Christopher Jon HeuerTRAUMA (2)*There's an envelope on my pillow. I dump my backpack on the bed, looking at it. I don't want to pick it up, but my name is printed on the front in my father's pressured, square handwriting. There's a logo on it, too: Phoenix Treatment Center; the detox clinic in Hartford. He still has two weeks to go before he's released, so obviously Mom put it there. There's nothing to be done about it but open it. I try to be careful but I tear it more than I mean to. Dear Dan, I read the letter once more and then put it back in the envelope, thinking I'll tape up the tear in it later. As I put it in my desk drawer I see a shadow move. Scott is standing in the doorway, holding a letter of his own. He doesn't say anything. But looking at him, I know he put my letter on my pillow, not Mom. Once he sees I found it, he leaves. * * * Before first period I'm supposed to go and see Mary. She told me once what her exact job title is but I can never remember it. Basically she travels all around Dodge County working with all the deaf kids in the area, including me and Lynn, the other deaf student here in Juneau. I met Mary when she told me last summer that I'd be transferring back to Juneau from the Wisconsin School for the Deaf and starting school here this year. No questions about whether or not this is what I wanted, or on how I'd feel about being back with hearing kids again. I bitched about it plenty, too, back when we used to have our weekly meetings in the adjoining room off to the side of the library. But everybody in Study Hall in the library could hear us. Now we meet in what used to be the costume storage room behind the stage in the gym. It's much more private. I'm not mad at her, though. Mary's cooler than my bitch interpreter Sarah, who used to meet with us back when we were still in the library. I'd always piss her off by resting my foot on the chair across from me and leaving it there for ever-lengthening periods of time even after she told me to move it. One of the selling points in getting me to shut up about coming back here was Mary's promise that I'd have my own terp, and Lynn would have hers. As things turned out, though, we each only get Sarah part-time. And judging by the fact that Sarah doesn't come to these meetings anymore, part-time is about the exact length of time she can stand me. "Hey Dan," Mary signs as I come in. "How are you doing?" She signs 'doing' but she says 'holding up.' Irony of ironies—she never says what she signs, but I can lip read her better than anyone I know. "Math is math," I tell her. "You know that's not what I mean." I saw Mary twice after Dad went to detox. We talked about me failing math, both times. Very deliberately. "Not much to say," I shrug. "We want you to talk with the counselor, Dan. Here at school." I give her credit for not beating around the bush. "We?" "You mother. And me. A few other people." "No." "Dan, you've been through a lot." Fuck this. I knew she would pull this. "Come and sit down," she signs, pushing out the chair across from her with her foot. I back away from the chair and stand near the steps. "Mary, I didn't want to be here. You knew this. I won't say you didn't care, but you knew. All you had to say at the time was 'Your English is too good to stay at Delavan, Dan. They can't offer you an education at your level, Dan.' That's what you said, right?" She knows I'm going to win this one. So she nods. It saves time. "Well I'm here! I hate it here, but I'm here. No choice. I didn't have a choice either when you guys sent me to Delavan in the first place! But back then it's 'You're not getting along in a mainstream school, Dan. Your father and I feel you'll be able to interact better with other deaf children, Dan.' Meanwhile where's Dad?" "Dan, come on..." "No, really! Where's Dad, Mary!" The Homeroom bell won't ring, won't ring, won't ring for the longest time. She pulls a bunch of forms out of her bag and starts filling them out, pausing once to wipe at one of her eyes, and later to tell me the bell finally went off. I'm still standing by the stairs and am able to leave quickly. * * * Eventually there's lunch, then math class—algebra actually—then the walk home under the gray spring sky and around the remnants of snow banks. I still don't understand a fucking thing about algebra but oh well. Sarah was in class with me, hissing and interpreting to no one in particular, since she has to sign but I don't have to watch. Bitch. The temperature has dropped. The puddles in the driveway to my house have a thin layer of ice over them. I step on some deliberately, pushing in the ice with the toe of my boot. It gives easily, caving in under my weight. Instantly my toes start going numb. My mouth and throat are cold, too, like I swallowed snow. By the time I get inside the cold has gotten into both feet. They're painful when I pull off my boots; all pins and needles. Did water get in? No, my socks are dry. I go into the bathroom, keeping my weight on my heels, and run the hot water. It hurts like a fucker but once I get them submerged they finally warm up. Mom is probably pulling another double shift and everyone else, including Scott, is gone. The day is going my way for once. I make a sandwich out of leftover chicken and cheese, pour some milk, and go up to my room. Dad's letter is in my desk drawer where I left it. I don't open it. I just want to make sure it's there. I remember Scott had a letter from him, too. It had the same logo. I can read it, too, if I want to. Scott keeps his door bolted with this extra lock he installed, but I can pick it. All I have to do is unscrew three of the screws that hold it in place and pull it back... it will rotate right out of the door frame. And a hunting knife will open his lockbox. I don't know why I ever bothered with that because he never keeps his money in there, but he keeps his motorcycle stuff there and some other papers. If it's not in his desk, that's where it will be. All I have to do is keep an eye out for his truck, and if he pulls into the driveway, bolt everything shut again fast. But I don't. In fact I rarely do anymore. I used to be a lot more scared of him and that was why I did that to begin with: to get back at him. But that was only until last summer when we almost got into a fight. We were both working for Johnson's Dairy Farms when they were bailing hay, only I was just a summer farmhand and