Chapter Five
Aidan stretched as best he could on the cramped futon, his sinewy body arching and twisting, shoving away morning in Uncle Quinn’s dusty home office. The morning sunlight filtering through the broken slat of cheap mini-blinds had initially woken him, but routine noises of people rustling about and showering kept him from drifting back to sleep like he so desperately desired.
He sat up on the concrete mattress, dragging his sweaty palm across his face in an attempt to snap himself out of sleepiness.
“Worst… bed… ever.” Tossing his pillow across the room he sighed, “Whoever invented the futon must have had a day-job in torture.”
After glaring at the green plaid sheets for a solid minute, Aidan slowly peeled out of his cocoon and stood on the shag carpet. Breakfast’s sweet and savory smells wafted under the door, and his growling stomach brought him to full alert. He slapped on an Asteroids t-shirt, jeans, and flannel shirt—a shower could wait until after he ate.
Hurriedly he threw the covers over the mattress and hefted the futon upright. He knew that it was around the kitchen table that discussion regarding this visit to hillbilly hell would occur, and after that, decisions would be made for the day’s activities. He hoped to be able to get in a few requests so that he could maybe get to spend some time exploring the surrounding woods and avoid being around Uncle Quinn.
Aidan had not seen his estranged uncle since he was about six, and he didn’t remember much of anything about him. All he knew was that Quinn now lived with his wife, Aunt Holly, in a secluded two-story cabin in the middle of Idaho’s wilderness.
Pasty and aloof, Uncle Quinn belonged to some political activists in the area called Brothers for Freedom. Aidan knew that was code for skinheads. Back home in Utah, he only heard the worst about all of the gun-toting, lunatic, white supremacists of Northern Idaho. It did not seem to be a stretch that his uncle’s political ties were with some of those very same whack-jobs, and looking around the “office,” he was leaning toward believing those rumors.
The night before, he hadn’t even bothered turning on the lights when he crashed onto the folded out futon. Now, in the light of day, everything was clear.
Old Dixie loomed on the wall above the desk.
Bingo! Now on to clue number two.
His eyes scanned past the militaristic medals pinned to the walls, and that was when he realized he was surrounded.
Every type of small, dead animal one could stuff and mount, whether it be fowl, rodent, or mammal, seemed to be either perched on a shelf or hanging grotesquely from the wall. Aidan swore that he could see an armadillo peeking through two skunks which stood ferociously atop an enormous, rusty safe in the far corner of the room.
“Thank you, Uncle Creep-a-zoid,” he said. He walked toward the doorway, flicking off the lights. “Nothing like rabid-looking carcasses staring at your junk in the morning.”
A ground squirrel frozen in half-chitter stared at him on his way out of the room. He turned at the varmint and snarled.
In the kitchen, Aidan’s mom stood near the stove, fidgeting with a spotless pancake turner, unsure of what to do with herself or the utensil. It wasn’t that she did not know how to use the turner; it was more like she just didn’t know how to edge Quinn out of his place. Uncle Quinn stood in front of the stove next to her, whistling and simultaneously flipping pancakes with his twitching right hand. Every few seconds his hand would quake like a jolt had flown through his body, and he’d use his left hand to steady his right. All while smoking a cigarette that dangled from the corner of his mouth.
Great. Nicotine pancakes, Aidan thought to himself. He didn’t think his uncle was nervous about cooking, and it couldn’t be nicotine withdrawal that gave him the shakes. He really wondered if his uncle had other hidden demons that plagued his body.
But Aidan knew that, despite Uncle Quinn’s spasms, his mom was really freaking out on the inside for other reasons. And it was not just because of the second-hand smoke filling the kitchen. No, Aidan was certain that his mother was more terrified of the inevitable ash that sprinkled down on the pancakes, sinking into the air bubbles, never to be seen again. In her mind, there were probably visions of ashy pockets that she would have to ingest while wearing a plastic grin to keep from offending her husband’s older brother.
Uncle Quinn stood in his homemade tank-top, fashioned from an old Merle Haggard t-shirt with the sleeves crookedly cut off and frayed. His muscled arms, covered in blue and black tattoos, shook every few seconds. With each tremor came a deep draw from the cigarette dangling on his lower lip.
Probably alcohol or meth that he’s had to lay off of since we arrived.
As Aidan watched his uncle work, Quinn continued to peer through smoke circles. His wrinkled eyes were barely visible beneath his baseball cap bearing a rebel flag front and center.
Redneck and proud of it, Aidan thought.
He could imagine his uncle as the official pancake flipper of all local skinhead meetings, making perfectly angled swastika cakes while discussing Klan plans.
