The Son

Chapter Sixty-eight. J.A. McCullough

She’d come into the great room to see her father sitting next to the fireplace. He didn’t notice her — she remained in the shadows — he was sitting in a chair he had pulled onto the stone hearth, reading from a leather-bound notebook. When he finished a page, he would tear it out, lean forward, and drop it into the flames. There were three other notebooks — they appeared to be some sort of journal — on the floor next to him. She watched for several minutes. Finally she walked over. “What are you doing?” she said.

He was sweating and his face was pale as if he had a fever. For a time he didn’t speak.

“Your grandfather was a liar,” he finally said. He looked as if he would tear up and then sat there like that and she was reminded of the father of her school friend, who had also sat weeping in front of the fire, and she wondered if it was something that fathers did.

He collected himself. “I should get some work done.” He stood and picked up all four of the notebooks and tossed them among the burning logs. Then he kissed her on the head. “Good night, sweetie.”

When she was sure he was gone, she took the poker and pulled the journals out. The flames had barely touched them.

She had not shown her brothers, or anyone else. She had known better. She had known she was the only one who could be trusted with them.

JONAS HAD BEEN acting strangely all day; after school, instead of going out to the pastures to meet their father, he had gone up to his room. She had watched him at dinner, there was something wrong with him, probably the flu. He barely touched his food.

The dishes had been cleared away and Paul and Clint had gone to the library to play cards. She went out to her sleeping porch to read and looked out into the dark and saw a figure walking down the hill toward the stables. His shoulders were hunched and his head was down as if he was embarrassed and she knew immediately it was Jonas.

Even later, she was not sure why she followed him. She walked to the stables and sat in the dark, watching. A light went on. She wondered if her brother was meeting a girl; she wondered who the girl was. But then he was leading all the horses out to the pasture, slapping to get them moving.

She went closer and watched through the cracks in the boards, standing in the dark night, as he dragged hay bales down and stacked them under the loft. When he was satisfied with the pile he’d made, he took a jug of coal oil and poured it over the hay.

“What are you doing?” she said. She opened the door.

He was looking at her and she stepped into the light.

“Jeannie,” he said. He looked stricken.

“What are you doing?” she said again.

“This is the only way he’ll let me leave.”

She had not understood.

“Daddy,” he said. He shrugged. “I thought I would see what happened when I start costing him real money. That’s always been the way to his heart. You can tell on me if you want, I don’t care.”

“I won’t tell,” she said.

“Then go through the stalls and make sure I didn’t leave any of the horses. I’m not thinking straight right now.”

She had walked through the stable, checking each stall.

He had made a torch out of a stick and an old shirt and she watched through the door as he doused it in kerosene and lit it. Then he threw the torch onto the pile. There was a noise and it was bright. He came out and shut the door behind him. They sat on the hill and watched as light began to come through all the cracks in the building, as if a small sun were rising inside it. Smoke began to pour out into the night and her brother stood up and held her to him and then he took her hand and they walked quietly together back up the hill toward their father’s house.