he worked full time for them. I was on the wagon and he was up in the mow. I loaded the last few bales onto the elevator and jumped down. If there wasn't another wagon ready to go you could take a break and get some water from the milk house. I waited until the bales dropped off the elevator and then pulled the plug so the other guys could climb down. I was bent over hosing the dust off my neck and out of my hair when someone slapped my back. I was sunburned pretty badly so it hurt. I shot straight up, snarling. It was Scott. He ripped the hose out of my hand and shouted, "You have to look behind you when you're walking away!" I could understand him because I'm used to how he talks. Plus he naturally gestures enough to be clear. Even though he didn't know how to sign back then and still doesn't, he was still going deaf, just like me. "What the fuck are you talking about!" I yelled back. "A bale fell off the elevator!" "What?" "A bale! It rolled under the wagon!" "Well Jesus Christ! So what!" "Tom was trying to get your attention the whole time! And you're walking away like a dumbass!" Tom is Scott's boss, a foreman for Johnson's Dairy Farms. So this was about Scott feeling embarrassed by me. My back was still stinging from where he slapped me, and I was hot and itching and just sick of him, if you want the truth; always slinking around like a fucking kicked dog… trying not to irritate the Almighty Hearing People. It never works—they hate you no matter what you do. It's just that the fucking kicked dog types are too stupid to see this. Without thinking I shoved him hard as he turned away. Big mistake. He wasn't ready for it and smacked into the milk tank face-first. When he turned there was blood in one of his nostrils. There was no way out of the milk house except past him. But he didn't lose it. To this day, why he didn't is still a mystery to me. Not just that, either. I also can't figure out where I worked up the guts to push him. * * * I wake up because the mattress is wet. I've pissed in my bed. I'm so shocked and embarrassed and disgusted I throw my underwear away rather than dumping them in the laundry basket. Stupid, because the sheets and blankets are both soaked too. I start pulling them off and see what time it is. School starts in less than an hour; barely enough time to shower and then bike in. I've already missed the bus. * * * I make Homeroom on time but I'm cold again. It's only three miles from my house to school but even in spring the early mornings can still bite, and if you sweat under a lot of layers of clothes it's that much worse when you pull them off. They don't really turn the heat up a lot in the classrooms. Plus I only have my tennis shoes on now instead of my boots. They're not as warm. I'm thinking about Champ because that was the last time I ever pissed in my bed, back when I was a little kid. Champ was Scott's dog. Scott made it clear I couldn't let Champ out of the kennel by kicking me in the ass as hard as he could any time he caught me near it. He left a lot of bruises but I kept going back to the kennel anyway because otherwise I'd never get to play with Champ. Scott had him trained real well, too. You could give commands in a series and he'd do it all in order even if you left a command out the next time. You could say, 'Come, sit, stay, watch, fetch, bring, drop, sit,' and then throw a stick or a Frisbee. He'd run out and get it and bring it right back to you. If you didn't say 'drop' he wouldn't drop it, and if you didn't say 'sit' at the end he wouldn't sit again. He even understood variations on the commands. I could say 'Have a seat,' and he'd sit, which made me laugh every single time. Or I'd say 'Hand it over.' He wouldn't drop it, but instead would push whatever he had into your hand. Scott didn't even know he could do that—I taught him myself. I always did this fucked up thing back then, though. I've never even remembered it until now. Whenever I had Champ alone I'd go into the kennel and tell him to sit. I'd kiss him on the head and say "Here's a kiss for being good." Then I'd slap him as hard as I could and say, "Here's a slap for being bad." I don't know why I'd do that, but I did it all the time, and one day Champ lunged at me and bit me on the face, up by my forehead. He didn't break the skin but I was shocked anyway; so shocked he would do that. He was snarling in the corner of the kennel, ready to lunge at me again. He didn't even look like the same dog. Then someone was behind me. I didn't see who at first but I felt a hand grab my shoulder. I thought I was being pulled out of the kennel, but something sledge-hammered me across the side of the head, punching me right in the ear. I went sprawling in front of Champ, who went berserk, leaping at me and biting for real. " Get the fuck out of here!" Scott screamed down at me. Champ was snapping at his arms while he pulled him away. Later that day Scott kicked the door to my room open and rushed at me and pinned me on the bed. He slapped me hard across the face five times straight, stinging and hot. "How do you like it, fucker?" he spat, and slapped me again. This went on for a long time. * * * My first period class is in the same room that Homeroom is in. But when the bell goes off, all the people who should be staying are getting up to leave, and all the wrong people are coming in. Confused, I look at the clock. It's already second period. As I step into the hallway I detach from myself, floating up above and behind myself like a trailing balloon. Someone clips my shoulder as he goes by. It's Troy Something from the basketball team. I don't really know him. He glances over his shoulder at my body. I study him as he passes by under me. What's my second period class? I don't know. My body tugs me slowly down the hall towards the cafeteria, where it sits down and watches people come in for Study Hall. Eventually the teacher running the class—I can't remember his name either—approaches me and asks if I have a pass. My body's mouth says it will get one. Then it walks past him back out into the hallway, pulling me along. It goes into the bathroom and I try to remotely will it to splash cold water on its face, to squeeze its eyes shut and breathe, breathe. And then I am back down in myself, looking at myself in the mirror. My plan is to hide here until just before third period. I'll tell the nurse I felt sick, and that's why I wasn't