So I had some writer's block on The Butterfly Effect, and next thing you know, I'm 5k into a prequel where I make Mr. C a drug dealer. It happens.

Big Warning for this one: there's a lot of period-appropriate racism here towards Native Americans, even from some otherwise sympathetic characters who should definitely know better, and even from the Native American character in question... that isn't shared by the author. Unfortunately, this isn't Leave It to Beaver, and I didn't feel that I could write about a mixed-race couple in the 1950's/60's without mentioning alcoholism, terrible living conditions on reservations, police brutality, residential schools, etc.

Also... this is just about the Curtis family's lowest point. It's onwards and upwards from here, I promise.

Well, a man has two reasons for things that he does

The first one is pride and the second one is love

— She Floated Away, Hüsker Dü

September 9th, 1958

"Stay still, Jasmine." Mama ominously cocked the brush above my head. "You look a right mess, with all those twigs caught up in your hair."

"But it hurts," I whined, squirming under her firm grip on my shoulder. She always had to pin me down real good. "Mama. You don't gotta tug."

"If I don't tug, I reckon birds are gonna be nestin' in there soon."

"I wish you'd quit fussin' at that girl's hair," Daddy said from the armchair, before I could tell Mama that I'd rather have a big ol' bunch of blue jays than put up with this. He had a shiny brown bottle in his hand, something that he'd been holding a lot lately. "You got no idea how to take care of it, anyway."

"You know, I only carried four children, but half the time it feels as though I've got five." Mama's voice was sharp, like she was cutting through glass. It sounded that way whenever Daddy came home later and later and later, walking funny and talking slow. "You have somethin' to say, spit it out already. I ain't in the mood for your head games."

"This place ain't no charity— there's enough of our own kids to feed as is." He took another long swig out of the bottle; Mama's eyes narrowed into needle-thin slits, watching him. "That goddamn brother of yours— how long is it gonna be this time? A month? Two? Six?"

"As long as it takes for Gene to get his house in order." She went back to my tangled curls. "He's my brother. I'm not gonna let him starve on the street."

"Every time I turn around to spit, he's got his hand out, beggin' us for cash." He stood up and started pacing back and forth, his giant feet leaving indents in the carpet. "The man's thirty-five years old, Frannie. When is he gonna find a job already? And I don't mean stitchin' moccasins, or whatever the hell he does all day."

"You know damn well why he can't hold down a job." Mama's strokes got even longer and more vicious, but the twisty feeling in my stomach made me keep quiet. "He's sick."

"Then he needs to be in the bin with the other headcases."

"The only reason you don't like him is 'cause you think he's invading your territory," Mama snapped back. "Out of all the things goin' wrong on that reservation, I think my brother stitchin' moccasins and paintin' and smokin' peyote is about rock bottom on anyone's list of concerns."

"What'd Uncle Gene do?" I asked, scrunching my brow up in confusion. "Is he not supposed to live with Nana Liluye?"

Daddy strode over to me and picked me right up with his big arms, leading me back to the armchair. "Sweetheart, you wanna know why I really don't like Uncle Gene?" he asked, scooping me into his lap and smoothing my hair down— I was kind of old for it, but I didn't protest. He didn't do that so much anymore.

"Yeah."

"When my mama was a little girl, not much older than you, she got sent to a boarding school to try to make her act white," he said. "They gave her a new English name there, and dressed her in English clothes, and when she talked Mescalero, they drove needles through her tongue." He stuck his tongue out and jabbed at it, for emphasis. "'Cause they wanted to kill the Indian and save the man. And then when I was in school, we had white teachers who beat us hard enough to break our bones if we looked at 'em cross-eyed."

"Darrel, for God's sake—" Mama started, but Daddy held up a hand to stop her. I tried to imagine needles in my mouth, but then I didn't like imagining it so much anymore.

"So it makes me madder'n heck that Uncle Gene decided to pack up and move to the rez to go find himself, when he couldn't even come to his own sister's wedding. He ain't got no idea what kind of pain he's strolled into, and he don't care. He just thinks we're props for his art, or whatever he's doin' over there. Probably gettin' high all day."

"Your daddy's just madder'n heck 'cause he told Uncle Gene we'd have a bigger house by now, and no dice," Mama said nastily, pulling me out of his reach. "Don't let him pretend this is all about civil rights."

"Is that so, princess."

My stomach did another twist when he said that. He called Mama 'princess' sometimes when he brought home flowers, though I didn't know why— maybe because she had long, pretty blonde hair like one. But now his voice was cold and hard, not teasing at all. "Ain't nothin' ever gonna be good enough for you, is it? You married a fixer-upper, just like this here house, and he ain't goin' along with your fixes."

"Put that bottle down with our daughter in the room," Mama snapped, and I could feel her hands shaking. "I won't have her exposed to any more of your goddamn drinkin'. It's a dirty sin."

"Honey, if you call this drinkin', you shoulda married Andy Thomas from down the street like Gene an' your whole family said, not an Injun." He took another long, deliberate sip, smirking as he swallowed. "My buddy Ice Tray, goin' through two bottles of whiskey a night, now that's drinkin'—"

"Your buddy Ice Tray? The one who sells crank?"

