“Eat your breakfast before it gets cold. I’ve got to go.”
David ignored his mother as she bent down and kissed him on the head, staring instead at Dad, who poured the rest of the saccharine tablets into his coffee, emptying the bottle. He took a few big gulps of the coffee, looking satisfied as more steam swirled from his lips.
“Bye, darling,” Mom said, kissing Dad, too. Then she gathered her books from the counter and started out of the kitchen.
“Mom!” David said, his back stiff. He wanted desperately for her to stay. Something was wrong.
“Hurry up and eat, David, or you’ll be late again,” she called over her shoulder as she disappeared through the doorway.
David stared at the empty doorway until he heard the front door close. He looked at the clock: 7:20. The ticking seemed thunderous in the silence.
Dad stared across the table at David, his breakfast ignored, steam rising from his cup.
Mom knocked on the kitchen window, startling David. “You’re not eating!” she exclaimed through the glass. She turned and hurried to the car.
David bit his lip, fighting the urge to bound out of the kitchen and stop her. What would he say? If he tried to explain to her the icy dread that was growing inside him, he would only sound crazy. With a helpless, sinking feeling, he watched her back the car out of the driveway and disappear down the road.
David looked at his breakfast. His stomach was burning with tension and the mere thought of putting the waffles and eggs and orange wedges into his mouth made his throat feel tight.
Dad continued to stare unflinchingly at David. His face was stone, his eyes empty and unblinking.
He’s just not feeling well, David thought, trying to reassure himself. He’s probably coming down the with flu, that’s all. But it didn’t work. Dad’s stare did not waver and David began to feel as if he were being held in a giant steel fist that was slowly clenching tighter and tighter.
David tried to speak, but his throat was dry and only croaked. He coughed, then said, “I . . . I don’t think I’m very hungry.”
No reaction. Neither a twitch of his cheek nor a blink of his eyes. Then Dad pushed his chair from the table and stood, never taking his eyes from David. He walked around the table until he was standing beside David, tall and straight. He took David’s arm.
David suddenly felt as if the wind had been knocked from his lungs. He wanted to jerk his arm away, to scream, Get away from me! Don’t touch me! He wanted to run from the house as fast as he could and not come back until Mom was home. But how could he do such a thing to his own dad?
Quietly, his voice cutting through the silence like a new razor blade, Dad said, “Let me walk you to the bus stop.”
Slowly, David stood. His knees felt rubbery and the bag hanging from his shoulder suddenly felt like a cement block. Dad’s grip on his elbow was not tight, but neither was it gentle. David’s feet were made of lead and it was only with effort that he left the kitchen at his dad’s side.
They crossed the living room and went out the front door. It wasn’t until they were starting down the driveway that David mustered the nerve to look up at his dad.
He was still staring at David, even as he walked, as if he’d never looked away. His lips were smiling but his eyes were not. When they reached the end of the driveway, Dad finally let go of David’s arm.
Slipping his hands into the pockets of his bathrobe, Dad turned and gazed toward Copper Hill.
“You know, you were right, son,” Dad said. He looked down at David. “There is something over the hill.”
David tensed. “What?”
Dad smiled again, but still his eyes remained cold. “Come on. I’ll show you.”
David suddenly did not want to see whatever lay beyond Copper Hill. “No, Dad,” he said quietly, shrinking back a step.
Still smiling, Dad reached for his hand.
“Dad . . .”
His smile did not waver as he grabbed David’s hand and
David ignored his mother as she bent down and kissed him on the head, staring instead at Dad, who poured the rest of the saccharine tablets into his coffee, emptying the bottle. He took a few big gulps of the coffee, looking satisfied as more steam swirled from his lips.
“Bye, darling,” Mom said, kissing Dad, too. Then she gathered her books from the counter and started out of the kitchen.
“Mom!” David said, his back stiff. He wanted desperately for her to stay. Something was wrong.
“Hurry up and eat, David, or you’ll be late again,” she called over her shoulder as she disappeared through the doorway.
David stared at the empty doorway until he heard the front door close. He looked at the clock: 7:20. The ticking seemed thunderous in the silence.
Dad stared across the table at David, his breakfast ignored, steam rising from his cup.
Mom knocked on the kitchen window, startling David. “You’re not eating!” she exclaimed through the glass. She turned and hurried to the car.
David bit his lip, fighting the urge to bound out of the kitchen and stop her. What would he say? If he tried to explain to her the icy dread that was growing inside him, he would only sound crazy. With a helpless, sinking feeling, he watched her back the car out of the driveway and disappear down the road.
David looked at his breakfast. His stomach was burning with tension and the mere thought of putting the waffles and eggs and orange wedges into his mouth made his throat feel tight.
Dad continued to stare unflinchingly at David. His face was stone, his eyes empty and unblinking.
He’s just not feeling well, David thought, trying to reassure himself. He’s probably coming down the with flu, that’s all. But it didn’t work. Dad’s stare did not waver and David began to feel as if he were being held in a giant steel fist that was slowly clenching tighter and tighter.
David tried to speak, but his throat was dry and only croaked. He coughed, then said, “I . . . I don’t think I’m very hungry.”
No reaction. Neither a twitch of his cheek nor a blink of his eyes. Then Dad pushed his chair from the table and stood, never taking his eyes from David. He walked around the table until he was standing beside David, tall and straight. He took David’s arm.
David suddenly felt as if the wind had been knocked from his lungs. He wanted to jerk his arm away, to scream, Get away from me! Don’t touch me! He wanted to run from the house as fast as he could and not come back until Mom was home. But how could he do such a thing to his own dad?
Quietly, his voice cutting through the silence like a new razor blade, Dad said, “Let me walk you to the bus stop.”
Slowly, David stood. His knees felt rubbery and the bag hanging from his shoulder suddenly felt like a cement block. Dad’s grip on his elbow was not tight, but neither was it gentle. David’s feet were made of lead and it was only with effort that he left the kitchen at his dad’s side.
They crossed the living room and went out the front door. It wasn’t until they were starting down the driveway that David mustered the nerve to look up at his dad.
He was still staring at David, even as he walked, as if he’d never looked away. His lips were smiling but his eyes were not. When they reached the end of the driveway, Dad finally let go of David’s arm.
Slipping his hands into the pockets of his bathrobe, Dad turned and gazed toward Copper Hill.
“You know, you were right, son,” Dad said. He looked down at David. “There is something over the hill.”
David tensed. “What?”
Dad smiled again, but still his eyes remained cold. “Come on. I’ll show you.”
David suddenly did not want to see whatever lay beyond Copper Hill. “No, Dad,” he said quietly, shrinking back a step.
Still smiling, Dad reached for his hand.
“Dad . . .”
His smile did not waver as he grabbed David’s hand and
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