in class. Both of my legs are cold and numb up to my knees. My hands and fingers are now too, even though I've twisted the faucet the wrong way and steam is coming up out of the sink. She'll believe me. I have no doubt. * * * Seventh period Algebra class arrives. Sarah is sitting up front, prepped and ready to interpret, sitting stiffly and radiating tension as usual. The first couple of rows of seats in the class are empty, and though I usually sit two rows back so I'm not right up front, which is where I'm supposed to sit, today I surprise her and just sit down right in front of her. Now there won't be any of our usual bullshit about resting my foot on the back of the desk chair in front of me. I also don't play any of my other usual games with her, like staring into her eyes unceasingly until she looks away, and then at her breastbone while the rest of the room dissolves in fog. Or ignoring her until she gets to the very last thing that was said and then intently memorizing that and asking a question to Mr. Beck about it just to fuck with her and make her wonder whether I'd been paying attention or not. I'm feeling better than I was this morning but I'm too tired for any of that. Of course I don't have the assignment done, so I have nothing to pass back over my shoulder to the person behind me when its time to check the answers. Sarah's expression is a perfect picture of restrained contempt; knife-neutral. I look down at the floor. It's the only place I never look when I'm around her, and it's the only way I can think of to tell her to drop it, to leave me alone for today. Of course it doesn't work. Mr. Beck reads off the answers, and halfway through the process Sarah stops signing. I only slowly become aware of this because her fluttering hands only vaguely register at the limits of my vision as I stare at the floor. But then it's obvious, and she intends for it to be obvious, looking at me coldly and defiantly. "If you're not going to watch," she signs and mouths, "I'm not going to waste my time." My response is to shrug. Part of me wants the shrug to be just as defiant, but I simply don't have the energy to care. Beck must be done with the answers and is now recording scores, because everyone starts handing notebooks forward again, and as he calls their names they read them off. Sarah still isn't signing, isn't spelling the names, so I don't know who is being called on. That's her intent, her own little game. If she doesn't sign anything until he gets to my name, I'll be all the more nervous and flustered; not just because I'm not done, but because I have no way of steeling myself to tell him that, no way of knowing I'm next, to use the time to prepare. Well, fuck her. It's not like I haven't been through this a hundred times. I pointedly turn in my seat and watch Amy, the girl whose last name, Smansky, comes before mine. It's not hard to lip read numbers, and her score is the only thing she's going to say. I'm not able to see Beck, twisting to look at Amy like this, but it won't matter. As soon as she tells him her score she'll look at me, giving me that cue so everyone can avoid the uncomfortable pause. Sure enough, here it comes. "Ninety-eight," she says. A good little brain in her, that one. She studies her algebra. I turn again and look directly at Sarah. "I'm not done," I say loudly, before Beck can call my name. That makes it what, the sixth, seventh assignment in a row now that I haven't turned in? Sarah crosses her arms over her chest, knife neutral-once again. It's the perfect moment to stare at her breastbone. But I don't. I've disconnected again, looking down at myself looking at the floor. * * * Home again, in my room. It's nighttime again, too. I look at the clock and its past ten o'clock. How did I get home from school? I try to remember but there's nothing but a black wall. I lie in bed for awhile trying to figure things out but I'm cold and I have to go to the bathroom and I'm hungry. Plus the overhead light is on, making it too hard to get back to sleep. Since I have to get up to switch it off anyway, I might as well get up. But I'm cold. Straight down to the core. Throwing off the blanket is like stepping naked into the snow and bitter winter air. The sheets are soaked. I've been sweating. I pause for a second to smell but there's no stink of piss. Thank God. No more of that. I strip off my shirt and jeans—even those are soaked with sweat—and wrap my blanket around me. I pull the sheets off the bed again, too. Second set in one day. Even the mattress is damp. My teeth begin chattering uncontrollably as I drag the sheets behind me down the stairs to the bathroom. I'll take them down to the basement after I take a bath and warm up. I have to piss so bad. I can barely get the water running in the bathtub; my hands are shaking so much my fingers won't close. I stand over the toilet with the blanket still wrapped around me. It will make a mess if I hit anything but I'm too cold to shrug it off. Eventually I'm able to go by standing right over the toilet but the blanket brushes against it anyway and a draft comes up underneath it. I grimace and shrug off the chill so I can finish going. The air is like pins and needles on my skin. Almost bad enough to pass out. Finally I make it to the tub. The water is scalding hot. I have to run the cold water just to get the tub warm enough to get into, and sweat drips off my nose from the effort. All I can think is that I must be sick, something is seriously wrong; I've never felt like this before. But finally the water cools down enough to slip in. After a few violent kicks my body finally starts to adjust and warm up. I have to hug my knees for a long time before my teeth will stop rattling like a machine gun. The overhead light is blinding. I force myself to stand up in the tub and reach out to turn it off. As I sit back down again there's a mental flash of the bulb exploding. A flash of memory—of me pointing my rifle up at it and shooting out our driveway light. Then a flash of a silo—the one on our old farm with the stars on it. I'm climbing the ladder outside the silo with my single shot .22. Fifty feet off the ground. The .22 is loaded with a bullet, not birdshot. Dad said I could never load it with bullets. The water in the tub rises up to my cheekbones as I lean backward into it. I shut my eyes and it's suddenly daytime, sunny summer. Flash of a blue shingled