Just as he reached for the screen door, it swung open and his grandfather stood blocking his way. “Why are you out here wailing like a Tom cat who’s following the scent of a cat in heat?”
“H-he’s b-back!”
His grandfather’s wrinkled brow pulled low. “Who?”
“H-him.”
“Use your damn words, Whip. Just saying ‘him’ doesn’t work, remember? Form your words and say them clearly.”
He was trying. He’d been better about it. Until now. “D-dad.”
The old man’s spine snapped straight and his cloudy eyes narrowed. “The hell he is.”
“Y-yes. He’s…” Whip gulped another mouthful of air. “He’s h-here.”
His pap stepped out onto the wood porch that needed a fresh coat of paint and let the wooden screen door slam behind him, making Whip jump and glance over his shoulder.
The screen door also needed a paint job, but Pap said he was getting too old to do that kind of “shit” and that Whip’s mom needed to find herself a worthwhile man to do work around the house and help raise Whip. Instead of the one that she was currently married to, who also happened to be Pap’s youngest son.
Blood or not, Pap said both his sons were useless pieces of shit. That was how he actually said it, too. He stated loudly and often that he wished he never had either one.
He also said the only good thing that came out of having those wastes of skin were his grandkids and his daughters-in-law. Whip, Whip’s mom, his Aunt Jennie and his two cousins were the only ones left on Earth who made his life worth living.
Whip loved his pap.
Much more than his father. Or his uncle.
Pap called them low-life losers. A lot. Especially when stuff needed to be done around the house or bills needed to be paid and neither of them were anywhere to be found.
Pap said his Uncle Scott, who always insisted on being called Spider instead, was too busy running around on his motorcycle and getting into trouble with the law. While Whip’s father was too busy getting himself in trouble with other women.
Whip didn’t know why since his dad had a perfectly good one here at home. Maybe if he was a little nicer to Whip’s mom, Pap would actually let him stay.
But his dad was never nice.
Not ever.
Not to his mom, not to Pap and not to Whip, either.
Whip actually hated his father. He was mean. Especially when he was drinking.
He had no idea why his mother married him. Whip asked her that once and she said he wasn’t like this when she met him. Pap said Whip’s dad wasn’t a “mean son-of-a-bitch” until his drinking got out of control.
“B-bet he’s… h-he’s here for m-money again, P-pap.”
“Wouldn’t be surprised,” Pap grumbled. He turned and pulled open the screen door. “Get inside and go find your mother. Warn her that your daddy’s here and tell her to bring me my shotgun. The one that’s loaded near my bed. I’m going to handle this.”
Whip didn’t like Pap’s tone. It was the one he got when he was annoyed, like when the Steelers lost and he shouted that he was “done” with that “damn team.” Sometimes he even threw things at the TV.
“P-pap…”
His grandfather shot him a frown and pointed inside. “Go do what I told you. And don’t come back out ’til I tell you, neither. You understand, boy?”
Whip nodded.
“Go!” Pap barked.
Whip went.
“M-mom!” he screamed while running through the house.
“Why are you running?” she asked as she peered around the door from the laundry room. “You sound like a stampeding herd of buffalo.” She must be folding clothes again. She was always folding clothes.
“D-dad’s b-back.”
He wasn’t sure if she was frowning at that news or because of his stutter. It had been a while since he’d done it. The doctor said he had finally outgrown it.
Now it was back.
Just like his dad.
“P-pap said g-get his shotgun.”
She blinked in confusion. “What?”
“Sh-shotgun.”
She rushed out of the laundry room, her eyes wide. “No! I’m not getting his shotgun! Where is he?”
“Out… s-side.”
“Where’s your father?”
“Outside, t-too.”
“Where?” she asked, rushing down the hallway with Whip on her heels.
“P-pap wants his sh-sh-shotgun.”
“I’m not giving him his damn shotgun!” she yelled, sounding irritated.
Whip slammed on the brakes and stared at his mother’s retreating back as she continued toward the front door. A second later, he heard the screen door slam hard.
Whip turned, ran back to his pap’s room and spotted the shotgun leaning against the wall near the head of his bed.
He wasn’t allowed to touch it. Not unless Pap was teaching him how to shoot it. Sometimes they did that out in the woods using targets. If he touched it now, he might get in trouble.
But Pap wanted it.
Pap was the man of the house.
Pap would protect them. He promised he always would. He said he would make up for his useless nut seeds. Whatever that meant.
The long gun was awkward but not too heavy for him to run down the hallway with it. When he got to the front door, he heard raised voices outside.
Pap was arguing with Whip’s dad.
His dad sounded drunk. Again.
He shoved the screen door open with his shoulder and hurried out onto the porch.
“Let me pass, old man. I live here, too.” Bobby Byrne’s words were running together and he stunk like beer, even from where Whip stood.
“Get the hell out of here. You’re no longer welcome here. Told you that last time,” his pap yelled. “Tonya, you were supposed to bring me my damn shotgun!”
His pap liked to curse. A lot.
He also said he was ornery. Whip agreed once he learned what ornery meant.
“What are you going to do, old man? Shoot your own flesh and blood?” Whip’s father shouted, his questions slurred, his face red and his bloodshot eyes narrowed.
Whip didn’t like when his face got red like that. It always meant trouble. And not “good trouble” like his pap called Whip.
“If I have to,” Pap answered, his face now red, too. He glanced at Whip and held out his hand. “Bring that here, Whip.”
“Don’t you fucking dare, boy,” his father yelled.
“Tyler, take that back inside,” his mother ordered, also yelling.
Why was she standing so close to his father? She was within fist range. Didn’t she realize that?
“M-Mom!” he warned.
Pap turned on his heels and climbed the steps up to the porch, the hitch in his step worse than normal. Probably because of the arthritis his grandfather complained about often.
He rubbed his hip with one hand and held out his other, the knuckles also knobby from arthritis. “Give it here, Whip, and go back inside.”
Whip shook his head.
“Get inside. Now!” Pap shouted at him, grabbing the shotgun out of Whip’s hands and pointing toward the door.
His grandfather rarely yelled at him like that. Whip pressed his lips together and rushed inside. He stood just to the side of the door so he could see and hear what was happening, but not be spotted.