What was harder to come to terms with than his uncle’s embarrassing appearance was that he would have to just keep his mouth shut about his uncle’s supposed associations. Dad had made it clear when they were packing for the trip that there were to be no questions about Uncle Quinn’s activities, friends, or late night whereabouts. Aidan remembered how his dad had stared directly at him the whole time. He knew better than to go against his dad’s command. He entered without saying a word, plunking down in the only open seat. He sat across from Fallon who hand-fed dry cereal to Dwayne.
“Get a room,” Aidan muttered under his breath as he gawked at his little brother.
Fallon made a face at Aidan, bit off half a Toastie-O and gave the other half to Dwayne, who promptly took the prized food in his paws, gnawing the edges with his buck teeth.
“I hope you get the plague,” Aidan sneered across the table.
“I hope you get a life,” Fallon shot back, looking over his shoulder to make sure Dad didn’t overhear.
“Whatever,” Aidan muttered to himself as he poured orange juice into the miniature frosted glass by his plate. He knew it would just be another typical morning in the Tanner household—full of jeering and avoiding a bruised ego.
To one side of him sat his younger sister, Kaylee, who nibbled on her requisite bowl of plain yogurt sprinkled with wheat germ and sunflower kernels.
He sneered at her bowl of horse feed. She had been a health-nut for six months, the longest she had stuck with anything, so Aidan was beyond the point of making snickering remarks about her eating and exercising habits. He was not, however, beyond making faces at his thirteen-year-old sister.
“You don’t have to eat it,” she shrilly sassed back after he had spent a few moments flaring his nostrils in her direction as he waited for his pancakes.
“Thank goodness,” he mumbled and then glanced over at his mom to make sure she hadn’t honed in on him.
Luckily, Mom was still fretting next to the stove, fidgeting with the spatula.
He was safe. For now.
While he would have loved to gloat over his mom’s internal strife—after all, she was forcing him to spend a week in a cold, unfamiliar four-room cabin in the middle of nowhere—Aidan knew his mom’s anxiety over anything resembling dirt or disorder. At home it was Aidan who always kept his mom in check by watching for anything that might “set her off,” and he often took care of the issue promptly, before she could even notice a speck of dirt.
He remembered one time when a cloud of cat hair from his sister’s long-haired Himalayan leisurely floated across the kitchen floor. Luckily, he was able to snatch the furry enemy before his mom even saw it. Surely she would have found a new home for Whiskers as she had threatened for two years. Of course, Aidan knew it probably would have come to that eventually—had Whiskers not been accidentally run over by his mom last Christmas.
Mom said it was
icy. Kaylee said it was malicious.
Since his dad was out of town and he knew his mom couldn’t handle cleaning up the crime scene, Aidan told his mom he would take care of going out to scoop up and bury the remains of his sister’s enormous cat.
Regardless of his mom’s fastidious cleaning habits, he knew she genuinely tried not to inflict her tidiness on others. She let Kaylee have a cat, she tolerated Fallon’s rat, and she always washed Aidan’s stinky soccer jerseys without complaint.
She didn’t inflict her tidiness on others, she just constantly ran around cleaning up after everyone. A dirty dish would only last about three seconds in the sink before she donned her rubber gloves.
But sitting there staring at his mom, who now moved on to chewing at her nails, Aidan wished there was something he could do.
Nothing. What will she do when I’m gone? he thought. I’m a sophomore in high school. In a few years I won’t be around to run surveillance.
Aidan sighed and poured himself another glass of orange juice.
“Cakes on!” Uncle Quinn’s voice boomed through the cramped kitchen, as he swung a steaming plate of breakfast into the center of the round table.
Aidan now discreetly examined his uncle. Mom had rushed him to bed the night before, so he was only able to catch a glimpse of his dad’s only brother. Quinn had been sitting in the family room watching TV and sipping on Budweiser, barely lifting a hand to say hello.
His uncle was considerably older than his father—there was actually a fourteen-year gap between the two. But now, by looking at him in the kitchen fluorescents, Quinn appeared fairly young with his bright red moustache and full head of auburn hair that tapered into an expertly trimmed mullet in the back. His moustache was the kind of a different era; it was the bushy caterpillar found on men in old westerns. But Aidan could see Quinn’s age in the crow’s feet around his eyes, how they changed their intensity with each altering facial expression.
“Ready to help clear some underbrush, Aidan?” His dad smiled while Aidan slathered peanut butter on his massive stack of pancakes.
“Didn’t you mean Aidan and Fallon?” Aidan drenched the four-high stack with artificially flavored maple syrup and shoved a massive hunk in his mouth, smirking across the table between chomps.
Fallon stuck out his tongue, which was covered with chewed remnants of what had been pancakes and a sausage link.
