True Colors

“Yep. I sent that new hand over for bute, too.”

“Good.” She went into the house and cooked dinner for him and the hands, leaving the meal in the oven on low heat. The three men ate catch-as-catch-can these days; Vivi Ann cooked in the farmhouse, but rarely sat down to eat with the men. Her life was up in the cottage these days, with Noah. When she was done, she returned to the porch.

She was about to walk past her father when he said, “I hear Noah got in another fight today.”

“The busybody express,” she said, irritated. “They tell you who started it?”

The past was between them now, as visible as the wide white planks at their feet.

“You know who started it.”

“Your dinner is in the oven. Tell Ronny to wash his dishes this time.”

“Yep.”

She walked out across the parking lot and driveway (paved since 2003) and stopped at the paddock behind the barn. Renegade whinnied at her approach and hobbled toward her, his knobby, arthritic knees popping at each step.

“Hey, boy.” She rubbed his graying muzzle and scratched behind his twitching ears. It flashed through her mind suddenly: Does he still dream of riding Renegade?

Pushing the thought aside, she headed up toward her house. Renegade followed on his side of the fencing, limping and struggling until the start of the hill, where he gave up and stood there, watching her go.

She was careful not to look back at him as she went up the final rise to her cottage. When she opened the door, she knew that Noah was home. A pounding, pulsing beat of music rattled the knotty pine walls. She drew in a deep breath and released it slowly. Lord knew anger wouldn’t aid her now.

At his bedroom door, she paused and knocked. It was impossible to hear an answer above the music, so she opened the door and went inside.

His room was long and narrow, a recent addition to the cabin. Posters of bands covered his walls—Godsmack, Nine Inch Nails, Korn, Metallica. He had his own computer in the corner and a television hooked up to an Xbox.

Maybe that was the problem; she’d given him too much and asked too little in return. But she was always trying to make up for what he’d lost.

He was sitting on his unmade bed, with a wireless controller in his hand, making some animated biker-looking chick kick a guy in the balls.

“We need to talk,” she said to his back.

When he didn’t respond, she went over to the TV and turned it off.

“Damn it, Mom. I was just about to beat that level.”

“Don’t swear at me.”

He gave her a sullen look. “If language is such a big deal, maybe you and your sisters could start setting a better example.”

“You aren’t going to turn this around,” she said. “Not this time. What was the fight about?”

“Gee, lemme think. Global warming?”

“Noah . . .”

“What do you think it was about? What’s it always about? That puke-for-brains Engstrom called me Injun boy and his assface friends started doing a rain dance. So I punched him out.”

Vivi Ann sat down beside him. “I would have wanted to clean his pimply clock, too.”

He glanced at her through the curtain of his greasy hair.

Vivi Ann knew how desperate he was for someone to take his side, to be his friend and support his actions. It broke her heart that she couldn’t fill that role. Once, she’d thought they’d be best friends forever; that youthful naïveté was no more. He was a fatherless boy; he had to have a mother who made the rules. “Every time you hit someone, you prove them right.”

“So what? Maybe I am just like my old man.” He threw his wireless remote at the wall. “I hate this town.”

“Noah—”