Page 6 of Where the Music Grows

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.”