Nobody Knows Your Secret

34

The narrow twisting roads on the Whittaker land had never been surveyed or mapped, but Skip knew where each turn and switchback led. He had walked over these mountains so many times with his grandfather that he could not get lost. No GPS could keep track of his location any better than Skip.

He drove his pickup into a stand of trees. The small, red tail lights glowed for an instant as he braked and cut off the ignition. He retrieved his 12-gauge from its rack over the back seat and eased out of the vehicle. His steps were purposeful. Steady. He walked deep into the trees as the forest canopy swallowed him up, and he disappeared from sight.

He watched for the telltale flicker of a flashlight beam. He listened for the hum of a four-wheeler. He waited and silently wandered up and down the slopes that belonged to him. 

The wind whispered through the trees, rustling the leaves of the oaks and poplars nearby. He thought of his grandfather. He thought he could just make out the ragged hoarse whisper of the old man.

"Skippy," Pappy said, "you got it easy. I remember summers so dry, the corn died on the stalk. Leaves curled up and shriveled to brown husks right before your eyes. 

Pitiful sad days, those were. We still had taters in the cellar, but they was tryin' to sprout. All withered, but 'at's all we had to keep us goin'. We et taters mawnin', noon, and night. Biled 'er roasted on coals. Stewed and fried in lard. 

Usually not enough on our plate to keep the hunger pangs chased off. But just enough to keep us alive. Wouldn't 'a surprised me none to hear a knockin' on the door 'n' find the Grim Reaper on the doorstep. No, sir."

Skip could the old voice droning on in his memory. In his mind, he saw the old figure of his grandfather. His big-knuckled finger pointing to the remains of an old poplar tree. A black scar ran up its craggy, rough bark.

"See 'at black char?" Pappy asked. "Biggest bolt a lit'nin' I ever seed struck right over thair. Boy, howdy! Cracked 'at thunder blast 'bout same time the lit'nin' hit. Hardly a second in betwixt. No time to run 'n' hide. No time to take kiver. Thought I was a fried pup, fer sure.

Jumped outta my skin. Felt the earth shake. Hair singed on my arms. Knew I was a goner. Thar I stood, shakin' like a leaf.

Ole tree cotched fyar like ole Mose burning brash.

Mighty good thang I had all 'em acorns lined up on the winder sill. 'At bolt wudda struck the cabin fer sure. But it never wudda 'cause I had 'em acorns on the sill. Always pays to be cautious, son. Err on the side 'a caution. Can't hurt none. Careful is always best. Always. That's why to this day, I make sure I line 'em acorns on that winder sill."

Skip smiled. It was a good memory. He continued walking and watching, waiting for any sight or sound of an intruder. Shotgun at his side, he silently crossed the leaf-covered ground.

Mama wasn't happy he spent so much time here. Skip felt his father didn't care much one way or the other. His dad was too busy to notice. All it took was the killing of some no-account, drug-addicted thief like Kyle Winthrop to steal all his father's time and energy away from his family. Not that it mattered. He was grown now.

What did they know?

***

Skip unconsciously gritted his teeth. Mama was old. She would never understand. Daddy was always roaming the county.

Would it have been better if his father had been in some other line of work?

Skip shook his head.

A sheriff's kid!

Daddy might as well be a preacher!

Kids made fun of him all the time when he was growing up.

Kids his age thought hanging with the sheriff's son was an automatic get-out-of-jail-free card if they got into trouble. Time and time again, they wanted to drag Skip into their escapades, thinking that if they got caught, the sheriff would turn a blind eye. 

Bill Whittaker would probably sweep it all under the rug if his son was implicated in any wrongdoing. Skip had never been fooled about the reasons behind his "popularity."

Yes, he thought, Daddy might as well be a preacher!

And his teachers! They were just as bad. Those sharks were always waiting and watching for the sheriff's kid to screw up. They wanted to see blood.

 Or worse, make friends so that if trouble came, Skippy's dad would be willing to do them a favor. Let them slide on a parking ticket. Not write them that speeding ticket. It was crazy. It was stupid. Skip just kept to himself and tried to be invisible.

But what could he do?

How could he explain how he really had felt growing up?

His dad would laugh. His mother would worry. They'd never understand. Skip unconsciously gritted his teeth. He hadn't had the easiest road. But they'd never see it like he did.

There had been some good moments, though.

***

As a very young boy, it had been fun to ride with Daddy in the patrol car. Blast the siren. Wear his daddy's star. Not now, though. All that stuff which had made him so happy seemed so childish now.

A branch broke. Skip's senses heightened. He raised the shotgun. His finger ticked a nervous twitch as it brushed the trigger. The muscles clenched in his jaw. His breath came in short, uneven gasps. A bead of sweat broke on his forehead. He strained to hear a sound. Any sound. His eyes jerked left and right.

A cottontail zigzagged in front of him.

He smiled. The color came back to his cheeks. He lowered his gun and continued across the slope. Darkness swallowed him up as he disappeared over the next ridge. The rabbit hopped away into the night.