being mentally ready. When a man pulls the trigger of a gun, he has to be prepared to deal with the aftermath for the rest of his days on earth.’ He looked at me and said, ‘You know that rabbit we see from time to time, out by the edge of the back yard?’ I said I did. He said, ‘Well, one day you might think you want to shoot it. Before you do, ask yourself if you’re prepared.’ He looked at me with these cold, serious eyes. ‘Ask yourself if you want to live the rest of your days knowing you’ll never see it again. That you’re the one who took it from its place on earth. That you’re the one, for that fleeting moment, that considered himself God. And if the answer to the questions you’ve asked yourself is yes, then take that shot. Not before. Do you understand?’ I said, ‘yes, sir.’ Because I did. I’ll always remember that discussion. It’s probably one of my fondest memories of him. Kind of weird, because that conversation haunts me, too.” He shook his head. “Almost didn’t want to tell you about it.”

It was a good story and a good lesson, for sure. “Why not?” I asked.

“Because,” he said. Sooner or later you’d ask why it haunted me.”

He was right. “Well, let’s get it over with,” I said. “Why does it haunt you?”

His eyes narrowed a little. “What do you know…what do you think you know about how my parents died?”

I couldn’t believe he’d asked. I swallowed a ball of nervous apprehension. “Do you want me to tell you what I’ve heard?”