Chest-deep snow and ice cling to Ricky’s coat, making movement difficult and penetrating him with a most unwelcome chill.
“You keep watch. I’ll be back soon,” his father orders, anticipating a repeat of some previous lapse in judgment Ricky can’t recall. It is his father’s way.
Earlier they cleared one path down the driveway for the car and another for foot traffic leading to the backyard. Beyond that, mounded snow prevents access to the garage, the woodpile, and the corridors of pine trees at the rear of their property. Dusk lends the forested area a sinister demeanor, identical aisles of frosted limbs that lead into a blackened understory. Ricky thinks it’s a scary place.
“Keep an eye on Momma and Sissy,” says Father, then pulls the front door hard. Ice on the jamb prevents tight closure and necessitates a second, harder slam. Pictures on the wall rattle from the force of his departure.
Ricky is saddened at his leaving. Father forgot it’s his birthday. Smoky bacon grease and a scented candle tinge the air with pungent odors that cause his nose to run and eyes to burn a bit as if they had been bathed in the bitter winter air.
He collapses on the couch, melting and dripping, and knows what Momma will say, but comforts himself briefly in a quilt, wiping his runny nose on the filthy fabric.
“How many times have I told you not to do that Ricky?” asks Momma. “Why don’t you make yourself useful and go get a log for the fire. Go on, git!”
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