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Reflections

Amos begins to see things from a different perspective and realizes his family's fate is in his hands.

By Adam PatrickPublished 3 years ago 9 min read
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Reflections
Photo by Clark Young on Unsplash

Pink clouds rippled across the sky as the sun sank wearily towards the crest of the Kentucky hills. It hadn’t gone down completely, which was good; Amos Tucker would be in a load of trouble if he didn’t get home before dark. He was almost there, but the lightning bugs blinked their warnings in the thick summer air. He lifted his butt from the seat and put more oomph into the pedals.

He reached the top of the last hill where a whippoorwill ushered in the night. It was all downhill from here, he thought. Literally and figuratively. There was nothing he could do but sit back, let gravity take him home, and enjoy the last couple minutes of breeze in his face. At the bottom of the hill, the trees parted to reveal four acres of cleared land. To the left of the gravel driveway, Bruce, his father’s buckskin horse, had been grazing in the open field. The horse lifted its tail and sprinted ahead of Amos, his hoofs thudding into the soft earth, throwing clods of dirt and grass. He broke wind with almost every stride and Amos laughed.

His bike rolled several feet after he dismounted on the run. It rattled as it came to a crashing halt in front of the house. He bounded up the stairs, pushing away the excited dogs and barreling through the front door, breathing heavily. He rushed directly for the dining room table and took his seat, his eyes directly in front of him. Across from him was a large window. In the reflection, he could see the entire dining room: the dinner table full of food, his mother standing over his left shoulder, his baby sister in a high chair across the table, and his father slumped backwards in his chair, looking at Amos. All on a backdrop of darkness.

It didn’t look that dark outside, Amos thought. He almost said it. Almost.

His mother placed the bowl she was holding on the table, then took her seat across from Amos, next to baby Anna.

“Just where’ve you been?” His father finally spoke. He hadn’t taken his eyes off Amos since he got home.

Amos tried to be casual, as if he’d done nothing wrong. Which he hadn’t. It was still light outside. The porch light wasn’t even on. It just looked darker from in here. Because the lights were on inside.

“Over at Jamie’s.”

“Pff,” his father scoffed as Amos’s mother lifted a pork chop onto his plate. It’s all he had to do. Amos was well aware of his father’s opinion of the Stephenses.

Amos watched his father watch his mother finish making his plate before turning to feed Anna. Before she had a chance to get started, Dad took a long drink from his beer can. He swallowed, cleared his throat, and tapped the bottom of the empty can on the table.

Amos’s mother stood and went to fetch him another.

Anna’s little arm wavered toward the plastic coated spoon in the jar of mashed peas left on the table.

Amos felt his face flush with anger and shame.

“‘ts your problem?” His father said on the back end of a burp.

Amos didn’t move.

“Hey,” his father said, kicking the leg of Amos’s chair. Amos jumped and turned toward his father. In the reflection, he could see that his bearing had broken down; the anger had overpowered the guilt and it showed on his face. Despite feeling immediate regret, his features remained twisted in rage.

His father’s brow raised, though his eyelids still drooped. Amos could sense the prodding to come. He considered that this may be the time he actually stood up to his father. Told him how mean he was to him and his mother, how he drank too much and didn’t love them the way he should. But he didn’t get the chance.

Looking back, Amos would assume that his mother had heard the exchange from the kitchen. Felt the tension swelling up like a balloon filled with the humid evening air, filling the rooms, putting pressure on the doors and windows. That’s why she came in with his birthday cake.

“Happy birthday to you…”

Amos’s eyes were filled with tears when he looked to his mother carrying a chocolate cake from the kitchen. He wasn’t sure if the gust of wind that escaped his lungs was a laugh or a sob. But, despite the tears, he smiled.

His father groaned. Leaned against the table with his forearms.

“...to you.” His mother smiled and slid the chocolate cake in front of Amos, pushing his empty plate out of the way. A small piece was missing from one corner. He just assumed she or her father had stolen a piece ahead of time. His mother ran a hand over his soft hair and gave him a kiss on the forehead. Amos couldn’t help but beam, the last few minutes forgotten.

“Jesus,” his father said.

“Happy birthday, sweetie,” his mother said. She straightened her dress and moved back to the other side of the table, pinching Anna’s cheek as she passed.

Amos’s father sucked at his teeth. “Boy’s fourteen for chrissake.”

“Adults eat cake, too,” Amos blurted.

The only sound was Anna’s gurgling.

His father broke the silence. “That so?”

Amos kept his face down.

“Jimmy,” Amos’s mother placed her hand on the man’s wrist. He ripped it away.

“No, no! Boy thinks he’s a man now, does he?” He bent over the table, speaking directly into Amos’s downturned face. Heat and hops and barley flooded Amos’s nose. “God knows he weighs as much as one.” He poked Amos in the side. Amos flinched. When he poked him again, Amos swung and knocked his father’s hand away. The anger had returned to his face.

