Budapest » [Clintasha]

Chapter Thirty-Seven: Thanksgiving

The autumn that hit us was chilling, and the harvest we reaped wasn't as abundant as previous years; probably because my father input no time whatsoever into maintaining our farm.

And after an autumn of oranges, browns and golds, the trees went bare and our town became treacherous with snow. The weather swept down from Canada, harsh gales, a thick covering of snow and a sub-zero temperature. Most days we struggled to open the door to the porch because the snow had built up in a shelf against it, which effectively worked as a barricade.

Travelling to and from school because arduous, trudging through the white sludge up to my mid-calve and sitting in freezing classrooms. Typically, our school central heating was broken in the least hospitable season.

Maintaining a farm with fields and livestock is particularly hard in the snow; hoping that your ploughed and sewn fields are swept away to mush as the snow melts and dislodges the sloping soil, hoping that the animals cooped up in the barn don't shiver to death.

We fell on hard times. We had hardly enough meat to fund the butchers and our cornfields hadn't flourished as we hoped, so our stockpile was dwindling. We'd have to huddle around the fireplace instead of putting on the heating, we'd rely on the heat spreading through the house in a hope to keep it warm.

But as Thanksgiving sailed on the horizon, tragedy struck. I bet you thought my life couldn't get any worse?

I thought so too.

Since it was Thanksgiving, Barney had returned home. He babysat me whilst my ma', and my dad - moderately drunk as apposed to roaringly - set off in the car to pick up the bird we were going to roast for dinner the next day. My father drove, swerving out of the drive in his scrap-heap he called a pick up truck, in the dark and the snow. The turkey farm was a short distance from our house, Waverly is a small town you remember, but all that considered, the drive was still going to take longer due to the icy conditions.

I'd snuggled up to Barney on the sofa, a thousand blankets piled on me to cease the shivering, with the fire crackling in the corner, shadows dancing on the wall. I idly watched trash television with him, the reception poor and the screen crossed with static in the blizzard conditions.

All the while, I had one eye on the snow illuminated in the window, vast clumps raining from the heavens in vast gusts of wind.

"When will ma' be back?" I'd pestered after ten minutes had gone by, looking up to Barney to watch the syllables his lips shaped.

"Not long, Clint. Y'gotta remember the roads are bad," he responded, ruffling my hair, eyes glued to the television screen.

Then another five minutes ticked by and I asked Barney again, but he couldn't give me a straight answer.

I listened to the whistling wind for the idiosyncratic screech of tyres and the crunch of the handbrake, but it didn't come. And slowly my eyes began to droop, the warmth relaxing me, and curled into my brother's side, I fell asleep.

I was awoken by flashing lights, red and blue, bright even with my eyes shut. My eyes still sticky and weighty, I peered around and saw a haze of colours in our driveway, and as I blinked, the obscured mass of primary colours drew into focus.

I saw a small gaggle of cops chattering around a car, solemn looks on their face; then finally one broke away from the pack and took the walk to the door. There must've been a knock, because Barney jolted awake and writhed to untangle from the nest of blankets and staggered in his sleep-stained daze to the door.

I wriggled free of my blanket cocoon and stepped onto the cool floorboards and padded to the door behind him like a loyal and domesticated pet.

"Barton residence?" The policeman asked, removing his hat from his head and clasping it politely before him.