Right Behind You // H.S \\

2- what i think i remember

It surprises people to learn that summer days can get highs of a hundred degrees in the Alaskan interior. And July is fire season. But it was a windless day, so Dad was planning a controlled burn near our cabin to clear the brush.
He had let it get out of hand while Mom was sick.
A lot of things had gotten out of hand while Mom was sick.
Me.
Dad.
Aunt Gloria.

We were miles from any real town or even a road that was more than a rutted dirt trail.
Dad was draining all the gas out of the lawn mower into a small pail.
"Why can't we just go get some gas?"
"Stop whining, Harry. There's no wind this morning. It takes a good hour to get to the gas station. If the wind kicks up while we're going to town, we can't get the burn done. We can make do." Dad handed me the pail.
"Take this and pour it into the bucket outside. Don't get any on your clothes. Be quick about it. I still have to drain the snow machine and the generator."
How stupid was it to make a hot day hotter by tending a fire? I was sick of working hard all the time. And I was tired of "making do" the Alaskan way. Being poor. Following Dad's orders. I gave the lawn mower a toe-bruising kick.
Dad laughed. "You get mad at me, you kick the tire, I don't get a bruise, the tire doesn't care, and you're the only one hurting. How's that working for you, Harry?"
As I poured the last pail of gasoline into the bucket, Dad came out of the shed.
"I don't want to fight with you all day, Harry. Lose the attitude."
"My head hurts."
"Your head hurts whenever there's work to be done."
Dad snapped into his "I-will-be-obeyed" voice. "You have to get tough to live in the bush. It's not called the last frontier..."
I tuned him out. I'd heard the same lecture on hard work a million times, and I was about ready to throw the gasoline on the house so we wouldn't live in the bush anymore.
He stopped his sermon when we heard a car and then saw the dust swirl on our excuse for a road.
"I think it's Aunt Gloria," I said.
Dad's face went so tight I could see lumps where his jaw was. "And she's here for another fuss," Dad said. "The woman won't leave me alone."
Aunt Gloria's rental car bucked to a stop in front of our cabin. She got out and slammed the door, rounded the back, opened the truck, and pulled out boxes.
"What the hell does she think she's doing now?"
Dad was kind of whispering to himself, and he sounded like he could throw Aunt Gloria and her car right down our road.
"Stay out here and straighten up the shed for me, Harry." He slapped his lighter on the hood of our truck and headed to Aunt Gloria. They were already arguing before they hit the porch. About me again.
Aunt Gloria and Dad's arguing made my head hurt. It reminded me of... The other arguing. Mom and Dad's. I always thought that was my fault too.
I could hear their voices. Like hail on our cabins tin roof. Louder, faster harder.
"Pighead..."
"My son..."
"Lawyer..."
"Over my dead body..."
"She died because she couldn't get decent medical care in this..."

The hollow inside me filled up with red anger. I banged a snow shovel against the wall in the shed to drown out their storming with mine, but the yelling from the house let words pop between the beasts of metal against wood.
And then Jacob Burrows trotted up to the doors of the shed.
"Harry, you here? Come out. I want to show you something."
"I got work to do. My dad says to clean up the shed. Go home."
"Come out and see my birthday present. It's the best baseball glove anybody ever had."
I stepped out of the shed to send the little snot on his way. Jacob was waving the glove in my face.
"My dad gave me a bike, but I don't how to ride a two wheeler yet. This is from my mom. She said it will make me the best player on the T-ball team."
The glove was a beauty. He leather was the colour of leaves when they first drop to the ground. And it was on Jacob Burrows hand.
"Nothing can make you a good baseball player," I said. "You can't catch a ball, not even if you had a glove twice that size."
"You're just mad 'cause your too poor to have a glove." He waved the glove again, taunting me with it.
"You don't even have a mom to give you one." He pushed it toward me, then jerked it away.
I glared at the birthday present from his mother.
My head throbbed as the voices in the house rose.
Jacob shoved the glove toward my face again.
I wanted to ruin it. Ruin the glove. The birthday glove.
I grabbed the bucket. I sloshed the gasoline on the glove. It splashed all over his arms and shirt and dribbled down his pants. Some even spattered up on his face.
I don't think he knew what I threw on him. He sputtered when he called me a bad name and pulled his hand out of the glove. Cradled it against his chest.
By then I had the lighter.
Had flipped it open.
Had flicked the wheel.
And as soon as I saw the blue spurt of flame...
I pitched it at the birthday baseball glove.
Pitched it onto Jacob Burrows.