Chapter One

Junior: Shaw Philip Skogman, Jr., age 17

Saturday, March 26, 2011

Midville, Minnesota

Junior ran faster, his bare feet churning, sinking into the dirt drive, already muddy from three days of rain and now topped with three inches of heavy, wet, late-March snow. The grainy flakes whirled around him, pelting his skin, nearly blinding him. He didn’t feel the cold yet. Where was he headed? Where could he go in his Fruit-of-the-Loom white t-shirt and tighty-whiteys at seven on a Saturday morning? His dad might come after him if he headed toward his boyfriend Beany’s house.

The image of his father with the double-barrel shotgun bursting in on him and Beany in Junior’s bed pulsed with every heartbeat. Beany’s words as Junior raced toward the door still echoed. “Run, Forrest! Run!” The same words his mother screamed at his track meets. She loved the movie Forrest Gump. He knew Beany escaped down the back stairs as Junior flew down the front ones. Beany would be well on his way home. He was a fast runner, too. At least he had a place to run to for sanctuary.

Damn Beany. Sneaking into Junior’s bedroom in the early morning, or middle of the night, still dressed, crawling into Junior’s bed, ignoring the twin guest bed in the room. The bed his mother moved in over ten years ago when Beany started showing up in the middle of the night, coming in the unlocked back door, slipping up the narrow back stairway and into Junior’s room without making a sound.

What caused his father to lose his marbles? Completely lose them. It’s not like Beany never slept over before.

“Right, Junior. Duck right.”

His mother’s scream, sounding from the front porch, broke his thoughts. Made his heart thump harder. How could he be thinking about his bedroom and Beany when his father, at this very second, must have the shotgun aimed at him?

He dodged right, closer to the overgrown shrubs that lined the quarter-mile driveway. He heard the shotgun bellow and felt sharp stings on his left buttock, along the back of his upper leg. He ran faster, tried to crouch lower. Birdshot. At least it was birdshot. It smarted, but he was far enough away to realize it couldn’t go deep. Must have caught the edge of the pattern. He dodged into the middle of the drive and quickly back to the right. Did that several times. Why? He wasn’t sure. Maybe zig-zagging would make it harder for his dad to focus on a moving target. He knew what was in the other barrel of the gun. A slug. That would more than sting if it hit him. It would kill him. His dad was a good shot.

His mother’s scream again tore through the wet, thick air. No words. It was followed by the shotgun blasting again and his dad bellowing. Was he in pain? Did he still have the gun? Did he have more shells? Junior threw himself into the ditch and lay in the cold sloppy mud and snow. Hearing nothing, no sound of a thud or a slug whistling by, he stood, turned and took several cautious steps toward the house. His mother’s voice floated toward him through the heavy swirling snow. It was less shrill, but still urgent, her don’t mess with me voice. “You’re safe for now. Keep running. Don’t come home.”

What the hell did that mean? You’re safe, keep running, but don’t come home. He turned, lengthened his stride and settled into the eight-hundred-meter pace he ran for track. He sensed the front of his soaked t-shirt invading his nighttime warmth, but still, he didn’t feel the cold. He stayed to the right of the drive, on the edge, the grass slippery beneath the snow. At 127th Street, he wanted to turn left, run one quarter mile to Milliken Road and go left a half mile to Beany’s house. However, he figured if his dad was still capable, he might jump into his truck and head toward Beany’s house down their Milliken Road driveway. If he shot at him once, wouldn’t he shoot again? Junior remembered his father’s words in the bedroom as he aimed the shotgun at him, “You’re not my son.” What did that mean?

Junior turned right, onto 127th Street. A half mile further was the small Lutheran church and cemetery where someone might be around and let him in. Why didn’t he hear his dad’s diesel pickup starting up? His dad must have ignored Beany who was probably home by now. Would he or his mom call nine-one-one? Would his dad show up at Beany’s looking for him?

His feet began to sense the cold and the occasional small stone. He was glad the road was mostly dirt, not all gravel. How long did it take to get frostbite? He was approaching the fence of the cemetery when he heard a vehicle slowly splashing behind him. He glanced back. It wasn’t his dad’s pickup. Junior slowed to a walk as the old pickup eased to a stop beside him. He glanced in and saw Jens Hanson, motioning for him to climb in. There was a tarp covering something in the backend. It was shaped like a casket. Junior opened the door and slid into the warmth. He grabbed the blanket on the seat and pulled it around him like it was the last one on earth.