If it hadn't been for an unfortunate semi-tractor trailer collision on Interstate 27 south of the city, Hatchet never would have taken the detour. If it hadn't been for choking noon traffic aggravated to drudgery by the first significant ice storm of the season, Hatchet never would have seen the school that stood a quarter of a mile into a vast prairie on the outskirts of town. But he did both of those things and he couldn’t resist making the turn onto the private road that curved past a car dealership and a fire station, emptying into the almost empty parking lot of the St. Peter’s Catholic School. His daughter sat at a desk somewhere inside, working through a page of mathematics or coloring between the lines on Baby Jesus' sleeping face. Hatchet parked his truck and strained through the falling powder to scan the sterile shape of the building topped with a huge crucifix. He wondered why it wasn't besmirched with the blood these Christians were always touting as the reason for their faith.
As he watched the shifting body of falling snow, he pondered his reasons for sitting there. He remembered the cold tomb of his marriage and the desperate isolation of living in the fold of the Kellie family in that house on that block in that arctic storm of regret and insignificance. Then the omniscient pressure he had so long ago escaped discovered him again in the cab of his truck and he sensed it crushing the aluminum shell, shattering the windows and bursting the fluid filled hoses and he could smell the fuel spilling from crimping lines and taste the heat from the friction in the atoms of the bending steel frame. The monster had returned with renewed vigor, intent on destroying him, staunch to remove him from the stage of influence once and for all. His seeping tears grew cold before they ever left his eyes, slowing their collapse along his reddened cheeks.
He wondered if only Allison had been a degree or two more supportive or empathetic, would he have stayed with her? Would he have been capable of fathering Olivia in the manner he had always envisioned? Had his blind ambition to lash out at the world brought him any closer to mending the coils severed between him and his daughter? Did she think about him in any light except the negatives Allison used to shape her pliable mind? But she must be happy, he thought. For all her faults, Allison could be nothing but a perfect mother to Olivia.
A hollow tapping at his window startled him. A short Hispanic fellow with a graying mustache stood shivering and shielding his face from the slicing wind with the upturned collar of his heavy down security jacket. Hatchet cracked the window. You got business here, sir? As Hatchet stared at the man through a reflection of himself in the window and saw his own beard and unwashed shoulder length hair, he felt he must look an aversion to the parent of any child who might attend this institution. My daughter goes to school here, yes. What's your daughter's name, sir? Hatchet's first instinct to tell the man that his daughter's name was none of his concern faded. Olivia, he said, Olivia Hatchet. The little man had begun working his body up and down on his toes. And what's your name? I'm Marcus Hatchet. The guard lifted a small radio to his face and spoke a few quiet words into the speaker. Hatchet's annoyance overrode his judgment. And what's your name? Hatchet asked him. I'm the security. That's a funny name. Sir? Look, I just came to see how bad the roads are today and if maybe I needed to pick her up early. The guard pressed the speaker to his ear, listened and then nodded his head. Sir, I'm gonna have to ask you to leave the property. Oh yeah? why is that? I'm just gonna have to ask you to leave. Hatchet glared at him. So what are you waiting for? Hatchet said. Pardon me, sir? Ask me to leave. Although the guard's expression did not alter, he did appear to be getting cold. Mr. Hatchet, you need to leave. I thought you were gonna ask me. Please, leave the premises, Mr. Hatchet. That's a good boy.
Hatchet started the engine and revved it a few times, tracking the guard as he shuffled back to his waiting security vehicle and got inside. They traded looks and Hatchet slung the rear end of his truck across the icy blacktop, shedding the vicious pressure in furious spirals of powdery precipitation jetting from the tires. He sped back up the private road and split the dealership and fire station, giving the dash a couple half strength jabs with his balled fist. At the traffic light, he palmed his face and tried to compose himself. He took a moment to gaze into the snow and the exhaust gurgling from the pipes of the cars as they crept across his field of vision.