If what was on his face was anger, Amos thought, his father’s face registered unfiltered rage.

“Why, you little shit,” his father said as he sprung to his feet. Amos covered his head.

“Jimmy!” His mother cried out. Anna began to wail.

“Swear to God,” Jimmy said, bracing himself on the table. “A-dult. Fucking a-dult. You know who else likes cake, Mr. Grown Man? Horses. Horses loooove them some cake. And since you weigh more than that gaht-damn horse out there, I think he should get this cake.”

Amos’s father snatched the cake up from in front of Amos and stormed toward the door. His mother was following, pleading with him to come back. Amos just watched, certain that his father would come to his senses. When he pushed his mother away and left the front door open as he kicked the dogs away, Amos followed.

His father was halfway to the barn when Amos assured his mother was okay and walked out onto the porch. The night had made itself at home by now. He could see the silver outline of his father headed toward the barn.

“Here ya go, Brucey! Muh boy’s goin’ on a diet! C’mere Bruce!”

Amos started after him. Bruce was standing silently at the fence, the moonlight shining in his black eyes.

“Here ya go, buddy.” His father reached the fence and dropped the cake at Bruce’s feet just as Amos pulled up. Bruce began to nose through the cake, his rubbery lips covered in frosting.

Amos fell to his knees.

His father laughed out loud.

“Boy, look at ‘im go.” He knelt down and put his face against Amos’s ear. Amos could feel how unbalanced the man was. He wanted to shove him over. He wanted to shove him over and reach through the fence, take handfuls of chocolate cake and cram it into his face. Shove it down his throat. Maybe even choke him to death with it.

But he just sat there. Staring at Bruce nosing through his chocolate cake.

“You may weigh as much as ol’ Bruce there, ya fat little shit. But you’re still just a boy, boy. Don’t you ever forget that.”

His father stood up and stumbled away.

His mother raced to his side.

“I hate him,” Amos said. His mother just pulled him into her side and rocked him in the moonlight.

When they went back inside, Amos’s father had fallen asleep in his recliner with a baseball game on TV, despite Anna’s screaming from the high chair. Amos’s mother rushed to her side, petting her hair and apologizing.

“I can’t believe I left her,” she said as Amos came into the dining room. She straightened and placed her fingers on her brow. She took a deep breath. Refocused, she pointed at Amos. “Sit,” she said quietly.

Amos sat, watching a now calmed baby Anna smacking the top of the empty tray in front of her as his mother disappeared into the kitchen. He wondered what she knew. How she would grow up. Could she tell how awful her own father was? Would he be as awful to her? No, it was up to Amos to prevent that, wasn’t it? He was lost in his thoughts when his mother returned. She slid a small plate in front of him. A single candle flickered in the center of a small slice of chocolate cake.

The missing piece he had noticed earlier.

He gasped and his face brightened. He looked up at his mother. Her porcelain face glowed at his reaction. She placed a finger to her lips and took Amos’s father’s plate back to the kitchen.

Amos turned back to the cake in front of him. The initial excitement had worn off, already. What was this weariness that settled over him? It was something in the back of his mind that he couldn’t or wouldn’t label. He felt dragged down as if a wet blanket had been draped over his shoulders. He wanted to be excited, he should have been excited. Mom had saved him a piece.

The implication didn’t hit him out of nowhere, so much as it appeared in the distance amid a dense fog. He didn’t even have to think about it, in fact, he didn’t want to think about it; but, here on his birthday something was becoming visible that he’d wished would remain unseen.

His mother had known.

She had known what was going to happen, or at the very least what was possible or likely to happen. A wave of sadness thundered into the front of his skull just above his eyes. Why had she put up with this for so long? Why had she exposed Amos to his abuse and mistreatment?

And now Anna. Sweet Anna, so oblivious to what was going on. He looked at her and noticed his own reflection in the window. It was up to him, wasn’t it?

He took the plate and left his chair. He rounded the table and sat in his father’s chair. He slid the plate of chocolate cake onto Anna’s tray and watched as she smashed her little hands into it, then investigated the dark gooey stuff webbed between her fingers before placing them in her mouth and kicking her legs.

In the window, he saw his mother’s figure return from the kitchen. Her hand went to her mouth. In the blurry reflection, he couldn’t see his mother’s tears, but he could hear the whisper of stifled sobs.

He scooped a fingertip through some of the icing and dabbed it on Anna’s nose.

It was up to him.

Short Story
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About the Creator

Adam Patrick

Born and raised in Southeastern Kentucky, I traveled the world in the Air Force until I retired. I now reside in Arkansas with my wife Lyndi, where I flail around on my keyboard and try to craft something interesting to read.

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