barn roof below. I've climbed past it towards the opening in the roof of the silo where the corn blows in from the corn blower. There are almost a dozen pigeons perched up there, ringing the ledge of the silo where the concrete roof meets the walls. Easy shots. You just have to keep your balance. I take aim at the first one, resting it on the ledge of the window while gripping one of the metal rungs of the ladder with my free hand. Boom! An invisible explosion, and one of the pigeons falls. The rest take off, startled, and flap around for a while, but they eventually get tired and have to settle back down on the ledge. Meanwhile I hook my elbow through the rung and reload the rifle with bullets from my pocket. Boom, boom, boom... one by one, down they go. I have to smile a bit—in English class back at school we were learning about idioms: fish in a barrel. Pigeons in a silo. When they're all dead I load the rifle again and climb back down. I even have the hammer pulled back. As I climb my mind is asking me, 'Why are you doing this? That could go off! You could shoot yourself and fall!' But I don't listen. A year ago when Dad gave me the rifle for my birthday, he told me to always point the gun away from people and never look down the barrel, but I didn't listen then, either. I've never pointed it at anyone but I've picked it up barrel-first and looked right down it, even with the hammer cocked back. Even while not knowing if it was loaded or not. It felt unreal every time I did it, like someone else would get shot, or if I shot myself nothing would happen and I would just go in for dinner and nobody would notice. The pigeons are lying dead on the floor of the silo, in between the soda bottles and beer cans. Nobody has used it for years. I don't know why. It makes a great fort! I pick them up and put them in my game bag, which is a pillow sack from the house. Scott has a big leather one that Dad got him for his birthday but he'll never let me use it. He never lets me use anything of his. Champ is in his kennel. He starts bouncing around as soon as he sees me, like he always does. I'm a little wary though because of when he bit me last. Scott's Mustang is nowhere to be seen, but I don't let Champ out right away. Scott could pull into the driveway and I'd never hear him. The only time it's safe to play with him is when Scott is at school or work. But Scott sometimes trains Champ with real birds he shot: pheasants and ducks and stuff. Usually he uses a beanbag to get him to practice fetching and dropping but sometimes Champ will hold on longer to an actual bird. And he can smell them now in the sack at my feet. He sticks his nose toward it, straight as an arrow. I stick my fingers through the wiring, waiting to pull back if he's still mad at me, but he's not. He comes right up and licks my fingers. I scratch him under his chin whispering "Sorry, boy. Sorry." And then when I know he's not going to bite, I take another look around for Scott's Mustang. He's nowhere around. So I go and open the door. Instantly Champ bounds out, racing around the lawn in giant circle eights. I laugh because he's always so excited—he'll do that five more times before he calms down. Still, I call him over more quickly than I otherwise would have. There's not a lot of time. He comes right over and points at the bag again with his nose. But he won't grab at the birds and try to steal them the way some of our other dogs used to do. It was always bad when they did because they almost always tried to do that with chickens, too, and then it was almost impossible to make them stop doing that. But Champ was trained so well he will totally ignore them. I kneel down and hug him. "I'm sorry I slapped you," I tell him, giving him a kiss. "I'm sorry, okay? I didn't mean it." After a while I let him go. He wants to play fetch with the pigeons and normally I would. But not today. All Scott needs is to see one feather in the kennel and that's it. So I let Champ jump around a little more and run in some more of his crazy figure eights, and then it's time to put him back in the kennel. I get the door latched and start walking towards the house with my game sack, looking up the road one more time to make sure Scott isn't around. He's not. I open the outside door to the basement, thinking I'm home free. But Dad is standing there waiting. "Were you using bullets!" he demands. "Give me that rifle!" I'm already starting to cry as I hand it to him. Please don't check it, please don't check it. There's a bullet in there. The hammer is still cocked back. It's amazing but he doesn't even see it. He jams it against the wall and grabs me by the hair. Then he starts dragging me up toward the silo. I can't tell if he's been drinking. He keeps yelling and I can't make it out. But then he pushes me in front of him and I stumble trying to look back at him. He's pointing up at the silo yelling, "I saw you up there! I saw you up there with that rifle!" When we get to the silo he bends over, kicking the dust around with his foot. I have no idea what he's doing until he comes up with a bullet casing, one of the empty ones I ejected from the ladder. They look different from birdshot casings, so he knows now. Even if they're older and not from today, he told me to never use bullets. He holds it up directly in front of me, so I can see it but can't deny it or escape. * * * The bathroom light comes on. It's Scott. "Get out of there," he says. "I gotta go to the bathroom." Before I even know I'm going to do it, I rocket out of the tub in blind rage. He's badly startled and backpedals. "Get out yourself!" I scream at him, tearing the door open and punching him dead in the face. I can't stop screaming. "Get out! Get out! Get out!" He falls over one of the dining room chairs. I grab another and hurl it at him before he can get up. It hits him in the head and he goes over again. "Get out, you fucker!" Over and over. Stupid and unreal. Distantly I recognize that I'm naked, that I'm still hitting him. "Get out!" I see bloody teeth, an eye. I hit him again. "Get out!" Again. "Get out!" Again. But then I'm off balance and he cracks me across the side of the head with something. There's a white bolt of lightning across my eyes, blinding me. Then I'm flying across the dining room, past the table and into the entryway door. I land on the wide cement steps that lead down to the basement. It's surreal but I