Together Always

by Dallas Schulze

  The house was quieter now. Jed had stopped talking; he'd probably passed out on the sofa. The ever-present wind caught in the cracks of the old house, a muffled background to the soft sobs coming from the living room. Trace shut his eyes, his fingers clenching against his thigh. There had to be something more to the world than this. And he was going to find it.

  As THE WEATHER got coldcr, Jed's drinking grew worse. It was the usual pattern, but it seemed to Trace as if his stepfather were even worse this year than most. Construction work tapered off and then disappeared as the prairie settled in for winter. No one wanted to be in the midst of building a house when winter hit.

  Trace began to dread leaving for school, afraid of what he might find when he got home. He remembered the nightmare of coming home to find his mother's face bruised and swollen, her eyes blotched from tears. She'd always told him that she'd fallen, but he'd been younger than Lily when he realized what was really happening. He'd been helpless to stop it until he grew big enough to confront his stepfather and threaten to dish out a little of the same treatment. Jed hadn't hit Addie since then but there was an ugliness to his mood lately that frightened Trace.

  If this was what it was like even before the first snowfall, he couldn't imagine what would happen when the weather grew colder, trapping them inside the little house. And then everything shifted and he realized that there was more to worry about than Jed's rapidly worsening moods.

  "I saw Lisa Mae Watkins at the market today. Her grandfather says the signs are it's going to be a real cold winter."

  Jed grunted sullenly in answer to his wife's comment, poking his fork into the plate of beans and hocks. "Don't know why you sound so cheerful. Just means we'll be snowed in more'n usual. Nothin' to crow about."

  **I wasn't crowin', Jed. I was just making conversation." He said nothing and Addie looked at him anxiously before turning her attention to her son. '*How was school today. Trace?"

  "Fine." He shrugged, forcing himself to swallow despite the tension in his throat. "Everyone's real excited about having the long weekend off for Thanksgiving next week."

  "That'll be nice. Do you like Thanksgiving, Lily?"

  "I like Christmas better. I'm going to be an angel in the play this year."

  Addie smiled but it was Jed who spoke. "I bet you'll make a pretty angel. All that beautiful hair and all. They'll hardly have to give you a costume."

  He reached across the table to lift a lock of her hair, letting it sift through his fingers. Trace had thd urge to knock his hand away. His throat closed up tight and he could hardly breathe. He looked at his stepfather's face and felt a sick uneasiness he couldn't define. There was something there he didn't like. Something ugly.

  Lily shifted slightly and Jed's hand fell away. He continued to look at her and Trace felt his uneasiness growing. It wasn't just tonight. It was something that had been swelling inside him for weeks now. He'd seen Jed watching Lily, looking at her, making comments about how pretty she was. He couldn't put his finger on what it was that bothered him but there was something there that made him uneasy. He glanced at his mother but she was staring at her plate.

  The meal over, Trace and Lily cleared the table while Addie started on the dishes. Jed continued to sit at the table, a bottle and a shot glass in front of him. He didn't say anything. Most of the time he stared at the wall, but several times Trace caught him watdiing Lily. Trace wanted to snatch her away, put her out of sight, as if that would keep her safe. But safe from what?

  He still didn't have an answer when it was time for Lily to go to bed. He didn't have an answer but the uneasiness was as strong as ever. The TV was on but no one was watching it. Addie was bent over some mending, squinting in the light of a too-dim bulb. Jed was slumped in a chair, the bottle beside him, his eyes on the screen, his thoughts elsewhere. Trace sat in the corner of the sofa, a history book open in his lap, his mind on other things. Lily came into the room after her bath. As always, her delicate beauty was out of place among the worn furnishings and scuffed floor.

  "Good night, Aunt Addie. Good night, Uncle Jed. Good night. Trace."

  "Aren't you going to give your old uncle a good-night kiss?"

  Lily hesitated, her eyes flickering uncertainly. This, too, was a new habit of Jed's. In the past couple of weeks he'd started insisting on her kissing him good-night. Trace glanced at his mother. She kept her head down as if the mending were absorbing all of her attention. But her hands were still.

