CONSTRUCCIÓN DE LAS LOSAS DE CONCRETO HIDRÁULICO

innocent.

Katie didn’t respond. Ever since the accident, her ten-year- old brother’s attachment to their father had grown, fueled by what he said was their father’s voice in his head. She both envied and resented his gift. Whenever he shared these messages, she would feel a hunger for that kind of connection, and an anger at the impossibility of ever experiencing it, for she was the reason the accident happened. And it didn’t matter how many times everyone, including her shrink, told her that it was an accident, that she hadn’t caused the car crash intentionally. It didn’t change things. She was the one who had taken the car that December night against her parents’ wishes. She was the one who set in motion all that followed. She was the reason her father was dead.

They sat for a while not talking. Connor said, “Let’s go look at the medicine wheel.”

They set off across the yard, their long moon shadows crossing then passing through those of the trees. Connor’s work on the medicine wheel, inspired by a school project on Native Americans, was complete. The circle of stones about twenty feet in diameter lay in the far corner of the yard. In the center was a smaller circle, and inside that a pile of balanced stones, about a foot and a half high.

“Nice cairn,” Katie said.

“You can add to it if you want.”

Connor stepped inside the circle and Katie followed. They sat down, then they both leaned back and took in the moon.

the crickets closer by. The sense of this huge space, accepting, neutral, allowed Katie to form the question in her mind that she’d wanted to ask Connor for months. A snap of a twig sounded close by. They looked at each other.

Katie picked up a stick and scratched in the dirt, making a tiny groove. Her heart pounded as she said, “Can you talk to Dad for me?”

Connor pushed his glasses up on the bridge of his nose. “I could try.”

Katie’s voice caught in her throat. She cleared it, then said softly, “Would you ask him if he’s mad at me?”

Connor started to speak, but she held up her finger. “Just ask.” Her brother closed his eyes and became still. His breathing slowed. Watching him felt intrusive. Katie averted her eyes. It seemed to take forever, then Connor made a sound like a little laugh. His eyes remained closed and he smiled. “What?” she said.

He held up a finger. Then he opened his eyes. “He laughed when I asked him and said, “Of course not.” And he also said, “Tell her ask me herself.”

“He laughed? You’re kidding, right?” “No. He actually laughed.”

“Have you ever heard him do that before?”

“No, but he always seems happy, really happy. And he always says he misses us.”

The blood in her heart seemed to pour into her body, turning her limbs liquid.

“You didn’t make that up, did you, just to make me feel good?” “No. I didn’t. Honest.”

She reached over and pulled her brother to her. He resisted at first, but she kept drawing him closer until she had both arms wrapped around his wiry little body. “Thank you,” she whispered, and kissed him once on the top of his head.

“I love you too, you know?”

She breathes with certainty and a laugh, Holding a trinket in her hand.

And past the shock that’s in my mind,

I ask the question, and she seems… crushed? “Excuse me miss, but where am I?”

I waited. Waited for the screaming to end. Waited for Don’s bone- shattering voice to stop shaking the house. It was obvious he had been drinking again. I could almost smell the alcohol on his breath from my room, where I usually hid when he had his “episodes.” His voice got louder. I couldn’t quite determine what he was yelling. His words became muffled through the walls, and were probably unintelligible to begin with. His incessant yelling faded into a clatter of things being flung around the house. I tried to guess what it was each time. A chair, some books, a glass, really anything he felt was in his way.

Eventually he went back to yelling, and I pressed my ear to the floor to at least try to understand what mundane thing pissed him off this time. The only word that was even slightly recognizable was my name, or at least his version of it, which was repeated several times. He rarely ever addressed me by my real name, but instead liked to get creative. To test me.

“Hey Dickhead!” His voice cut through the floorboards, this time crystal clear.

“Yes,” I answered.

I tried to play the innocent child. It was the only way I could avoid as much of his bullshit as possible.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

He wasn’t like most drunks. Sure, he was violent and impulsive and had incredibly poor coordination. But what he lacked in basic human function, he made up for in a newfound superior intellect. Compared to his sober self, drunk Don could write sonnets backwards. Of course, either way he was a bumbling idiot. But if there’s one thing more intimidating than a drunken asshole who can knock you down within seconds, it’s one who can convince you that you deserved it.

“What should I be doing,” I asked.

I probably shouldn’t act smug when he’s like this, it never really goes well for me. But it sure is fun while it lasts.

“You should be getting off your ass and helping your mom make dinner.”

“Alright, I’ll be down in a minute.”

My last resort. In special cases when he was too drunk to care, I could hide in my room until he forgot about whatever pissed him off in the first

Trevor Lilly*