Faraway Horses Read Online Free Page B

yelling.
    By the time he was thoroughly liquored up, it would be late. The woodstove in the corner would have long gone out, and the house would have turned cold. Dad would get us out of bed, and we’d have to sit there in our underwear, shaking from the cold and knowing what was ahead of us. He’d never notice our discomfort or fear because he was so full of his own “antifreeze.”
    One night Dad pulled us out of bed about midnight. He’d been on a drinking binge since shortly after dinner. We had to sit down at the table while he yelled at us for a couple of hours. It must have been two or three o’clock in the morning, and we begged him to let us go back to bed.
    But no. He walked from the table to the refrigerator, reached in the freezer, and pulled out one of his trusty bottles of vodka. He’d drink some of that and then he’d drink a beer. It was his ritual. On his return from the kitchen he’d ask us, “What are you little bastards looking at?” That was the tip-off. Another butt-whipping party was about to start, and we were the guests of honor.
    Dad had a riding crop with a molded plastic handle that he’d use on us (I’m sure that’s the reason why even today I’m still a little touchy about riding crops). We were too afraid to run because Dad always told us we’d get it worse if we did. But this night he was really drunk, and we couldn’t face it. We’d had enough. We were tired of going to school bruised and beaten and with no sleep, so we took off running.
    The house was perfect for a chase. It had a sort of island in the middle, and a full circle would take you from the kitchen through the bathroom, into the living room and dining room, and back again.
    We ran through the kitchen. I was in the lead, with Smokie right behind me. Dad was on the other side of the house trying to catch up. Suddenly Smokie stopped, opened the drawer where the cutlery was kept, and pulled out a steak knife. The desperate look in his eyes scared me, but I understood. Smokie just didn’t want another beating. He was finally going to take care of us.
    I knew that if Dad saw him with that knife, Smokie would have to use it, because if he didn’t, Dad would take it away from him and kill him with it. I collected every last bit ofcalm I had left in me, and quietly whispered, “Smokie, please put that knife back in the drawer. Don’t let him see it.”
    Smokie paused just for a moment. It’s almost as if God kept my dad out of sight long enough for Smokie to put that knife back in the drawer.
    We couldn’t have looked at each other for more than a half second, but it’s a moment we will remember for the rest of our lives.
    Dad caught Smokie and started beating him. “Dad, please,” I begged, “please don’t. Please don’t hurt him.”
    Dad looked at me and he said, “You get off of my ass.”
    I don’t know why, but I said, “I’m not on your ass.”
    That was a big mistake. The words pulled Dad off my brother; he came after me, and he had me cornered. The only way out was through the front door, and I made a mad dash for it. For some reason Dad didn’t follow me. Too drunk, I guess.
    It was the middle of the winter, with snow on the ground and a temperature of ten below zero. Outside, standing there in my underwear, I had very few choices.
    The best choice involved my bloodhound, Duke. Duke lived out in the yard, in a fifty-five-gallon barrel with a bunch of straw in it. He weighed about 110 pounds, way more than I did, but I crowded into the barrel with him, huddling beside him. Duke kept me warm, for otherwise I would surely have frozen to death.
    Duke and I stayed in that barrel for a couple of hours, and then I began to worry. Was Smokie okay in there?Would he be dead when I came in? If he was, would Dad kill me, too? Although those are hardly thoughts any little boy should have, I had them. And I didn’t know what to do.
    Finally, even in spite of Duke, the cold just got too much for me, and I