realize, no, not into the door, through it. I look up and see it hanging off its hinges. Broken glass is still pelting the floor around me. I get up as we lock eyes. He accepts it as I do: I'm going to kill him. I'm going to cross the room and kill him. Mom is in front of me, screaming "Stop!" But I can't stop. Scott reaches out from behind her and tries to pull her out of the way. I grab his throat with both hands and squeeze until I feel bone bend. He starts hitting me, first in anger, then in panic. I smile when I see his expression. "Stop it, Dan!" Mom is screaming. "Stop it, Dan! Stop!" When did she even get home from work? She's still in between us, refusing to be pulled aside, and now she's pushing at me with all her strength. Scott is hammering on the bone of my forearm. In desperation he punches me in the nose. It connects with a crack and an explosion of light and I fall. Mom comes with me, landing on top of me. Scott falls backward as he pulls away. * * * I'm limping toward the house back at our old farm. The rifle is still there, leaning against the wall. Still loaded, still cocked. Where's Dad? Where is anyone? No one around. My right ear stings. I put my hand over it to rub it. When I pull my hand away my fingers are covered with blood. I grab up the rifle and limp down the driveway toward the barn. I don't know what I'm going to do. I just need a direction to walk in and that's the one I pick. Then I'm standing under the driveway light. It's off in the daytime. At night it lights up the whole driveway. You can see it from miles away. I raise the rifle and shoot it out. The bulb and the casing around it explode, crashing around me in a waterfall of glass. I set the rifle against the shed and leave it there, empty bullet casing still in the barrel. The rifle is gone the next day. I look everywhere but for it but can't find it. A new light is up by the end of the week. Nobody says anything to me about the light. The broken glass is gone just like the rifle. * * * I'm sitting up against the dining room wall with a towel over my lap. Destruction everywhere. The table and chairs overturned. The door smashed beyond recognition. Blood dripping down onto my chest. Mom is sitting on the only upright chair in stunned disbelief. Scott is lying on the other side of the room, breathing shallowly, one leg tangled under him. Shakily, I push myself up, using the wall as a brace while trying to keep the towel around me. Mom watches me warily. Scott drapes his arm over his eyes, exhausted. "You get out," My voice says to them both. "You." Then I wait for complete disconnection. It comes quickly, and I drift up over the room, which looks even worse from up there. Pulverized. I watch my hands pull the towel tight, and my body tugs me toward the stairwell. It will go upstairs now to my room and sleep. * * * From my bed, early in the gray morning light, I see Champion in my room sitting in the corner. I reach out for him and he pads quietly over to lick my outstretched hand. "I shouldn't have let you out," I tell him, and move to scratch him under his chin. His fur is wet and ice cold. Little beads of ice are encrusted in the ends of his fur. When I can't look anymore, I close my eyes. When I open them again my room is warmer and brighter. Champ is gone. But my hand, hanging over the edge of my mattress, is cold. I can't feel it. * * * Back in algebra class. Wonder of wonders, I actually have the homework done, but I can't remember doing it and sure as fuck don't understand it. I only earn a sixty-eight on it, though, so I guess I didn't understand it when I did it, either. Mr. Beck records the scores. Bleat, bleat, bleat. The sheep around the room baa out their numbers, and Sarah tells me each one. Eighty-eight. Ninety-six. Seventy-nine. I stare at her hands with near-obsession. Not her eyes or face or breastbone. Just her hands. Then it's Amy Smansky's turn. "One hundred," she says, and Sarah signs this on cue. I'm next. Beck calls my name, and Sarah signs it. I stare at her hands. Distantly Beck says something. Sarah makes my name sign again. I let the moment linger. Then: "I didn't catch that." What? Sarah signs. "Her score," I say, throwing a glance over my shoulder at Amy. "What did you say it was?" One-hundred, Sarah signs. "I didn't catch that." One-hundred percent, Sarah signs again, only slowly, deliberately. Like I'm an idiot. I lean forward, grinning. It hurts my nose to do this. "…I didn't catch that." The whole class is watching us now. Her lips tighten into a white, thin line. Beck says something. I don't take my eyes off Sarah's hands. Tell him your score, she signs. "I didn't catch that." Quietly, Sarah stands up and leaves. I swear I can hear the latch click when she closes the classroom door. Mr. Beck is completely dumbstruck. "Sixty-eight," I tell him. * * * Sarah is waiting for me when the bell rings. As soon as I walk out the door she's right in my face. "You might think you're something special, but you're not," she signs. I don't realize at first she's voicing too because my brain always just sort of kicks in and supplies a voice for her even when she's only signing. But people all around us are looking at us. "Being deaf doesn't get you off the hook. You have to work like anyone else, and if you don't turn it in you get a zero." I can tell she wants to say more, but she's biting it back. The temptation to push it is almost overwhelming, but I don't. "All right, thanks," I tell her, and slip past. * * * Back home again. All the broken furniture has been cleared away. I didn't get a detention. I'm very careful about not pissing Sarah off so obviously that a detention is a clear-cut consequence. I'm hungry and try to eat chicken noodle soup, but this is hard. The skin around my nose is swollen and my jaw hurts. Every time the steam hits my nostrils my eyes water, and every time I brush at the tears, soup dribbles out of my mouth. Nobody is home so I go upstairs. I get Dad's letter out of my desk and lie down on my bed. The last part is what I want to read again: I promise to be better when I get out of here. I sure as hell don't plan on drinking again. I hope you'll give me a chance. I love you and I hope you'll always be my son forever. How long does he have left there, anyway? I look at the calendar. A week and a half. I feel tired, but also too lazy to go and turn off the light. I try to rest my arm over my eyes