II

My house feels cramped, muggy, and gray. The grungy sensation of illness pervades the back hall between the bedrooms and bathroom, which is very dark, it's walls seemingly perspiring with wood stove heat. It feels like February, maybe March, and my dad, John, has been sick for a long time.

Dad lies on the tarnished brass four poster my parents have had my entire life, with a large peach colored comforter of the discount variety covering a beautiful red wool blanket, the kind miners and trappers have used as long as Scandinavians have been in Minnesota. The bed has a strange smell, and the covers seem damp and uninviting.

For the first time I don't feel like crawling in (always from the foot, underneath, wiggling up between my parents to the top like a garden snake).

Mom has been taking care of him while working at Anderson Fabrics, where I attend pre-school, in addition to keeping up the camp. I'm pacing around between the kitchen and the hall, half following my mom, half peeking in on my dad, who seems entirely unapproachable in his state.

Suddenly there is a commotion at the front of the house, in the doorway that leads from the four season porch into the kitchen. A large man is forcing his way in past my mom. He seems huge and dirty, and also carries the sharp and heady smell of two stroke engine oil and what I now know to be alcohol, probably cheap whiskey.

He pushes his way past me, forcing my retreat into the corner of the hall opposite my parent's bedroom door, and approaches my dad in his bed. I can hear him slurring something, and my dad's muffled response, both inaudible.

Eventually the man heeds my mom's screaming and tugging on his shirt, and makes his way toward the door. Following them through the house, I can see her at the front door from my vantage on the porch. She grabs the man by the oily back of his woolen collar while holding him out over the steps. Lastly, she places her foot on his backend, and splat! He lands in the slushy mud of our front path.