  "Come on and give me a kiss."

  Lily's eyes flickered to Trace as he stood up, stretching elaborately. "I'm beat. I think I'm going to hit the sack, too. Come on, Lily. I'll tuck you in. Good night. Mom. 'Night, Jed."

  He took Lily's hand, pulling her from the room before anyone said anything.

  "Are you going to bed, too, Trace?"

  **Sure am." He stopped in front of her bedroom door and stared at it. It looked so thin. No protection at all. Now why was he thinking in terms of protection? 'TU tell you what. How'd you like to sleep in my room tonight?"

  *'Howcome?"

  How come? He didn't know how come. He just knew he didn't want to leave her alone in that room tonight. He shrugged.

  ''Just for fun. What do you think?"

  ''Isaiah, too?"

  "Sure."

  "Okay." She hurried into the room to get her faithful companion. Trace looked over his shoulder, not knowing what he was looking for. When Lily came back out, he took her hand again, shutting her bedroom door before leading her down the hall to his bedroom.

  She was asleep within minutes of his tucking her in. Trace settled into a chair, a book in his lap. The room was cold. The old heater didn't reach into this back corner. It would have been warmer under the covers but he was too restless to go to sleep. He sat there, flipping a page occasionally, barely noticing what he was reading. After a while he heard his mother and Jed go to bed, their bedroom door cUcking quietly shut. Still Trace sat there, waiting, though he couldn't have said what for.

  His head was nodding over the book when it came. A sound beyond the restless whisper of the wind. His head jerked up. Muffled footsteps came down the hall, as if someone were tiptoeing. He reached out to shut off the small lamp, blinded for a moment until his eyes adjusted to the darkness. Trace stared at the wall as if he could see through the dirty paint to the dark hallway beyond. The footsteps stopped and his fingers knotted over the spine of the book. He hardly dared to breathe.

  "Lily? It's me, honey. Uncle Jed. I thought you might be scared alone in the dark."

  Trace heard Lily's door open and close and then silence. After a few minutes it opened again and Jed's footsteps came down the hall. They stopped outside his room, and as he stared at the door Trace could almost hear his stepfather's breathing. The tension grew inside him until he thought he might burst. After a long moment the footsteps moved away, but Trace didn't relax until he heard the sound of a door closing and knew Jed had gone back to his own bed.

  He stared into the darkness. His hands were shaking so badly that he almost missed the table when he tried to put the book down. He swallowed hard against the acid taste of bile that rose in his throat. Getting up, he leaned his forehead against the window. It felt no colder than he did inside.

  Lily stirred, turning over and muttering in her sleep. Trace squeezed his eyes tight, feeling the sting of tears behind his eyeUds. She was so little. She had no one but him to take care of her. He had to protect her. But how? He had to get her away from here, away from Jed.

  He rubbed his forehead over the chill glass. There had to be a way. All he had to do was find it. Come what may, he wouldn't let her stay here. He couldn't.

  Chapter Two

  In the morning Trace wondered if he'd imagined the events of the night before. Maybe his imagination had been working overtime. But sitting across from Jed at the breakfast table, he knew that wasn't the case.

  Though it was barely seven in the morning, Jed had already been at the bottle. The smell of bou
rbon wafted across the table, a strident addition to the scent of bacon and eggs. Addie set a plate of charred bacon and hard-cooked eggs down in front of her son. Trace stared at the unappetizing food and he didn't say anything. He'd seen the way her hands shook.

  'These eggs'd break a window if you flung 'em at one. You'd think after all these years you'd've learned to cook a decent egg." Jed's tone was more whining than angry.

  Out of the comer of his eye, Trace saw his mother's worn hands twist in the faded gingham apron and he didn't have to look at her face to see the uncertainty and hovering fear. She knew as well as he did that Jed's mood could swing from whining to rage in a matter of a drink or two.

  "I'm sorry, Jed. I'll cook you some new ones."

  **Never mind. If Trace can eat his, I reckon I can manage mine. How'd you sleep, boy? Anythin' disturb you?"

  Trace swallowed hard, forcing down a mouthful of rubbery egg white. He looked up, meeting Jed's eyes. What he saw there almost brought his meager breakfast back up.