to block it out but this hurts my nose. The light is just too bright so eventually I do get up to go turn it off. It's only six o'clock and I have homework, including fucking algebra homework, but fuck it. Fuck it. Fuck it. Fuck it all. * * * I have to see Mary again the next day, and right off the bat she says she wants me to talk to the school counselor. And right off the bat I tell her no. "You're not going to have any choice in the matter," she says. "That's what you think. You people have been sending me to counselors since second grade. Let's see how much you get out of me." "Why are you so against this, Dan? We're not your enemies. We're trying to…" "…help me." I finish for her. "Yes." "Best of luck." She slams her hand down on the table suddenly, furiously, and I'm startled by the outburst of frustration despite myself. Mary never gets like this. Sarah teeters of the edge of this kind of shit day in and day out, but Mary never loses her cool. She breathes in slowly for a moment then makes a gesture, an outstretched hand, as if to say, "I'm sorry, pretend that didn't just happen." Then: "Dan, you're beat up six ways from Sunday. What the hell is happening at your house? Or are you fighting with other kids from school or from around here? You're zoned out half the time; you're making your mother crazy. She called me three times now. Three, Dan, since your father went to the clinic. Crying every time. Crying about you. Don't you care about that?" I can't think of anything to say. "You're making Sarah crazy." She pauses at my sudden sharp glare. "All right, fine, you don't like Sarah. That's not working out and I'm sorry about that. But you're also making all of your teachers very concerned, Dan. And you haven't been handing in your homework." "Sorry to be such a pain in the ass." "You are being a pain in the ass!" she yells. I'm unable to keep the surprise off my face. "Oh, stop," she signs, looking at me steadily. "I'm human. Surprise. You're a good kid but you make me nuts too! If I didn't care you wouldn't, but I do. And so does your Mom. I don't pretend to even be able to imagine what your Dad feels and thinks, so I won't go there, but your Mom… that's real pain in her voice when she talks to me, Dan. And as horrible as it is for me to hear her pain, I have to say, count yourself lucky there, kiddo. You'd be amazed at how many parents I've met who don't feel the way she does." "I'm not going to a counselor, Mary." "It's already set up." "I won't talk." "But why? " "Because there's nothing that's going to make any difference. We talk, and am I still in that shithole at home? Yes." I stop and look deliberately around the room. "Am I still in this shithole? Yes! We can talk until we're blue in the face. Nothing's going to change the basic fact." "Well maybe we can get you out of there!" "That's what you said when you told me I was going to Delavan!" She sighs. In exasperation or defeat, I can't tell. But I feel bad for her. "Mary, I have one year left here. One. Then I'm gone. I'll apply to college, I'll go to college. I won't be back if I can help it, believe me. That is what will mean something, not some shrink. Getting out of here, getting away from these people and… and away from what they think of me. Getting away from fucking alcohol. That's what counts. Nothing else." "You won't get into college with the grades you're getting." "All right. I'll get on that, then. But just… just leave it alone, then! Leave me alone for a second! " I'm screaming at her now. They can probably hear me halfway across the school, but I don't care. "Leave me alone so I can think! Shit, the fucking guy has only been gone a couple of weeks and you're all fucking beating on the door up here"—I jam my fingers into my forehead—"trying to get me to talk about this and that and that! Between all of you it's no fucking wonder I'm freaking out! " My voice cracks at the end. Mary stands up and takes a step toward me, hand outstretched. I move away. "Mary? Just… don't touch me. Okay?" She doesn't. * * * I walk home after school. It's cold. I'm cold—but I'm always cold anyway these days. Might as well be cold for a reason. By the time I get there, though, the pins and needles in my feet are almost unbearable. Nobody is home again so I run the bath. Lukewarm first so it won't be such a shock. Then hotter after I slide in. I leave the light off and slowly it gets darker. That's how I know someone has come home, too. When they come through the entryway and turn the light on it will shine through the crack under the door. But nobody comes home. Eventually the only light in the bathroom comes from the driveway lights from the farm across the road and the farm further down. Barely enough to see by, but my eyes have adjusted. I see Champ. He's sitting near the sink watching me, tail thumping lightly on the floor. "Come here, boy," I say, tapping on the side of the tub. He pads over and lies down near enough for me to scratch his head. I can feel the ice beads again, down under his ears near his jaw, and absently try to pluck one out. A flash of memory: Champ swimming frantically under the ice, trying to find a broken place so he can come up for air. I sit slowly up in the tub. Of course Champ isn't on the floor beside me. He's been dead for years. I killed him. * * * I let him out on the day it was snowing. Heavy snow, the kind that would cover up tracks inside of fifteen minutes. That's why I wasn't afraid. Scott would never know. This was back at the old farm, before we moved to Juneau. The bus took the elementary school kids home early because of the snow. But Mom said Scott had to stay the full day because the high school hadn't closed. He wouldn't be home for hours. I practically tore out the door toward Champ's kennel. He went leaping around when he saw me, and I was matching him leap for leap. I undid the lock on his kennel door and we instantly started wrestling in the snow. Then Champ broke away and ran back into the kennel. He came back with a stick. I picked it up from where he dropped it at my feet and threw it toward the lane that led to the pond. He raced off after it, and I raced off after him. Dad always told us to not go on the ice if it wasn't completely frozen over, and it wasn't. You could tell where the ice was thin because the snow was damp and dark in different places. But it seemed solid near the edges of the pond, and I made as sure of this as I could before shoving off and sliding out onto it. It held but it sank a little every time I stepped on it. A lot of water was running onto it from the edges. Champ followed the best he could… he couldn't run very well or stop or turn or do practically anything. So I was careful to throw the stick away from the center of the pond and out onto the land. It was funny to see him try to get purchase on the ice so that he could go after it. He reminded me of Wile E. Coyote from the Saturday roadrunner cartoons, when his legs would go spinning in circles every time he took off running. Champ grabbed the stick and bought it back to me, skidding past me a little ways before he finally came to a stop. I laughed and tried to tackle him so I could wrestle with him again. I landed on his tail and he turned around and bit me. It was on the arm so he didn't even hurt me because my coat was thick. But I was mad anyway, and without thinking I snatched up the stick and threw it, trying to hit him with it. I missed. That's the tragedy of it—if I had hit him he might have run away. But it was just a reflexive bite because he thought I was pulling his tail. He wasn't even mad anymore. When I swung at him he thought I was getting ready to throw the stick again so he could fetch it. He skittered backward to get ready to run after it and that took him even further out of my reach. The stick landed on the center of the pond. Champ went for it immediately. He was already yards away when it landed right on top of one of the dark circles in the ice. He ran to it and at first he didn't break through. But then he tried to turn around and run back. Stupidly I had the impulse to yell " Wait! " though he needed to get off the ice. But I didn't yell anything. My hands went up as if to stop him somehow, or to grab him and pull him back to me. My legs wouldn't move at all. The ice collapsed under him and he dropped straight down into the black water. He surfaced again almost immediately, and swam ahead a few feet to first grab the stick in his mouth before swimming for the solid ice at the edge of the hole. " Get out of there! " I yelled. My feet would move again and I slid forward as close to the edge of the hole as I dared. But I was still more than seven feet away from him when I felt the ice start cracking under my weight. I immediately backed up until the ice seemed solid again and dropped down onto my stomach so my weight would be spread out. Either because of Champ's splashing or because water had come up through the new cracks, the surface of the ice was slick with freezing water. Champ couldn't get any traction. He would dig his claws in and try to get his forelegs up but would just slide back in. I inched forward on my belly until water started noticeably running over the ice again. But I was still too far away. I had the idea of pushing backwards again until I could safely kneel on the ice, and then I took my coat off and crawled forward again. I wasn't going to try to use it as a rope—not only because it was stupid to think he could grab on and I could pull him out but because I was still too far away to do even that—but because I thought that if I could get the coat to the edge of the ice he might be able to dig in on that better with his paws. But the coat only slid forward halfway between us, and that was too far to retrieve it and try again. So all I could do was lay there until it got too cold. Eventually I pushed backward again, getting to my knees and wrapping my arms around myself to try to keep warm. Champ was paddling quickly around in the hole, though he didn't seem panicked or tired or anything. But all at once he let go of the stick and vanished under the ice. At first I thought he was starting to drown but then I could make out his figure swimming around under the ice trying to find a place to break through. "Oh, good idea!" I shouted, urging him forward. But after a few seconds I realized it wasn't going to work. The only place thin enough to break through was out at the center of the pond, and if he did he'd have the same trouble getting out. I ran back to the edge of the pond looking for a rock or something to start breaking through there. But there was nothing. Champ swam around under the ice more while I ran out to where I judged the water was no more than two feet deep, and then began jumping up and down as hard as I could, hoping to break through. The ice was too thick. I looked towards the hole and Champ still hadn't reappeared. I lost track of him under the ice. I moved out to where it was maybe three feet deep… if I went through at least I would hit the bottom and be able to stand up. I jumped up and stomped down as hard as I could. Nothing. Again. Still nothing. I looked over at the hole and Champ had resurfaced. He was pawing at the edge of the ice again, but much more slowly. He swam around for a few minutes while I watched, trying to figure out what to do. He tried to pull himself out again but he couldn't hoist himself out even half as far as he did before. I was getting ready to jump up again when the ice broke under me. Actually a giant piece of it broke away in front of me and rose out of the water like a see-saw. I sank downward on the opposite end. It happened so quickly I fell backward on my butt on the hard ice at the rim of the hole I had just made. But my feet plunged through, right up to my knees. I quickly pushed myself backward, and then reached into the water and pushed at the giant piece of broken ice under the water until it was partially out of the way of the surface of the hole. It took all my strength. I couldn't move it far but maybe he could get through. "Champ!" I yelled, smacking my hand into the water so he would see there was a new hole. "Swim over here, boy! Come on! He saw me but didn't try to swim under the ice. He had his paws up on the edge of the hole he was in and rested his nose on them, breathing shallowly. He was visibly shivering now, and I was shivering pretty badly too. "Come on!" I smacked the water again. "Come over here!" The cold was violent. I had to squeeze my eyes and fists shut to try to push it back from me. It felt like thousands of pins being shoved into my body all at once. When I opened my eyes again Champ had vanished. I forced myself to my knees and then stood up. I couldn't see him anywhere. Frantically I tried to watch both holes at once to see where he