The Kid

My sister rubs the doll’s face in mud, then climbs through the truck window. She ignores me as I walk around it, hitting the flat tires with an iron rod. The old man yells for me to help hitch the team, but I keep walking around the truck, hitting harder, until my mother calls. I pick up a rock and throw it at the kitchen window, but it falls short. The old man’s voice bounces off the air like a ball I can’t lift my leg over. I stand beside him, waiting, but he doesn’t look up and I squeeze the rod, raise it, his skull splits open. Mother runs toward us. I stand still, get her across the spine as she bends over him. I drop the rod and take the rifle from the house. Roses are red, violets are blue, one bullet for the black horse, two for the brown. They’re down quick. I spit, my tongue’s bloody; I’ve bitten it. I laugh, remember the one out back. I catch her climbing from the truck, shoot. The doll lands on the ground with her. I pick it up, rock it in my arms. Yeah. I’m Jack, Hogarth’s son. I’m nimble, I’m quick. In the house, I put on the old man’s best suit and his patent leather shoes. I pack my mother’s satin nightgown and my sister’s doll in the suitcase. Then I go outside and cross the fields to the highway. I’m fourteen. I’m a wind from nowhere. I can break your heart.