His dad ignored Aidan’s comment and merely turned to Quinn. “I’m sure he’ll be happy to help out. Right, Aid?”
The death-glare from his dad was enough for him to simply nod and not argue about how unfair it was that he would have to spend his break doing grunt labor while his brother tromped around doing who knew what. Aidan also knew not to even bring up the obvious sexism that his sister, who was only two years younger, would not even have to help out.
Angrily he finished the last scrapings on his plate. At least breakfast helped make up for the horrible days that were to come.
Ash or not, the pancakes were definitely made from scratch—deliciously crisp on the edges and flaky in the middle. Whatever his mom’s opinion about Uncle Quinn’s cooking habits or Aidan’s revulsion at his uncle’s affiliations, the proof was in the pancake.
Yep, he’s definitely the Klan Kook.
Aidan laughed to himself.
Now Mom was at the helm, flipping pancakes so Quinn could sit with the “boys,” and she served up another plate-sized carbo-cake to Aidan. She ruffled his red mop of hair with one hand, winking at him like she always did to try and cheer him up.
Dad and Uncle Quinn discussed the latest political wrangling of the area, and their voices faded into background noise.
As he slathered the cake with a heaping tablespoon of peanut butter, Aidan wondered where Aunt Holly was at this time in the morning. It was odd that in the short time he had been at the house he had not caught a single sighting of Quinn’s wife.
Quinn and Holly had been married only three years earlier at a last-minute courthouse wedding, and so the family was never formally introduced. His dad had received a phone call the next day, but it wasn’t from Quinn; apparently Holly called to introduce herself because Quinn refused to call his younger brother.
Holly was Quinn’s first wife; in fact, everyone was surprised when they heard Quinn had finally “settled down.” She was in her mid-twenties—young enough to be Quinn’s daughter—but apparently she had an “old soul,” according to what his mom told him. She worked in town at her nursery and garden store, and in her spare time was head of the local Pink Pistols, a group of gun enthusiasts and outdoor recreationists. Aidan pictured her looking like some kind of rugged mountain woman with three missing teeth and a way with a six-shooter. Northern Idaho’s Annie Oakley.
Breakfast rushed by with the two men talking about the lay of the land. Quinn’s place was made up of the lake-front home, three acres of woodland, and another ten acre parcel of farmland further out of town. Aidan merely listened in on their conversation since he had nothing better to do, and he knew his mom would berate him if he left the table before everyone was finished.
His uncle was no longer sheriff, and now Quinn simply farmed to make a living, his wife running their nursery business.
Yet the men were not working on the farm today, and thirty minutes later, as their four-wheelers pulled to a stop in the middle of the pine forests, Aidan could see that clearing brush was going to kill him. It wasn’t just little bushes and weeds—there were massive, gnarled trunks and brambly thorny branches. But then he noticed the chainsaws the men were unloading from his uncle’s ATV.
Maybe I’ll get to hack down some trees with one of those monsters, he hoped to himself.
Uncle Quinn, trademark Marlboro in his mouth, tossed Aidan a pair of leather gloves with his red, shaking hands. “You’re on removal and stacking.”
Two hours later, the trailer was half-full of debris, tree trunks, and limbs, all carefully sorted by Aidan. He was proud to stand back, wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his arm, and survey the progress he made.
He still thought it was unfair that Fallon and Kaylee didn’t have to help. After all, when Aidan was ten he had started helping outdoors, so why couldn’t Fallon and Kaylee?
Fallon’s probably at the cabin exploring with Dwayne. Maybe I’ll be lucky and Dwayne will fall in the lake and drown. Or, the hairless beast could be scooped up by a hawk and never seen from again.
Aidan chuckled as he wiped another trickle of dirt-laden sweat off his forehead.
Kaylee was probably doing sit-ups or going on a “healthy” walk around the woods.
Oh well, at least Dad and Quinn aren’t talkers. It must be genetic.
Aidan enjoyed the serenity of the woods, the random chirping of animals, and how voices bounced through the dusty air.
“Time for a break?” Dad reached over and handed Aidan the canteen.
Cool water sloshed down Aidan’s throat in welcome gulps.
“Nothing like some hard work in the morning, huh Aid?” His dad smiled— one of the first smiles Aidan had seen from his father since he lost his job at the accounting firm six months before.
“Yeah Dad, sure.” Aidan rolled his eyes, his dad not noticing. While his dad may enjoy the work, Aidan didn’t want to be caught feeling the same way.
Aidan could barely see Uncle Quinn standing deeper in the woods, a trail of smoke reaching up to the pine boughs the only obvious indication of his presence.
In the silence between father and son was the slow creak of pines swaying above them.