would surface. But he didn't. I had no way of knowing how long it was but it was too long to hold your breath. I kept hoping that maybe he made some sort of desperate lunge and broke through near the edge of the pond somewhere else, but I couldn't see him anywhere. I couldn't see him through the ice because the snow was still coming down and it was getting windier and the powder was blowing around. My teeth were chattering so hard I thought they would shatter. I crouched down and plunged my hand under the surface of the water one more time to see if I could grab him by blind chance but it didn't work. He wasn't there. And then I was up and running toward home. I almost ran across the pond to try to save time but stopped after a few steps forward, realizing dumbly that I'd break through too. The wind was like jagged glass flaying off my skin. My clothes were completely soaked through and I couldn't scrunch up my toes as I ran to try to keep them warm. I could barely get my hands closed. When I got home I was sobbing to Mom that Champ broke through the ice. She completely panicked when she saw me and made me get in the tub. I was crying and screaming the whole time. It felt like liquid fire, like ice cold gasoline set ablaze. I kept screaming about Champ and how she had to check his kennel, maybe he got out and ran home and he'd be cold! She shushed me and told me she would but stayed with me instead; dunking a towel repeatedly in the hot water and wrapping it around my shoulders, and making sure it stayed extra hot by pouring a kettle full of hot water over it periodically. Finally I stopped shivering and she brought me dry clothes, and only after I was dressed and peering anxiously out the window toward his kennel did she go out and check. He hadn't come home. Hours later Scott's car pulled into the driveway. Mom told me to go upstairs. She was already pulling on her coat to go outside and meet him. I went upstairs and watched them out the window. He was standing next to his car. She held his face in her hands, forcing him to look at her, but he soon pulled away. Then she tried to grab his jacket but he angrily wrenched free and ran toward Champ's kennel. Then he came back toward her. She tried to say something but, panicked now, he ran back to the kennel again, and then into the barn, calling out through cupped hands. Mom waited, but he didn't come back, so she came into the house. She came up to my room right away and opened my door. "Get into bed under the covers and stay there," she said. " Don't come downstairs. " I didn't get into bed but I didn't leave my room, either. At first it was how she said it, her warning. But maybe twenty minutes later I could partially hear and completely feel Scott come back into the house. He came up the stairs at what must have been three at a time. Mom was waiting for him right outside my door. I was startled because she must have been out there waiting for him the whole time, and I had no idea. Then I heard them both yelling. No way could I make out what they were saying but the fact that I could hear it at all meant it was loud. Scott either kicked or pounded on my door once. It shook but didn't open. One of my Star Wars pictures on the opposite wall fell off its nail and hit the floor. Then more yelling, and pounding footsteps up the hallway. Another crash… maybe a door slamming. Mom came in quickly and shut the door behind her and saw me standing there, unmoving. " Get into bed! " she hissed. She was crying and her housecoat was torn at the shoulder. I could feel the veins pounding in my neck. She grabbed me by the arm and pulled me toward the bed, pulled back the covers, and pushed me in. Then she sat down next to me, never taking her eyes off the door. Sometime later Scott pounded on the door again and pushed it open. He was angry and crying too, and that was the most frightening thing of all. I had never seen him cry before. Mom spoke sternly and ordered him out of the room. I had my hand against her back and could feel her muscles tense as she steeled herself. Later that evening Mom brought up hot chicken noodle soup to my room. She set it down on the nightstand table, sat down on the bed next to me, and said Champ was hit by a car. He had never been in the pond, never broken through the ice. I had never let him out. He had gotten out himself, ran into the road, and was hit. Scott wasn't mad at me. He was upset because she told the driver to take the body away, but she thought it would upset Scott more to see it. At the door she paused to say I was just sick from being out in the cold. There was no need to say anything to Father about being outside so long. He already knew everything. Late that night, Scott's hand slammed into my throat, shocking me out of sleep. " I know you did it! " he was screaming, hysterical and enraged. In the light of the lamppost coming in from outside, I could barely make him out. He squeezed until bright red spots appeared on the ceiling above him. They rotated around the edges of my field of vision as I struggled and kicked. A warm rush of urine flooded from between my legs just before I started to black out. Then all at once he was gone. I lay there gasping, sweating and shaking, wondering if Dad dragged him away, or if Scott released me under his own power. * * * And now I am awake again in my bed. No memory of having gotten out of the tub. And the bed is wet with piss again. My throat is tight and burning, as if this just happened to me moments instead of years ago. You'd think I'd be relieved to realize, to even suspect, that I'm back in the present, that nothing just happened. That this was all… a reliving of the experience. That night is years behind me, and I'm safe, I'm safe. I really am safe. But I'm not.
*Editor's Note: The story published here is a continuation of Heuer's story "Trauma (1)", which was published in Breath and Shadow, but it is also meant to be a stand-alone story. The first of the Daniel Tallerman stories by this author, entitled "Listening for the Same Thing", was published in The Deaf Way II Anthology, a Literary Collection by Deaf and Hard of Hearing Writers. The second story, entitled "On the Bottom", is the prequel of "Listening for the Same Thing" and was published by the Tactile Mind Press. The Trauma stories are meant to chronologically follow these first two stories
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