That was pretty stupid of you, dummy, he told himself as the protected arrow appeared and he arched his way across the intersection through the emetic luminescence of the traffic light. Hatchet meditated in the hypnotic flow of traffic, the elegant whips of snow playing against the windshield and decided his disassociation from civilization was partly to blame for his behavior. I might have to remind myself to be nice, he said aloud just as a sedan tore the bumper from a truck in the intersection below a blinking red signal.
As he watched the shifting body of falling snow, he pondered his reasons for sitting there. He remembered the cold tomb of his marriage and the desperate isolation of living in the fold of the Kellie family in that house on that block in that arctic storm of regret and insignificance. Then the omniscient pressure he had so long ago escaped discovered him again in the cab of his truck and he sensed it crushing the aluminum shell, shattering the windows and bursting the fluid filled hoses and he could smell the fuel spilling from crimping lines and taste the heat from the friction in the atoms of the bending steel frame. The monster had returned with renewed vigor, intent on destroying him, staunch to remove him from the stage of influence once and for all. His seeping tears grew cold before they ever left his eyes, slowing their collapse along his reddened cheeks.
He wondered if only Allison had been a degree or two more supportive or empathetic, would he have stayed with her? Would he have been capable of fathering Olivia in the manner he had always envisioned? Had his blind ambition to lash out at the world brought him any closer to mending the coils severed between him and his daughter? Did she think about him in any light except the negatives Allison used to shape her pliable mind? But she must be happy, he thought. For all her faults, Allison could be nothing but a perfect mother to Olivia.
A hollow tapping at his window startled him. A short Hispanic fellow with a graying mustache stood shivering and shielding his face from the slicing wind with the upturned collar of his heavy down security jacket. Hatchet cracked the window. You got business here, sir? As Hatchet stared at the man through a reflection of himself in the window and saw his own beard and unwashed shoulder length hair, he felt he must look an aversion to the parent of any child who might attend this institution. My daughter goes to school here, yes. What's your daughter's name, sir? Hatchet's first instinct to tell the man that his daughter's name was none of his concern faded. Olivia, he said, Olivia Hatchet. The little man had begun working his body up and down on his toes. And what's your name? I'm Marcus Hatchet. The guard lifted a small radio to his face and spoke a few quiet words into the speaker. Hatchet's annoyance overrode his judgment. And what's your name? Hatchet asked him. I'm the security. That's a funny name. Sir? Look, I just came to see how bad the roads are today and if maybe I needed to pick her up early. The guard pressed the speaker to his ear, listened and then nodded his head. Sir, I'm gonna have to ask you to leave the property. Oh yeah? why is that? I'm just gonna have to ask you to leave. Hatchet glared at him. So what are you waiting for? Hatchet said. Pardon me, sir? Ask me to leave. Although the guard's expression did not alter, he did appear to be getting cold. Mr. Hatchet, you need to leave. I thought you were gonna ask me. Please, leave the premises, Mr. Hatchet. That's a good boy.
Hatchet started the engine and revved it a few times, tracking the guard as he shuffled back to his waiting security vehicle and got inside. They traded looks and Hatchet slung the rear end of his truck across the icy blacktop, shedding the vicious pressure in furious spirals of powdery precipitation jetting from the tires. He sped back up the private road and split the dealership and fire station, giving the dash a couple half strength jabs with his balled fist. At the traffic light, he palmed his face and tried to compose himself. He took a moment to gaze into the snow and the exhaust gurgling from the pipes of the cars as they crept across his field of vision.
That was pretty stupid of you, dummy, he told himself as the protected arrow appeared and he arched his way across the intersection through the emetic luminescence of the traffic light. Hatchet meditated in the hypnotic flow of traffic, the elegant whips of snow playing against the windshield and decided his disassociation from civilization was partly to blame for his behavior. I might have to remind myself to be nice, he said aloud just as a sedan tore the bumper from a truck in the intersection below a blinking red signal.
Edit 12.14.2018