Burned (4 page)

She used to he so pretty,

Jackie sighed.

"Too many worries will

take your pretty away."

We talked about Dad.

Do you think he's an . . .

alcoholic?

"Do you think he can stop?

Then lies an alcoholic."

We talked about the two of them.

Why does he do it?

Why doesn't she leave him?

"Where would she go

that he couldn't follow?"

Why doesn't she tell?

"Who would care?"

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After a While, She Asked

Do you ever wish you were someone eise?

"All the time.

Who'd want to be me?'

I would. You're smarter than most, Patty.

"What's so great about being smart?"

God has something in mind for you. Something special.

"You think God would let a girl do something special?'

Not every girl. Maybe just

you. You're different.

I felt different. Still,

"How do you know?"

I can see it in your eyes

when they stop and stare.

"What?" What could she see, buried inside of me?

You're not like the rest of us. You're not afraid.

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That Made Me Think

I felt angry, frustrated.

I felt I didn't belong, not in my

church, not in my home, not in my skin.

Amidst the chaos, I felt

alone, in need of a friend instead of a sister, someone detached from my world.

The "woman's role" theory

disgusted me.

I would soon be a woman, and I

knew I could never perform as expected.

I was tired of my mom's

submission to her religion, to her husbands

sick quest for an heir, to his abuse.

I was sick of my dad, of reaching for him as he feil farther away from us and into the arms of

Johnnie WB.

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Something bigger drew

my worry: the creeping cold in my own

famished heart, emptiness

expanding.

Some days I was only

sad, others I straddled depression.

But I was definitely

not afraid.

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Which Brought Me Up Short

If I wasn't afraid, I must be crazy.

Right? Didn't dads who hit moms

usually wind up hitting their kids, too? (And sometimes worse?)

Or maybe that's what I wanted?

Did some insane little piece of me

think even that might be better than no relationship with my father at all?

And why wasn't I afraid of the path

already plotted for me--mission work, early marriage, brainwashing

my own passei of Latter-Day kids?

Did that same mixed-up part of my brain

somehow believe I could circumvent

all I'd ever been groomed for?

Perhaps all I was really good for?

God has something special in mind for you.

I knew deep down she was right.

But how would I ever find out, mired there in the Von Straften bog?

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I
Tried Asking Him Once

"God, what do you have in mind for me?"

I listened really hard, opened my ears and heart.

I looked for signs, in places expected--and not.

Expected: church, seminary, the Book of Mormon.

Unexpected: clouds, constellations, wind-sculpted patterns in sand.

But I never heard His answer, never got one little hint of His plans.

Which was either good or bad, depending on your point of view.

Because if He would have mentioned

then what He had in mind,

I would have thanked Him for His

faith in me, then tucked my tail and run.

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I
Slithered Out of Bed

The next morning, hungry for a little target practice-- a great way to blow off steam.

I walked a long way out into the desert, absorbing the faux spring day.

Every year, two or three weeks of fine weather interrupted

our winter deep freeze, teasing soil into thaw and stream into melt and plants into breaking leaf.

It was all a game, all for show, as if God understood we needed to defrost our spirits, too.

As I walked, I thought about Dad, at home, using

this fabulous day to tune his car.

When I was little, he used to hike this very route, lugging his favorite rifle.

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I always begged to go along, mostly as a way to spend

some time alone with him.

I was ten before he finally

said yes, and didn't I feel like the favored one?

Dad and I went out to the shed.

He unlocked the cabinet

that housed his guns.

Hunting rifles. Shotguns.

Pistols. And one little .22

"peashooter," just right for me.

This was Dwight's,
Dad said.

I don't suppose he'd mind, long as you take good care of it.

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He Made Me Carry My Own Gun

I knew he would have made Dwight

do the same, so I tried my best

not to complain. But by the time

we'd walked far enough so an errant shot

had only sand or sage to hurt, that little peashooter felt like a cannon.

Dad showed me how to load it, flip the safety, sight in the tin-can target.

Squeeze the trigger, little girl. Don't pull.

I pulled, of course. The barrel lifted, lofting the bullet high and wide right.

Try again. Take your time.

I brought the .22 to my shoulder, willed my aching arms to quit shaking.

Level the sight. Breathe in. Ease the trigger.

