Kennedy Hoss of Musket

Chapter 1: Farewell

Song: Farewell by

"Hannibal?"

I lift myself off the couch and look around. Had I really taken a nap during the day? Since when did I do that?

The television buzzes, but I don't hear the sounds of the baseball game. My dad would always watch the 6:30 game every Sunday, and even though he's dead the television still turns on to the sports channel every Sunday. I whack the top of the set hard with my palm but the sound doesn't come through. I slide the rock on top of it around and yank the cords this way and that, but to no avail. After some more whacking, sliding, and yanking, the set gets stuck flipping through channels, stopping at one for random intervals of time before switching to a next and repeating the process. I pick up the remote and chew off one of the rubber buttons before slamming it back down on the bureau and making my way into the kitchen.

Because my sister is only 18 and Musket County is a pretty poor community, we don't have a lot of money. Nobody does. This means that our house only has 5 rooms, no upstairs, no downstairs. It's this pathetic little shack that I call home.

"Hannibal?" I groan again as I stomp into the kitchen. I stand there for a moment listening to the sound of our refrigerator humming before I notice a pot boiling over on the stove.

Furtively, I leap over and turn down the burner before lifting off the glass cover and peering in at the mushy ramen noodles. It's not like Hannibal to leave a pot completely unattended, let alone let such a delicacy as ramen cook for too long.

"HANNIBAL!" I yell loudly. No response.

I turn off the burner and strain the ramen anyway and inspect the damage. Not too mushy, and completely salvageable with some cheese, butter, and milk. I scoop half of the makeshift Mac n cheese into a bowl and leave the rest for Hannibal.

I'm about to close the window when my gray cat named Cat leaps through it and onto the kitchen floor. He peers up at me, looking quizzically at my bowl. I slide a couple pieces of Mac n cheese over the rim of my bowl for him. He sniffs, and then awkwardly accepts them.

That's one thing I like about cats. They want food, but after they get some they don't really beg for more as dogs do. Cat is named after the cat in an old book by Emily Neville. Even though Dave Mitchell's Cat is yellow and mine is gray, it's still all the same to me. Whenever I read that book to him I always make sure to adjust the descriptions of Dave's Cat to match the appearance of my Cat. I think my Cat enjoys listening to stories where he is one of the main characters. I tell him a lot of stories where he is the hero, just because I want him to listen to me.

---Flashback------------------------------

"Get up, mom," I plead shaking her arm. She's so pale today. Hannibal carefully turns her over to face us.

"I'm hurt," she whispers to me, "...hurting. I can't, baby."

Her body is so still, like a doll's. She can hardly keep her eyes open, can hardly focus on anything. Her fingertips don't even twitch, her chest doesn't even rise and fall.

Hannibal's pacing back and forth with her hands covering her nose and mouth. She brings them down and I can see her lips turned upward into a pained smile. I know that face. It's her I'm-not-going-to-cry-for-Kennedy's-sake-face.

Just then my father walks into the room followed by Dr. Rosary

"Get out," he tells me harshly. He touches the back of my neck and walks me out of their bedroom. I expect him to lock the door, but to my surprise he doesn't even latch it.

Dr. Rosary is speaking in his resonant doctor's voice, and my mom is responding with "yes" or "no". My dad stands off to the side, picking at his blistered hands.

The doctor kneels beside my mother and Hannibal bolts out of he room, blocking my view. She tells me to get out of the house. I shake my head no. She hands me a twenty and tells me to go once again. A whole twenty? What was going on?

I run around the side of the house to peer into the window of my parents' bedroom at my mother. Dr. Rosary slowly places his hands on my mother's arm, and gently lifts it into a 90 degree angle position. My mother lets out a sound just then, a blood-curdling scream of excruciating pain, a cry so horrific that I know I will never forget.

© 2013, Diana Bail. Except as provided by the Copyright Act [August 2013] no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher.