Free The Cave Painter & The Woodcutter by Don Hannah Page A

the whole thing—ambulance, Mike told me, the whole works. Got up next mornin’ and s’all diff’rent, the whole world’s changed. Gram’s just…
    Well, first my dad, see, her son, and then her husband, and I see now how close those two things were. So close. She just…
    â€œDead before they hit the ground, the both a them.” That’s what she kept sayin’, like she couldn’t believe it.
    I can’t really blame her, Gram, I mean, lookin’ back. Mike, though, always did. After she tracked down Mom, and Mom’s all, “No way, I can’t cope, can’t cope just yet.” Gram says, “Too selfish, that one. Too damn lazy.” And Mike gets all mad, starts shoutin’.
    He and Gram never got along, see. Maybe mostly ’cause he had a different father from me, so no kin ta her and Fa whatsoever. So he always cursed her for callin’ in the Aid. Always-always.
    I’m sittin’ on the floor by the TV watchin’ Dukes a Hazzard. I remember it so clear. Bo and Luke and their car and that, and even which show it was, the one with Boss Hogg’s twin brother, who wore black but was good. Boss Hogg’s like the evil twin. We was at Mrs. Conrad’s place then. She was somethin’ and her husband was worse when he was around. But he drove a bus and was away a lot a the time. Heather was almost same age as me, and nice ta me usually, Heather was, and we kept up some, but she had no use for Mike. I’m watchin’ TV by myself, I’d be about twelve and Mike, he’s sixteen. We been with the Thompsons and the Allens and the Owenses and Mrs. Fisher and some whose names I forget ’cause the times there wasn’t long enough. Then we was stuck with the Conrads. That’s how Heather’s mom put it, “Y’re stuck with us now,” she says. I never knew if it was s’posed ta be funny or what.
    Mike comes in and sits down on the rug beside me. “I’m headin’ out,” he says.
    â€œIt’s almost supper.” I’m thinkin’ how it’ll piss her off if he goes outside right now. She’ll get all cranky at me and Heather.
    â€œI don’t mean this minute. And I don’t mean I’m just goin’ out either.”
    â€œWhatta ya mean then?”
    â€œDig the shit outta yer ears, I’m takin’ off.”
    â€œFor good?”
    â€œDamn right.”
    â€œWhere to?”
    â€œSomewhere I won’t go mental like here. Like New York or Montreal or somewhere.”
    â€œWhat’ll ya do there?”
    â€œI don’t give a fuck,” he says. “So long as I get outta this shithole.”
    And me?
    And me?
    I’m waitin’ for him ta say that he wants me ta take off with him, but he don’t. Takin’ off is just for him all by himself.
    One night shortly after that, a week or so after he took off and didn’t come back, it was then, I’m lyin’ there in bed thinkin’ that he’s gone now and left me for good. I know he’s never comin’ back. Just like Mom, just like Gram.
    â€œWhy me,” I’m thinkin’. “Why’s this happen ta me and not some prick somewhere, or someone in like Africa that I’ll never know? Why me? ”
    And this feelin’ starts up in me, this thing like it’s always gonna be like this. ’Cause if even Mike takes off on me, I’m thinkin’, even Mike, well…
    What’d I ever do? How many times did I want ta tell someone like that Mrs. Thompson ta like, “Frickin’ bite me!” or tell that Mrs. Allen ta like, “Go stick a chooky up yer big fat ass.” But I hold my tongue and do what I’m s’posed to. I try and be grateful, like they says. Sunday school says if ya do what’s right, ya can’t go wrong, ya’ll get yer reward.
    I useta talk ta Mike ’bout stuff but now only one I have ta talk to is myself.