The shot wasn't dead center, but it hit the top of the can with a satisfying
BLING!

Better. Do it again. Concentrate. And relax.

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Concentrate. Level the sight. Breathe in.

Ease the trigger. And relax?

BLAP!
The can somersaulted across the sand.

Pride swelled tili I thought
I'd
burst.

But my smile slipped at Dad's reality check.

Not bad. Pretty good, infact. For a girl.

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After That

I still tagged along with Dad sometimes.

He taught me a lot on those outings:

how to account for the wind s contrary

nature, its irritating whims; how to move silently across the sand, a no-brainer compared to the jungle; how to aim slightly in front of a moving

target, assuming a straight-on run.

I even brought home a rabbit or two for Mom's always-hungry stew pot.

But I could never be Dwight.

And Dad never let me forget it.

Finally, I did my target shooting alöne.

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Killing Bunnies

Was not the point, drawing blood, watching life ebb, pulse by pulse.

No, that wasn't it at all.

Neither was feeding the family--not

my Job, for sure.

Dad and Mom

made us kids, only right

they fed us.

And the whole

skinning and gutting thing, well, that was enough to make your

skin crawl.

Truly, though, the attraction was more than just being good--

really good-- at something for a chang(

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The Iure of my

little peashooter was in its gift to me, in the way

only it could

make me feel.

Powerful.

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If You've Never Shot a Gun

You can't understand

how it feels in your hands.

Cool to the touch, all its venom

coiled inside, deadly, like a steel-scaled serpent.

Awaiting your bidding.

You select its prey--paper, tin, or flesh. You lie in wait, learn that patience is the killer's

most trustworthy accomplice.

You choose the moment.

What. Where. When. Decided.

But the how is everything.

You lift your weapon, ease it into place, cock it to load it, knowing the satisfying
snitch
means a bullet is yours to command.

Now, make or break, it's all up to you. You

aim, knowing a hair either

way means bulls-eye or miss.

Success or failure.

Life or death.

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You have to relax, convince your muscles

not to tense, not to betray

you. Sight again. Adjust.

Don't become distracted by the heat of the hunt.

Instinct takes over.

You shoot and adrenaline

screams as your target shreds or the rabbit drops. And for one indescribable instant, you are God.

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B
y the Time

I started high school,

I was a dead-on shot.

I spent a lot of Saturdays

maintaining that distinction.

You might think a teenager's parents

would take notice

when she disappeared into the desert for hours at a time

(with a rifle and purloined

ammo, no less!).

But Mom only

noticed diapers in need of changing.

By then, I could bribe

Jackie to do it.

All it took was my

own silence about her less than "saintly" behaviors.

And as for Dad, well, he and Johnnie

had started to buddy up almost all day, almost

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every Saturday.

How he sobered up by Sunday morning was a complete mystery.

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On That Saturday

He'd already started, which

made me thankful for my solo

time in the silent desert.

I trudged along, brain only

partially engaged, and about halfway to my favorite place, my mind veered from Dad

back to chemistry lab. Jealousy

rushed, hot, through my veins.

But why? I mean, it wasn't like Justin had ever
really
been mine. Dreams were only dreams.

It wasn't like my life had

changed at all, and maybe

that was part of the problem.

Because something inside me was different. Shifting, like a tide or sand dune.

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That something was growing, stretching, taking shape beneath my slön.

And I wondered if very

soon it might blow

me apart at the seams.

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I
Thought About That

As I set up a long, thin row of V8 cans

(single serving, not the big, easy-to-hit kind).

Loaded my peashooter, took aim, and ...

missed wide with the first shot, high with the second.

Checked my sights; they didn't look bent. Tried again.

Skittered up dirt, nicked a can with the ricochet.

Urning,
I heard my dad's voice in my head.

Then he added,
What could you expect from a girl?

That did the trick. I settled down into my zone, took

out that row of cans one by one, not a Single miss.

As I lined them up again, an annoying mechanical

whine broke the morning's tranquility.

Louder. Louder. A three-pack of quadranners

sprinted closer and closer across the sage-studded sand.

I didn't dare take another shot until they passed by and rode off to disturb distant eardrums.

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Instead they slowed, drew even, and stopped.

Three guesses who drove the first quad.

One guess who rode behind him.

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