The spread he finally found was at the dead end of a dirt road at the very edge of town. He bought it from Mrs. Varnick when her husband died. It was cheap for a reason. Seven acres without a good spot to build a house. There were outcroppings of bedrock and no easy place to lay pipes. Pine trees everywhere. It took my dad a year to clear brush and boulders and dig a well, two more to get a foundation in, but then he met Irene and the boy and stopped caring about making sure we got “our piece of the pie.” The foundation filled in like a swimming pool, drawing swarms of mosquitoes and a humongous snapping turtle. Then my dad stopped coming home altogether.

I try to write for almost an hour, but the only good rhyme for lies is skies, and I don’t want to give my dad the satisfaction. I hear him snoring from the bedroom, this honk-sheeeee noise that sounds like a cartoon. His Carhartt work jacket is wadded up in the booth and I know his truck keys and wallet will be in the inside pocket. I put his jacket on and decide to go stock up on groceries.

He’s parked all the way at the end of the driveway. Truck turned to the road, backed in to ensure an easy escape. He’s always acted guilty like that, even when you can’t point to anything specific he’s done wrong.

Since it’s his gas, I drive out to the Big M in Harristown instead of shopping at the Nice N Easy in Little River. I change all the presets on his radio. Irene has him listening to Christian rock and Evangelical talk show crap. He used to like The Doors. He listened to Floyd. He used to say Bob Dylan was God.