“Aid?”
He looked up at his dad.
“Thanks for coming up here with us. I know it’s not the best timing and everything, and I know it’s not the average teenager’s idea of a great getaway, but Uncle Quinn needs our help.”
Typical dad, thought Aidan. He always knows how to make me feel guilty about acting like a selfish jerk. ??
?No problem, Dad.” He handed the canteen over.
“Maybe tomorrow we can get up early and go fishing on the lake like we used to back home.” He gulped a mouthful of water and then sloshed some more over his sweaty face. Looking over at Aidan, he continued, “What do you think about that?”
Aidan was surprised. It seemed that in the past year his dad really hadn’t wanted much to do with him at all, and truthfully, he hadn’t really wanted to change that. Ever since he saw his dad at that restaurant, Aidan could barely stand looking at him. But Aidan had kept his mouth shut and never said anything, especially to his mom. She would have been heartbroken. Now his dad wanted to act like nothing was wrong, everything was just fine, like they could go back in time before the entire cesspool of crap rose to the surface. Back to before his dad lost his son’s respect and his job.
“And there’s something else you need to know,” his dad continued. “You’re getting older, and I think that you shouldn’t be kept out of the loop with things. That’s one reason I only wanted you out here today; so that I could talk to you without your brother and sister listening in.”
Aidan knew this couldn’t be good. He could tell his dad was dancing around something as he stood there fidgeting with the canteen strap. Was he going to admit to what Aidan already knew? Or was he just going to make up another lie to cover for himself?
His dad handed him the canteen and wiped his palms on his dungarees. “Well, I don’t know how else to tell you this, but Quinn was just diagnosed with lung cancer. I’ve seen you notice his tremors—side effects from his treatments. Or at least that’s what he’s told me.”
“Seems like a good time to be smoking it up,” Aidan muttered sarcastically.
“I know, I know. He’s been a chain-smoker for as long as I can remember, but I guess he figures that stopping now isn’t going to change anything. The doctor gave him six months.”
Aidan shrugged, but inside he was boiling. Now Quinn needs the Tanner family for chores and so he invites us up to Winchester?
“So,” his dad shuffled his feet among the dried pine needles, “we’ll be staying up here at least this week.”
“At least?” Aidan couldn’t believe it. Now that they were up in no-man’s land, his dad dropped the bomb that he would not only be spending a week, but also tacked on an indefinite stay.
“Come on, Aid. We haven’t been up here to visit in a long time, and I feel awful about that. The least we can do is help out Quinn in his time of need. We’re family, right?”
Aidan figured he didn’t owe his uncle anything. Quinn never made an effort to visit Utah, either, so Aidan concluded that both sides were equal on the abandonment issue.
And his dad, of all people, talking about the support of family? It was more than he could stand.
“We?” He flung the rattling canteen back at his father’s chest, his voice building, “How come we have to make up for his mistakes?”
“Keep your voice down, Aid.” His father’s face was turning red with each second.
“No! How come we have to pay for your mistakes? I’m tired of your mistakes ruining my life!”
“What the heck is that supposed to mean?” His father took a step toward Aidan, his chest puffed up.
“You know what it means.” He coldly stared into his dad’s face. “I saw you with her.”
In the instant his dad looked away, trying to come up with something to say, Aidan stomped off into the forest.
Seconds later, his dad’s voice boomed through the trees. “Aid! Aidan Fergus Tanner! Get back here!”
But Aidan increased his pace, running through the overgrown woods, limbs of saplings slashing at his face as his chest heaved with restrained sobs.
He wouldn’t cry.
He stopped by a massive white pine, pacing like a giant cat.
“No one cares about my life at all.”
Left. Right. Kicking needles and dust, pain and anger.
Aidan thought about all of the time he gave for his family—all of the hours of watching his younger siblings so his parents could look for work or attend to their own needs. He remembered the nights when his friends were out being kids and he was stuck babysitting while his mom worked swing shifts and his dad was out of town looking for another job.
Yeah right, looking for another job. Aidan wiped at his face again.
When his dad lost his job, Aidan had to give up club soccer because they couldn’t afford it anymore. Even his room was taken away, and he had to share with Fallon when his dad converted Aidan’s room into an office for his latest venture of being a private accountant.
It’s what it all comes back to, isn’t it?
“I’m tired of giving!” he shouted at deaf trees, his fist pounding the pine’s jagged bark.
Blood trickled from his grazed knuckles, the pale flesh searing with pain. Aidan stared at his wounded hand and smirked. At least he could still feel, and at least he wouldn’t have to finish clearing the woods with his dad. He wouldn’t have to face him for a while.
He punched the tree again.