  Jed knew. He knew it was no coincidence that Lily hadn't been in her room the night before. He knew that Trace had kept her with him deliberately. He should have been angry or ashamed or defiant, but that wasn't the emotion Trace saw. There was a kind of sly amusement in his bloodshot eyes, a challenge. Trace swallowed hard, dropping his eyes to his plate. He didn't care that Jed would see his action as fear. If he looked at his stepfather for another instant, he was going to go for his throat. Rage like he'd never known before threatened to take control of him. He wanted to feel Jed's flesh beneath his hands, wanted to feel the life draining out of him. He wanted it so badly he could taste the desire to kill.

  He jerked, startled, as a small hand touched the fist that lay clenched against his thigh. Hidden beneath the table, Lily's tiny fingers closed over his hesitantly. Trace looked up, meeting her gaze. Her emerald eyes were wide, holding a tinge of fear. She sensed his anger but was uncertain of its origin or target. Staring into her eyes, Trace felt his rage shift from a white-hot need for violence to cold determination. This was one battle Jed wasn't going to win.

  He turned his hand, squeezing Lily's fingers in reassurance, giving her a half smile. The uncertainty faded and she turned her attention back to her breakfast, her world safe again. Trace lifted his head and stared across the table at his stepfather.

  Jed looked into the boy's eyes and his satisfied smirk faded, replaced by a hesitancy that even the bourbon couldn't drown. Trace's eyes were a cold, cold blue, too old, too controlled. He glanced away, reaching for the bottle that was never far from his side. He splashed another shot of bourbon into his glass, his lower jaw setting sullenly.

  The boy had always been too old for his own good. From the time he was a toddler, he'd look at you with those cold blue eyes that seemed to see deep inside a body. He always seemed to see things that shouldn't be seen, know things you wished he didn't know. Too damned uppity. He'd told Ad-die time and again that the boy needed a good whipping to take some of the spirit out of him. In thirteen years of marriage it was the only time she'd ever shown any signs of a backbone. He'd never quite forgotten the look in her eyes when she'd told him never to lift a hand to her child.

  He took a swallow of liquor, feeling it bum its way down his throat and settle in a warm pool in his stomach. Looking at Trace again through a haze of alcohol, Jed wondered if he'd imagined the cold threat in the boy's eyes. The liquor made it easy to believe he had.

  Trace found it impossible to concentrate in school that day. His mind kept racing round and round, looking for some way out. There had to be a way to protect Lily. He had to find it.

  The light snowfall two days before had melted, leaving the ground muddy. It sucked at your feet when you walked, threatening to strip off your shoes. The warm breeze that had melted the snow had shifted to a cold northerly wind. When he stopped into the gas station to get a candy bar for Lily, old man Hanover commented that it sure did look like they were going to get a real snowfall before long. Shaking his head, he edged closer to the electric heater. *'Goin' to be a real cold winter, I reckon."

  Trace walked the rest of the way home, thinking about what winter might bring. With cold winds howling outside, there'd be few opportunities to escape Jed's surly drunken moods. He hunched his shoulders inside his thin coat, knowing that the wind that chilled him now was nothing compared to what January would bring.

  He kept Lily in his room again that night. She accepted his suggestion with a trust that Trace found both a blessing and a curse. It was a blessing that he didn't have to try to explain the unexplainable. And it was a curse in that it increased his feeling of responsibility.

  He wedged a straight-backed chair under his door and crawled under the covers, only to lie awake staring at the door, waiting. He didn't know quite what he was waiting for. He couldn't believe that Jed would actually come into the bedroom while he was there. Still, sleep, when it came, was fitful and unsatisfying, leaving him more tired than rested the next morning.

  Walking home from school that afternoon, he faced the fact that this was something he couldn't handle alone. He had to have help. The decision made, it seemed like providence when he found his mother alone in the kitchen. Jed wasn't home. He was either out on a job or out drinking— neither would do much for his mood. Lily was watching cartoons in the living room. It had been a long time since he'd gone to his mother for help, but she was his only hope.

