Lassen County Kathleen J. Woods Johnny resolved to steal his sister home before dusk. He threw a backpack in his truck and kissed their mother goodbye. Be careful, she said. And don’t kill him. The road from Susanville to Eagle Lake was clear, familiar in its winding, narrowing roads. October was not a time for tourists or hobby fishermen. Only those without much else to do would set out on the lake now, as the cold crept in, willing to bob for hours before a bite. It was their father’s favorite time of year. Johnny remembered how his legs had numbed as he sat on the fishing boat’s metal bench, watching the cooler empty. He’d drunk one can of the cheap beer that flattened halfway though, sneering as he sipped. His father had laughed and tossed him another can. Johnny fiddled with the truck’s radio. Styx battled against the mountain static, and Johnny let them. It was better than country. Better than nothing. He tapped his fingers against the steering wheel and dreamt, for a moment, of robbing a gas station and continuing on, turning for Las Vegas and driving east and east and east. He was nearly done with high school anyway. What more could he learn in seven months? He laughed to himself. There were no gas stations in these woods. Next, in another year, the Navy. He would travel then. When their father had called about the camping trip, Johnny had been ready to refuse him. He hadn’t seen the man in a year. But he heard April in the background. She’d begged for the phone. “I expect you to join your family, son. Here’s your sister,” their father had grunted. “I really think you should come camping
with us,” April said. “What, you miss me?” Johnny said. “Wait, he’s going outside,” she whispered. “You have to come get me.” “Is he hurting you?” “It’s the same,” April said. “How’s Cheyenne?” Johnny said. “Jesus. The dog is fine. Aren’t you even worried about me?” Their father’s husky was beautiful. As a boy, Johnny would sit by the dog on the back porch and stroke her ears. She’d lunge at anyone coming for him. She’d go for the throat. And their father knew it. Sometimes Johnny lay awake at night picturing his father smashing the dog’s head in with a shovel. “I don’t want to see him.” “You and Mom were right, okay? All Reno’s got is prostitutes and strippers. He keeps joking that in two years, I can start my career,” April said. Johnny imagined her standing at the phone, wrapping the coil around her arm as they had as children, pretending to mummify their fingers. April had left in a fit. Their mother had forbidden her to spend a weekend in Reno with a boy. She packed a backpack and announced that she and the boy were going, and she wasn’t coming back. She’d already talked to her daddy, and at least he wanted her to be happy. He understood that she was an adult. She’d screamed as their mother started to cry and bit Johnny’s arm as he held it across the door. The boy was waiting outside. Johnny started after her, but their mother told him to let her go. The car tore down the street. Their mother had 24
