Page 86 of Road Queens
“Coming, Dad.” Cassandra Schmitt lugged the tackle box down the short hill to the creek, because God forbid Dad put his pole down to run his own errand. Like it was her fault he grabbed the wrong tackle box?
“Lunch in five,” her mother called from the top of the hill.
“I told you, I need to switch out reels and check lines before I can get back to it!”
“Lunch in fifteen!”
For the millionth time, Cass wondered why her mom put up with the sentient bag of nail clippings that was Randy Schmitt. It was more than being Catholic; it went beyond “We’re staying together for the kid.” Did she lose a bet with God?
Once, her love for her father had been all encompassing and unconditional. Over time, that changed. The worst part? It didn’t changeenough. She still loved him. And he loved her. He loved her mother, even! Cass still went to him for advice; they had long talks about college and motorcycles and life. He could still make her laugh; his support could still be relied on. She looked forward to Friday Family Film Night; though the older she got, the lameritgot.
He could be kindness itself. When he found out she was saving for a motorcycle, he promised to match her dollar for dollar if she stayed on the honor roll. And every time she thought they were past the deadly drama of domestic violence—once, he’d gone ten months without hitting her mother—Iris would limp into the kitchen to fix breakfast. Or she’d pick Cass up from volleyball practice, and there’d be a splint on her finger.
And she never said a word against him. And she never fought back. And she always,alwaysdefended him. And the days went by.
It was flattering and shameful to know that Amanda and Sidney thought she was a minor badass, locking in the impression she’d made the day she kneed Jeff Manners’s testicles into his throat. But wouldn’t a badass call the cops each time her father broke the law? Or fight back on her mother’s behalf? Or at least tell a school counselor?
Her friends weren’t stupid; over time, they noticed her mother’s tendency to have “accidents,” but Cass didn’t say word one and brushed off their concerns. That wasn’t badass. That was chickenshit.
Maybe it would get better at home once she left for college. Maybe if it was just the two of them, then they’d get along better. Maybe the problem was her? Or the dynamic of the three of them?
Stop. Stop it.
If she didn’t knock off the pondering, she’d get another headache. And she was determined to enjoy the day. Or at least get through it.
The weather was nice, so that was a plus. But unfortunately, it contributed to her dad’s mood. There were always predators ready to deal death from above, so fish looked up. A lot. They also scooted away from shadows, so approaching the water with care, especially ona sunny day, was crucial. It didn’t help that Coulee Creek was shallow and narrow, and the short dock poking into it seemed superfluous. But it was teeming with trout—brown, brook, and rainbow—which were wily and delicious and would make a terrific supper. Especially if her mom made those yummy tinfoil packets of potatoes and onions and butter and tossed them on the grill with the fish.
Please, please let trout be supper.Her father’s temper, almost never banked, worsened when he got skunked. But to give the jackass of a devil his due, he was an excellent angler and didn’t get skunked very often.
“Shit!”
Cass knew better than to ask what his problem was. He’d tell her quickly enough. He’d tell everyone within a ten-mile radius quickly enough.
“Goddamn, this line is a mess. Get me the eight-pound mono.”
“Sure, Dad.” It meant trudging back up the slope for yet another tackle box, and he’d bitch because she wasn’t the Flash, but she knew better than to complain. He wouldn’t hit her—she had no memory of him ever hitting her, though Mom claimed he spanked her once when she drew on the walls as a toddler—but there were plenty of nonphysical ways he could make her miserable.
“Tell your mom lunch has to be later!” he bawled after her.
You literally just told her. She’s twenty feet away, for fuck’s sake.
They’d parked the truck at the top of the bank, and her mom had the tables and chairs out and was elbow deep in lunch prep. She didn’t fish anymore. Dad hated it when she put more on the dock than he did.
“He always grabs the wrong line,” Mom said with a rueful smile. “Even if you try to anticipate.”
“Right?” One of the worst things about Randy Schmitt was his inability to learn from his mistakes. Cass spotted the necessary tackle box and crawled into the truck bed. She pushed the kayak paddles aside
(The creek’s only three feet deep at its deepest, why does he always think we can kayak?)
and grabbed it.
“Should I, uh, bring him a beer?” A tipsy dad was a slightly less shitty dad.
“I forgot to pack the beer.”
Lie. Dad was a gold-medal control freak who didn’t like it when anyone else drove. Cassandra could count on one hand how often he’d let her mother take the wheel. Mom accepted that, even as she refused to countenance any behavior that could endanger her daughter. This wasn’t the first time she’d “forgotten” to bring booze. Risky as shit, but about some things, her mother was about as flexible as a mountain.
“Well, I’m not telling him,” Cass announced.