  "Mom? Could I talk to you about something?"

  Addie started nervously, her eyes lifting from her mending for a moment to look at her son's face. She glanced away, her fingers plucking at a crooked stitch.

  ''What about, Trace?"

  "It's about Lily. I'm worried about her."

  "I don't know why. She seems to be settling in real well. Follows you around Hke a puppy, too. She's a pretty little thing, isn't she?"

  "Yes, but that's not what I wanted to talk about." He hesitated, watching her thin hands weaving the needle in and out of one of his shirts, mending a ripped seam. He was torn between his love for Addie and his need to protect Lily. What he had to say was going to hurt his mother and surely

  she'd known enough hurt in her life. Yet he couldn't stand by and let his stepfather destroy Lily.

  *'It's about Jed, really."

  Addie jerked, jabbing herself with the needle. A bright spot of blood welled on her finger, dripping onto the faded blue flannel of the shirt and disappearing into the fabric. She didn't move for a moment and Trace might have wondered if she'd heard him if it hadn't been for that single bright drop of blood.

  *'Mom, he's-"

  She broke, into his words, her voice holding an edge of panic. "I know you and Jed have never gotten along all that well. Trace, but he don't mean no harm. Jed has a lot of things on his mind—things we don't even know about. You got to be patient with him."

  ''Mom-"

  ''You know, I really think we're going to have to buy you some new shirts this winter. This old thing is about to give up the ghost. Maybe we'll go into town after the first of the year and see if we can pick up something on sale."

  "Jed-"

  "Don't you worry about Jed. I'll talk him into the money. He's not as bad as you think he is. Trace. Really he's not." Addie looked up, her eyes pleading with him, her fingers knotted in the old shirt.

  Trace stared at her, feeling the last fragile illusions of youth break into a milHon fragments. There was a dull pain in his chest, and for a moment it was hard to breathe.

  She wasn't going to help him. She couldn't.

  The realization washed over him, bringing pain and a certain sharp relief. A part of him had known all along that this was how it was going to be. It was out in the open now. No more pretending. No more hoping. It was up to him.

  In that moment he left the last traces of childhood behind. Looking at Addie, he saw her clearly and he couldn't

  hate her. She had no strength left, nothing to give. Not to him, not even to herself. She couldn't help h
im protect Lily. He'd been foohsh to think she might. She hadn't been able to protect herself.

  He saw his mother now through adult eyes. At thirty-five she looked like fifty. Her shoulders were hunched, her face was drawn. Her eyes, which had been such a bright blue when he was a child, seemed to have faded to a dusty gray, like an old woman's. He looked at her and felt a great pity.

  Addie seemed to sense something of his feehngs. Faint color came up in her thin cheeks and she glanced down, her eyes on her fingers twisting aimlessly in the worn shirt.

  *'It's okay, Mom. Don't worry about new shirts. I guess what I've got will see me through winter." He wasn't talking about shirts.

  Addie's flush deepened, her mouth pulled tight with shame, but she only nodded stiffly, still not looking at him.

  They sat there without speaking. Trace accepted her inability to help him but there was a part of him that couldn't walk away. He'd sat down in this chair still half a boy. When he got up, he'd have to shoulder a man's responsibility. He'd leave childhood behind forever. His thoughts didn't run so clear as that. He just knew he didn't want to leave his mother yet.

  From the living room came the faint chaotic sounds of cartoon mayhem. On the stove a pot of watery beef stew bubbled. Where the steam from the pot met the chilled windows, a mist formed, shutting out the cold prairie. Addie made a few clumsy stitches in the shirt, her head bent over the work. Trace watched her, wishing things were different.

  "You know, things would have been real different if your father hadn't died." Addie's hands stilled but she didn't lift her head. "I wish you could remember him. Trace. He liked to laugh. Nothing he enjoyed more than a good laugh."

  Trace didn't say anything. It was so seldom she spoke of his father. He'd been barely a year old when Robert EHi-shane was killed in a car wreck. There was a faded picture in the cigar box where he kept his treasures and he'd worn the paper thin studying the image of a smiling man whose eyes seemed to laugh into the camera.