A Swollen Red Sun by Matthew McBride Read Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Matthew McBride
closely. Took the time to record those images in his mind. His kids had the life he’d always dreamed they would. They worked their small farm and had jobs to do and pets to feed. They had responsibilities . Something every kid that age should have, but didn’t.
Meat cooked on the grill of the fire pit. He’d built it as a project with the boy. The whole family helped out. Scoured roadsides and creek beds. Built a solid pit with chunky rocks and mortar and a fat chimney that billowed sweet smoke when the cedar chips burned to embers.
Banks walked to the pit and poured Natural Light on his steak. The meat seared and popped and deep fragrant whiffs blew from the chimney and filled the air with a succulent fog that engulfed the table.
The steaks smoked and sizzled and the aroma was deeply pleasant. It was suppertime. Almost dark.
Jake had homework to do and cows to feed.
Steph would go inside, disappear behind her laptop. Banks knew this and accepted it. She was growing, and he could see it. Getting older, and filling out her curves, curves that troubled Banks. But what could he do?
Banks just grinned and raised his can and took the final drink. His life was a blessing. His daughter would be in college soon, his son right behind her—or maybe he would go to tech school. Or maybe he would farm. Don’t get ahead of yourself, Banks . Jake still had a few more years. He was still just a pup, and still trying to talk Banks out of his Bronco. But, Dad, it’s perfect , he said. Though Banks was not convinced.
“Your dad loves that old thing,” Jude told Jake. Which was true, Banks did love that old thing. It was built back in 1979, when they still made a car from steel. It was dented and dinged, but it was tough and strong and it started every time, as long as you pumped the gas pedal when you turned the key.
Jude went to clean up while the kids finished picking. Jake carried boxes to the garage, and Steph approached Banks. Lip out. “Daddy, this sucks,” she said.
Banks shrugged. Told her she didn’t know how good she had it.
“Girl, when I was your age—” He stopped himself abruptly. Thought about what Jude had said and didn’t know whether to stop talking altogether or to continue.
Steph rolled her eyes and finished his sentence and made the decision easy.
“Yeah, I know, Dad, I know. You picked tomatoes every single day—thousands of them—and green beans and potatoes.”
Banks put his arm around his daughter and squeezed her.
She squeezed him back.
“Guess I told you that one, huh?”
She looked up at him and smiled. “About a million times, Daddy.”
“A million and one,” Jake walked by and yelled.
Banks tossed his empty beer can at the boy, who sidestepped it.
“Damn, boy. With moves like that you shoulda played football.”
“Well, I was just sayin’.”
“Well, nobody asked you.”
His wife brought out plates and glasses and set them on the picnic table. Steph went inside for a jug of tea.
They sat down at the table and talked and prayed. Ate beef they’d raised, with vegetables they’d grown. It was a picture of a life he’d imagined twenty years ago, when he made Jude Camper his wife.
Being a deputy and having a farm, those were the things that mattered. Raising your children right. Teaching them and loving them.
Steph was texting while Jake dug a splinter from his finger with a pocketknife. Gracie was drinking juice and singing. Buster, their beagle, licked his lips as he walked up to Banks.
Banks, casually, and with a stealth that was surprising, dropped a small chunk of meat beside his foot for the dog to find—an act he had forbidden his children to do on numerous occasions.
When he looked up, Jude smiled and shook her head. She had caught him.
Banks grinned back and shrugged.
The guilt of what he’d done was subsiding. Moments like this ,he reminded himself. He thought about the duffel bag and the money. About the consequences and the fallout. But now his
Meat cooked on the grill of the fire pit. He’d built it as a project with the boy. The whole family helped out. Scoured roadsides and creek beds. Built a solid pit with chunky rocks and mortar and a fat chimney that billowed sweet smoke when the cedar chips burned to embers.
Banks walked to the pit and poured Natural Light on his steak. The meat seared and popped and deep fragrant whiffs blew from the chimney and filled the air with a succulent fog that engulfed the table.
The steaks smoked and sizzled and the aroma was deeply pleasant. It was suppertime. Almost dark.
Jake had homework to do and cows to feed.
Steph would go inside, disappear behind her laptop. Banks knew this and accepted it. She was growing, and he could see it. Getting older, and filling out her curves, curves that troubled Banks. But what could he do?
Banks just grinned and raised his can and took the final drink. His life was a blessing. His daughter would be in college soon, his son right behind her—or maybe he would go to tech school. Or maybe he would farm. Don’t get ahead of yourself, Banks . Jake still had a few more years. He was still just a pup, and still trying to talk Banks out of his Bronco. But, Dad, it’s perfect , he said. Though Banks was not convinced.
“Your dad loves that old thing,” Jude told Jake. Which was true, Banks did love that old thing. It was built back in 1979, when they still made a car from steel. It was dented and dinged, but it was tough and strong and it started every time, as long as you pumped the gas pedal when you turned the key.
Jude went to clean up while the kids finished picking. Jake carried boxes to the garage, and Steph approached Banks. Lip out. “Daddy, this sucks,” she said.
Banks shrugged. Told her she didn’t know how good she had it.
“Girl, when I was your age—” He stopped himself abruptly. Thought about what Jude had said and didn’t know whether to stop talking altogether or to continue.
Steph rolled her eyes and finished his sentence and made the decision easy.
“Yeah, I know, Dad, I know. You picked tomatoes every single day—thousands of them—and green beans and potatoes.”
Banks put his arm around his daughter and squeezed her.
She squeezed him back.
“Guess I told you that one, huh?”
She looked up at him and smiled. “About a million times, Daddy.”
“A million and one,” Jake walked by and yelled.
Banks tossed his empty beer can at the boy, who sidestepped it.
“Damn, boy. With moves like that you shoulda played football.”
“Well, I was just sayin’.”
“Well, nobody asked you.”
His wife brought out plates and glasses and set them on the picnic table. Steph went inside for a jug of tea.
They sat down at the table and talked and prayed. Ate beef they’d raised, with vegetables they’d grown. It was a picture of a life he’d imagined twenty years ago, when he made Jude Camper his wife.
Being a deputy and having a farm, those were the things that mattered. Raising your children right. Teaching them and loving them.
Steph was texting while Jake dug a splinter from his finger with a pocketknife. Gracie was drinking juice and singing. Buster, their beagle, licked his lips as he walked up to Banks.
Banks, casually, and with a stealth that was surprising, dropped a small chunk of meat beside his foot for the dog to find—an act he had forbidden his children to do on numerous occasions.
When he looked up, Jude smiled and shook her head. She had caught him.
Banks grinned back and shrugged.
The guilt of what he’d done was subsiding. Moments like this ,he reminded himself. He thought about the duffel bag and the money. About the consequences and the fallout. But now his