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Goddamn trailer. Like living in a cracked eggshell.
I kicked off the covers and padded through the double-wide to the living area. Pops was passed out on the couch, instead of in his room behind the kitchen. A fifth of Old Crow—empty—stood tall amid the beer cans on the rickety, stained coffee table. An ashtray overflowing with butts still smoldered.
One day I was going to get the heat I craved in the form of a fire from one of Pops’ smokes.
His snores filled the trailer as I crossed to the heater. We had to be careful about the thermostat—I made sure we kept it at sixty-five degrees—but the trailer had shitty insulation and no underpinning. I waved my hand in front of the vents. The heater was on and working, pissing our money away for all the good it did. A cold January wind whistled beneath us. I could feel it through the floor.
Outside the front window, the scrapyard lay under a cloak of white. Our Wexx-brand gas station at the far end, closed up today. Not that we had any customers. It was silent and still out there. The acre of rusted old cars were white mounds, pure and pristine over the tangles of metal. A graveyard.
All of Harmony felt like a graveyard to me, a place that buried you. But tourists loved it. In summer, they came from all over to step out of time and into USA circa 1950. Downtown Harmony was six square blocks of Victorian-era architecture, colorful storefronts, one ice cream and burger joint with a jukebox and posters of Elvis and Jerry Lee Lewis on the walls. A single traffic light hung over Main Street, and we had a five-and-dime that sold Civil War-era souvenirs. Some big battle had been fought in the rolling green fields between Harmony and the next real outpost of civilization, Braxton. The tourists came for the history and a milkshake and then left. Escaped.
I looked at Pops. Fifty-three years old and he’d been out of Harmony maybe twice. Once to the hospital in Indianapolis when I was born, and to that same hospital when my mother died eleven years ago.
He was like the cars we scrapped and the gas station he sometimes operated—old before his time, broken down, and reeking of his favorite gasoline. He wasn’t getting out of Harmony, but I sure as shit was.
Someday.
I laid my palm on the cold windowpane. Icy tendrils of wind snaked their way in from cracks along the sill. I’d been saving up for better windows all summer—doing odd jobs for Martin Ford at the Harmony Community Theater when I wasn’t manning the gas station. When October rolled around, Pops promised to get to the hardware store for the new panes. But I’d given him the money and he used it to go on a bender.
That’s what trust’ll get you.
Pops stirred, snorted, and blinked awake. “Isaac?”
“That’s me. You want some breakfast?” Blowing on my chilled fingers, I moved to the small kitchen.
“Sausage,” he said, and lit a half-smoked Winston.
“No sausage,” I said, fixing us two bowls of cornflakes. “I’ll go to the store on the way home from school. Before the show tonight.”
“You bet your ass you will.”
He hauled himself off the couch with a grunt and lumbered over to sit at the foldout card table that served as our dining table. I sat across from him and tried to ignore him slurping cereal in between drags off his cigarette.
Pops hunched over his bowl, the weight of his own life dragging him down. He was heavy with years of struggle and poverty, harsh winters, heartache and alcohol. His jowls were unshaven, drooping like the bags under his watery eyes. Unwashed hair fell like gray straw over his forehead. I dropped my eyes, determined to finish my food in ten bites or less and get the hell out of there.
“What’s tonight? A show?” Pops asked.
“Yeah.”
“Which is it this time?”
“Oedipus Rex,” I said, as if it hadn’t been running for two weeks and in rehearsal four weeks before that.
He grunted. “Greek tragedy. I’m not all stupid.”
“I know,” I said, my hackles going up. He hadn’t had anything to drink yet, so the meanness was still slumbering. It was mostly nocturnal—the Jekyll in him—and I did my best to stay out of its way until he passed out.
“And what part are you?”
I sighed. “I’m Oedipus, Pops.”
He snorted, shoveled a spoonful of cereal into his mouth, dribbling milk down the gristle of his chin. “That Martin Ford really has taken a shine to you.” He jabbed his spoon at me. “You watch out. Turn you into a fag if you keep up this acting nonsense. If he hasn’t already.”
I clenched my teeth and hands both but said nothing. It wasn’t the first time he’d insinuated Martin—the director of the Harmony Community Theater—favored me for reasons other than my talent. Truth was, Martin and his wife, Brenda, had been more like parents to me than Pops could ever imagine.
But I didn’t tell him that. You don’t talk to a braying donkey and expect to have a real conversation.
“The play closes tomorrow night.” I hazarded a glance up. I wasn’t stupid enough to ask him to come, but the part of me that still wanted to believe he was a real father never fucking gave up. “Last show.”
