Free Painted Boots by Mechelle Morrison Page B

to his age, the more Dad sees the best of my brother in me and it’s hard for him.  Real hard.  I wish Dad could talk about it though.
     
    I miss my brother.  I always will.  It feels good to talk about him and it hurts like hell, all rolled up into one.
     
    God, I’m tired.  I wish I could curl myself around you girl, and fall asleep.  Promise you’ll let me do that, when I come home.
    K

 
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    THE SEA DRAINS upward, filling Wyoming’s gigantic sky with rolling, green waves.  Stars and planets wink as they submerge in the churning foam.  The moon shimmers like a pearl on the ocean floor.
    But f rom where I watch, dry and sheltered in the Jam, I feel no worry.  Kyle’s nearby, playing “Be All Right” on his guitar.  He whispers in my ear, “It’s not done, girl.”  His guitar’s strings make a weird, stinging thwack.
    I wake up a bit .
    Thwack .
    S ilence.
    Did I hear something for real?  A dripping faucet?  Rain?  Maybe animals, in the attic.  We had that once in Portland.  Raccoons, I think.
    T hwack.
    I roll to my side, open my eyes and blink the dim digital numbers of my clock into focus.  One-fifty-two.  No light seeps from under my door.
    That means Dad’s asleep.  Right?
    T hwack.
    S omething hit my window!  I slip out of bed and flex my toes in the cool fibers of my rug.  Another thwack and I drop to the floor, my arms around my knees.  Is it a bat?  Are there bats in Wyoming?  Big ones?  Do bats break glass?  Can bats even fly when it’s cold?  A shiver wracks my body.
    Another thwack .  Then two more.
    Three thwacks later I force myself to stand.  For a nanosecond I consider opening my blinds, but I don’t.  What if all I see is some huge monster gnawing on the glass to get in?  I walk to my door and pull it open carefully, just in case the monster has friends waiting to attack me in the hall.  Except for the weak little light Dad plugged into the center outlet, the hallway is empty and dark.  Dad keeps the light there in case I need a late-night potty trip.  I thought it was stupid when he plugged it in—“I’m not a toddler,” I’d said—but now I’m grateful.
    Dad’s door is shut, which is normal.  He’s snoring on the other side.  That’s normal, too.  I step into the hall, clutch at my elbows and walk to the top of the stairs.  Behind me, from my room, comes another sharp thwack .
    Moonlight pours like mercury through our paned front windows, painting an elongated, silvery checkerboard across the living room floor.  I step from the stairs and edge along the interior wall, walking across the couch cushions before I squeeze behind and around Dad’s new chair.  That way I keep in the shadows.  The moonlight doesn’t touch even my toes.
    Once I’m in Dad’s office, I relax.  His technology lights are all aglow—the computer’s tiny green ‘on’ button, the neon blue connection of his charging phone, the various printers and monitors and scanners, his stereo and his fax.  Everything seems normal and I feel safe.  The blinds are drawn, but this room is directly below my bedroom. If I look outside, maybe I’ll see where the noise comes from.
    S hrubbery lines the front of our house.  To get a better view I move a chair to the window and climb onto it, parting the blind’s top slats with my fingers.  Two shapes, like shadows free of their owners, stand a few feet away on the lawn.  One of them throws something upward.  Another thwack .  The sound is softer from here.
    I f I turn on the porch light I might catch a glimpse of who they are, but from here, even with the moon on full, the people are featureless.  One person waves toward the street and the other steps forward, his or her arm whirling in a wide arc.  A cascade of sound follows as something—small stones, maybe—pelt against our house.  Some hit the exterior cedar siding.  Some hit Dad’s office window so hard I think the glass will break.  I step back, lose my