Black Treacle Magazine (February 2013, Issue 1) by A.P. Matlock Read Free Book Online

that; but the weather today had been the same sullen
thick heat it had been last week. He tossed the carcass to the
floor. “Dad, you better-”
    “I better
what?” Jacob spat, rising from the chair so quickly it squealed
like a frightened animal. He rounded on the boy, John Deere cat
askew on his head. Spikes of greasy hair stuck out like escaped
straw from a scarecrow’s burlap skull. “Suppose you think you’re
the man around here, now?” He poked Abraham in the chest with one
long bony finger. The nail was yellow and ragged, and snagged on
Abraham’s flannel shirt. “Look like you’re on your way to the
goddamn dancehall in them clothes, anyway.”
    “You look like
you’re on your way to a casket.”
    Jacob’s hand,
hard and quick as a willow switch, splatted into the side of
Abraham’s face. The old man panted, eyes rolling like a calf in a
thunderstorm.
    “Sit down, old
man,” Abraham said. His face bore an angry red mark; but his eyes
were clear and steady, pinned to the old man’s. “Sit down and
settle yourself. I’ll get your dinner.”
    “I don’t need
to be taken care of, you little pu-” This time, Jacob’s slap met
the flesh of Abraham’s own right hand; they appeared almost the
same size in the flickering TV light.
    “I said sit.
Now.”
    For a wonder,
Jacob did.
    He shifted
under Abraham’s gaze. “No rain today.” He looked reproachfully at
the cat’s body. “Hell of a thing.”
    “We’ll work it
out. We always do.”
    “Well boy,
with your mother gone, I got just the thing, right here. Not like I
need it no more, and-”
    Abraham threw
down his napkin, jaw muscle working as he chewed. “Don’t you even
talk about it. Don’t you even.” He walked to the kitchen to clatter
the pots and pans, and Abraham stared after him.
    After the
house was cleaned up, supper eaten, coffee drunk, and the evening’s
work complete, they slept. Abraham dreamed of the sun turned to
blood in a sky the color of ash and bone. He slept heavy, as usual,
in the light of a bloated yellow moon.
    Sometime in
the night, Jacob crept forth, crossing to the barn.
    * * *
    Saturday
morning on the farm started at five AM. Abraham was surprised to
see Jacob already up, work clothes on, his John Deere cap tilted
jauntily back on his brow.
    “Morning,”
Jacob grunted. “Breakfast’s cooked, on the table. I ate, gonna get
my coffee saucered and blowed and take it out on the porch. Come on
out when you’re ready.”
    Abraham ate
quickly, brow furrowed. The food was good; better than he could fix
for himself. Even the coffee tasted better. When he limped outside,
Jacob was standing, limned in the dawn-rose.
    Jacob turned
as Abraham thumped down the steps. “What took you so long? Gonna be
a fine day, I can smell it.” He upended his coffee in the bushes
and set the cup on the porch railing. “Pitter-patter, let’s get at
‘er.”
    The barn,
first. The hardest work of the farm came the earliest. The mournful
lowing of the cows changed to grunting, shuffling anticipation as
Jacob and Abraham entered.
    “I thought
maybe number Twelve could go today. He looks about ready. What do
you think?” Strange how quickly, after months of running the farm
practically single-handed, Abraham reverted back to the child-like
reverence for the old man’s experience. That’s how it had always
been; the son looking to the father. For appreciation, for
forgiveness, for blessing.
    “Looks OK. Hm.
Naw, he’s a good one but I believe we got ourself a winner here.”
Jacob stopped in front if number Seventeen’s stall. He eyed the
animal speculatively. “Yuh-huh, he’ll do nicely. Tell you what,
Abraham; you pick the knife, how’s that sound?”
    It sounded
like small appeasement, but one Abraham was willing to live with.
After all, hadn’t he been complaining to the old man just the day
before that he had to do all the work? If Jacob wanted to put in
his fair share, that was only proper. And the selection of the
knife