The Freak Observer Read Free

little and far away. I watched them, and I watched the reflectors on the mile markers. The stars and the reflectors seemed pretty pathetic in the middle of all that night.
    We were going to be at my turnoff soon. I didn’t say anything. If I stayed quiet, the trooper might just keep driving on and on, up the valley, past the subdivisions and the old ranches.
    It was a silly idea. Troopers know where the roads are. I had told him my name and address during the questioning. He knew where to turn away from the blacktop and which dirt road led to my house. I wish we lived deeper up the canyon, but we’re not that far from the main road. It is just too little time to get my shit together. The road curves around the old pasture fence. There is our barn where nothing lives anymore. The house huddles in the dark, smaller than the barn and almost as empty.
    Thin grey light escapes the windows of the kitchen and bathroom. I know the trooper is going to that door, the back door, in the middle of the scabbed-on addition to the main house. The real front door faces the creek because the house turns its back on the road. Nothing good ever comes from that direction. That’s what the house seems to believe.
    The trooper left the engine running while he went to the door. I don’t know if they aren’t allowed to turn off the engine or if he just wanted me to feel warm and safe. Or maybe he did it so I couldn’t hear what he and my dad were saying on the back porch.
    I couldn’t pay attention anyway. It took everything just to keep my eyes open. I didn’t want them shut. My imagination kicks in when I close my eyes.
    Next thing I knew, the trooper was opening the door so I could get out and go home.
    â€œTake care of yourself,” he said.
    â€œOK.”
    . . .
    My dad waits on the porch until I climb the steps. It’s late for him to be up, and I can tell he hasn’t been to bed. He’s still in his tin pants and boots. His sleeves are pushed up, and the front of his shirt is wet. He’s holding the toilet plunger. It’s easy enough to see what he had been doing before the trooper knocked. I open the door. Dad follows me in, shuts the door behind him, and turns off the porch light.
    I could hear the trooper’s car wheels on the gravel road. We always know when someone is coming or going to our place because you can hear the crunch of gravel. I like that sound.
    When the sound of the trooper’s car fades, I can hear the sound of the creek. It used to be a comfort, that sound, because that was what my world sounded like. It isn’t a comfort anymore. I can hear my dad breathing. It is so quiet. But quiet doesn’t last for long.
    . . .
    Dad didn’t spend a lot of time making his point: “What the hell were you thinking? You weren’t thinking. Just out cattin’ around. You’re useless as tits on a tomcat. What’s the difference between you and her?”
    What’s the difference? Why am I not a dead girl? I don’t for a minute know. I look at my dad. He can’t let himself be sad. He can’t let himself be frightened. But I’ve forced this moment. The fear jumps out of his eyes and into me like a hot spark.
    â€œYou could’a been the dead one.”
    That’s when he hits me with the plunger, because I could have been the dead one. He hits me because it is easier to be angry than to be afraid. I could have been the dead one, but I’m not.
    . . .
    The coffee machine turns itself on, so the pot will be full of fresh, hot coffee when my dad comes down to leave for work. I kind of want to go hide in my room. I could pretend to be asleep. I don’t go. Hiding isn’t going to help. I’m ashamed of myself, and I can’t hide from that.
    It isn’t like my dad is going to clobber me again. That’s over. He isn’t a violent man. If he wanted to kill me, he could have pulled the 30-06 off the rack and done it. If