By Hugh Willard
My brother Lee and I spent the first morning of our family vacation in Woolwine, Virginia, catching grasshoppers for a grand fishing adventure we had planned for later that day. Lee had just turned sixteen and had been behind the wheel for the drive from North Carolina the day before. Blessed relief that Dad was in the passenger seat for a change.
“Hold my beer, Son,” he’d said to me, telling Lee to pull over.
I reached towards the front seat to take the Budweiser. Dad got out of the car and peed on the front tire. He wobbled and smiled on the shoulder of Highway 58, singing Roger Miller’s “King of the Road.” His free hand kept time on the side of his beer gut. Thankfully, we were nowhere near home where someone I knew might see him.
I was never completely at ease around Dad. None of us were. His moving back after five years away had come as a complete surprise. He said he wanted to be more involved in raising us kids. But I wanted no part of this. As far as I knew, my dad had four gears: on the way to drunk; drunk; sober and caring; and sober and fierce. He was mocking and boastful in the first two, loving in the third, and to be avoided in the rage-fueled fourth. Most of his time was spent in gears one, two, and four.
The unwritten rules of our household were clear and unwavering. Question nothing, ever. Never speak of Dad’s drinking or his violent tendencies with his children. Come home immediately when Dad’s piercing whistle arced across the neighborhood. And with Dad around, all of us kids had jobs to do. Lee’s latest job was to drive when Dad was drinking. My fourteen-year-old sister Pam’s job was to watch over our seven-year-old bratty sister, Beth. My job at age thirteen, the same one I’d had for years, was to do Gomer Pyle impersonations and sing for Mom, trying to distract her and pull out a smile. And to avoid Dad whenever possible.
Grasshoppers secured, Lee and I headed down the one-mile trail to the river. He had gotten his temporary fishing license at the local convenience store and was excited to try out his new rod and reel. I was the keeper of the small glass Folger’s coffee jar filled with these pinging green creatures.
“There was a bat in the cabin last night?” he asked me. “I didn’t hear anything till this morning.”
“Yeah. I was reading in bed, and Mom started yelling. I went after it with a broom, and I got it.” I left out the part where I felt repulsed and sorry that I’d killed the intruder. Lee and I got along fine, but in an extension of the family rules, neither of us shared our vulnerabilities.
“What did Dad do?” he asked.
“Nothing. I’m guessing he didn’t wake up.”
I cut a sideways glance at Lee. He turned back to fumble with the fishing line in his reel. Nothing else needed to be said. This was our first family vacation since Dad had moved back in, and I think we were both hoping he’d be more relaxed, maybe stay stuck in that first gear.
“How’s this supposed to work again?” I asked my brother, handing him the wriggling grasshopper from my balled fist. I was used to fishing with the earthworms we dug out of the ground.
“I’ll run the hook through one of the legs, so it will stay alive and keep trying to fly away,” Lee answered.
Easier said than done, I thought.
We negotiated our way over the rocks to the middle of the knee-deep, slow-flowing river. He hooked the one I gave him and cast his line.
Catching fish in the Smith River proved even more difficult than getting one grasshopper at a time from the jar without losing the rest. After an hour, we’d caught and released a grand total of two small brown trout. It was getting close to time for us to head back when Lee asked for one more grasshopper.
Paying close attention to avoid escapes, I was slowly unscrewing the perforated lid when I slipped on an algae-covered rock. Falling backwards with the jar in hand, my instincts to brace my fall took over. Hand and jar smashed in unison against the rock. The water was cold, and I stood up quickly, seeing the deep red blood gushing from my left hand. Reflexively, I jammed it back in the water, as if I might get a do-over, a chance to lift my unmarred hand out of the river the second time. Bringing it back up with more blood flowing, I snapped to my senses. I pressed my right hand hard against the left and raised the joined pair together over my head. That would help staunch the bleeding.
“Lee, we gotta go,” I said, sounding calmer than I felt.
Lee looked at my arm covered in blood and nodded. Neither of us panicked. We were experts in the art of remaining collected in the face of crisis. Being thrown against the wall or pulled down the hallway by our hair before being strapped with our father’s belt had a way of fostering focus.
“You doing all right?” Lee checked in with me occasionally on the hike back.
“Yeah, I’m fine.”
I thought about how Dad would react. I didn’t think I’d be in trouble for this. Although I was a frequent flier in the ER, this was an accident and not the result of a foolish stunt. Still, I could never be sure. If Dad got mad, I hoped Lee wouldn’t catch collateral fire.
As the cabin came into view, Lee ran ahead to tell our parents what had happened. By the time I crested the last hill, Dad was there, leaning against the car. He wasn’t angry. I noticed this and breathed deep. Dad was genuinely concerned. I’d seen him summon care in place of mockery before, but I knew better than to rely on this happening.
“Lee said you slipped on a rock?” he asked me a few minutes into the ride to the clinic.
“Yeah. I was holding the jar of grasshoppers. It happened really fast. I didn’t have time to let go of the jar.”
“You sure you’re okay? You’ve gotta be in a lot of pain.”
“I’m okay. You know I’m kinda used to this.” I gave him a pressed half-grin.
I released my right hand and saw two large gashes, one being dangerously close to the main wrist vein. The bleeding had reduced to a light seepage. The crisis was over. Now, we just had to make it to the clinic without Dad driving us off the side of the mountain. I’d caught the familiar stench of beer when he had gotten into the car. The clinic was in the nearest town, about a thirty-minute drive on a switchback-heavy road. I thought of that one grasshopper that sat stone-still at the bottom of the jar while all about him popped and ricocheted in a fretful frenzy.
I returned my right hand to its appointed duty and stared out the window at the now dusky mountainside silhouettes. I didn’t want my father to be more distracted with conversation.
Dad hummed “King of the Road,” filling the silence as we got closer to the town.
At the clinic, we were the only ones in the dimly lit waiting area. After what felt like a desolate eternity, the doctor strode up the hallway and invited us back.
“The good news is I don’t see any glass shards in these cuts. The bad news is these cuts are so deep that there is no good way to apply anesthesia. I’ll do this as quickly as I can.”
Seven stitches in the hand and five just above the wrist, and we were out the door.
On the way back, I noticed Dad was nodding off.
“I think this might be the year for the Rams,” I said, loud enough to rouse him. “Although the Cowboys are gonna be good again.” Football would keep Dad talking and awake.
It was after eleven o’clock when Mom greeted us at the front door, her face wearing the heavy worry I’d seen far too many times.
“Are you okay?” she asked me.
“Everything’s fine,” Dad declared.
He jostled my shoulder, slapped me a bit too hard on the back, and smiled. “Goodnight, Son.”
“Are you sure you’re okay?” my mother asked me again.
“I’m fine, Mom,” I said. But I think we both knew that wasn’t true.
Hugh Willard is a long-toothed psychotherapist, writer, and musician living and working in Apex, North Carolina. His first nonfiction book, Finding Beauty in the Gray: Stories and Verse From the Third Age, was published by Warren Publishing, Inc. in November 2023. He is currently pursuing his MFA in Creative Nonfiction with Bay Path University.