Blue’s Story
Chapter One
Kentucky. July, 1984.
The brass bell attached to the wall behind Daddy’s recliner jingled.
He jumped up so fast I was sure he didn’t remember his TV tray stood in front of him. He’d been sitting there all morning, cleaning and re-cleaning his guns. When he jumped up, his tree trunk legs hit that tray and sent gun parts flying. Those steel-gray pieces clunked when they hit the floor. A spring rolled toward me.
He twisted around and looked at the little bell, then turned and stared at the black curtain covering the front window.
I sat under Momma's piano and pulled at the dead strings that once held her braided rug together, but I never took my eyes off him.
The piano hadn't sung since Momma died. Sometimes, lying on that dusty rug, I could almost hear her playing again—her fingers dancing across the ivory keys while she sang "The Rose" as if Bette Midler herself had wandered into our little Kentucky holler. Daddy always said her singing could make every log in our house vibrate with joy.
Now the only music left was the hum in Daddy's jaw as he chewed the loose skin on his bottom lip.
That’s when I knew this wasn’t a drill. This wasn’t part of the plan.
“Shit.”
Daddy rarely swore in front of me.
In nothing more than a pair of boxers and a ratty old t-shirt, he held onto a small can of gun oil. I don’t think he knew it was upside down. If he had, he would’ve turned it upright and capped it real quick. He always said, “A wasted drop is a wasted opportunity.”
Daddy's eyes grew bigger as they darted from the bell to me to the window. If I didn't know any better, I'd say he looked scared as a cat held over a tub of water.
My daddy wasn’t afraid of nothing. That's why I was confused when he scrunched up his shoulders and paced the worn line in the carpet. For a second I wondered if he was going to crawl under the piano with me and hide from what we all knew was coming. Or rather who.
I followed his gaze. Bell. Window. Piano. Bell. Widow. I scoured his hands. They were thick and calloused. Clean. And unshakable.
Even though we'd practiced a thousand times, I don't think either of us was really ready for this day.
“Shit, shit, shit." Daddy said that word again.
He jumped straight into his pants, not bothering to buckle his belt, then he continued to pace until he stopped in front of Momma’s bay window—the one he had special-ordered two years ago so she could sit and sketch her good morning birds—and drew back the black curtain.
Sunlight flooded my space. Specks of dust floated in the air and passed through the tunnel of light connecting me to the outside world. I knew if he didn’t close that curtain soon enough I just might meet my Maker.
“Blue.” That’s what Daddy called me.
“Blue, get out of here.”
The bell rang again. Not by way of Daddy’s hand. Not this time. This was the real deal.
“Shit, they’re already at checkpoint two.”
He turned toward me. “What are you waiting for?”
I looked around the room. “What about Dolly?”
“She’s safe out there. Dog’s with her. Go on now. Get under the house.”
Just like him, I chewed at the skin on my bottom lip so hard I tasted blood. I held my breath. Dolly will be okay. I picked up my pile of dead strings, stuffed them in my pocket, and ran toward the back door.
The bell rang again.
“They’re moving fast; only five more to go. Hurry now.”
Before I pushed the screen door open, I grabbed Daddy’s big knife and instinctively brought it to my nose, wet stone.
I turned back and looked at him.
He picked up his shotgun, winked at me, then stuffed the chamber full of bullets.