Now Daddy looked like Soda the time Mama caught him jumping off the garage roof with a sheet for a cape, pretending to be Superman. An inch away from losing his grip and falling.

"Jasmine, go to bed," Mama said, her eyes fixed on Daddy. "Right now."

"But Mama—" I didn't know what crank was, or what Daddy had done, but I sure knew I couldn't sleep now.

"You've got until the count of three, missy," she said, hands on her hips. Then her face softened. "I'll be up in a minute to say goodnight. Daddy and I need to have a conversation that ain't for little pitchers."

I hated being called a little pitcher with big ears. I turned to Daddy for sympathy, sympathy he usually gave when Mama made me go to bed, but he was staring straight out the living room window, not at me.

"Whatcha snoopin' for?" Darry asked as he tried to get past me into the kitchen, but I stuck my finger up to my lips and shushed him. "Mom an' Dad talking 'bout your Christmas presents? I'll just tell you already— you're gettin' a switch and a lump of coal under the tree this year."

"Mama an' Daddy are fightin', so hush up," I whispered, my ear against the door. "I wanna know what about. They won't lemme hear nothin'."

The smirk vanished, and Darry elbowed me out of the way, hard— I put up a decent struggle, but I was no match for him, and he got the keyhole, while I was stuck with the thick ol' door. All I could hear were snatches, grabbed out of thin air.

"— thought kickin' you out the first time was enough, but you'll never change, you bum—"

"— didn't hear you complainin' when the drug cash bought you a new refrigerator, did I?"

"— you wanna wake up to the kids' throats slit? You think it's just gonna be the couch cushions slashed open next time?"

"— go ask your rich-ass daddy for the rent money, then, 'cause I dunno how any man's s'pposed to keep up with what this family needs, much less everything you want—"

"What's goin' on?" Soda said, coming out of the room he shared with Darry. His hair was sticking up in a messy cowlick, like Daddy's. "What are y'all standin' here for?"

"Another fight, stupid," Darry whispered, inching closer to me so that Soda could have a place. "Shut up already. I can't hear nothin' with you two breathin' so loud."

"I'll be damned if my sons grow up just like you," Mama suddenly yelled, clear as day. Well, that solved that problem. "No good hoods. And I'll be damned if my daughter grows up to marry a man just like you. I told you as much ten years ago."

"Don't tell me," Daddy said with a loud, harsh laugh. "No, don't tell me. You found someone else, didn't you? Is he handsome? Is he tall? He fuck you better than I do, Fran?"

The slap echoed louder than a gunshot, and I recoiled from the door like I was the one who'd been hit. "Get out."

"You fucking bitch," he said with pure venom, but I didn't hear him hit her back. "If you want me gone so bad, you don't have to say it twice."

He didn't stop to take anything, not even a duffel bag. One moment, he was in the living room, and the next, the front door had slammed shut behind him and I heard his truck revving up.

Darry, Soda, and I couldn't speak. Not a single word. We couldn't move, either, just stayed suspended in place until Mama swung the door open.

She wasn't crying. Her face was hard and set as she looked down at us, like fossils I'd seen pictures of in science class. "I catch y'all eavesdroppin' on grown folk talk again, there's gonna be trouble. You hear me?"

"I hate you," Soda burst out, fearless despite her anger. He was glaring at her like she'd just cancelled Christmas and his birthday all in one go, his arms folded across his chest. "Why'd you make Dad leave? I don't want him to go nowhere!"

She stepped forward, an inch away from snapping all over him, and then her entire body slackened. "I will do anything to keep you kids safe," she said, putting her hands on his shoulders. "Even if it's from your own father. You'll thank me later." Her grip tightened. "Now listen to your mother and behave yourself."

"Where'd Daddy leave to?" I asked, though I was afraid to hear the answer. Gracie Mathews— her daddy drove off in his pickup truck one day for smokes and never came home, just like that. Never even sent a postcard. "What happened? Mama!"

"He has to... go on a little trip, baby," she said, with a painfully false smile. "That's all."

"No, he ain't," I insisted, frustrated tears pooling along my bottom lash line. "You're lyin'! Is he comin' back?"

"Go to bed— all of you," she said, cradling her head in her hands, even though I couldn't imagine brushing my teeth and pulling on my nightie at a time like this. "Just— Darry, put 'em to bed. I can't deal with this. Mama needs a glass of whiskey, stat."

She walked off without another word, and I soon heard the clink of a cabinet opening. I wanted to run after her, but Darry had me around the waist and was leading me and Soda away before I could. He still hadn't said anything. Just looked at Mom's back like he'd been punched in the stomach, hard.

"Darry? You asleep?"

"Obviously not," he said like a smartass, blearily sitting up in bed. "But you should be."

"I know you know why Daddy left," I said, trying real hard to keep my voice from wobbling as I turned his desk lamp on. Soda was hiding in the bathroom cabinet and didn't want to come out, leaving his bed empty. "So just tell me already."

He flopped backwards onto his mattress again, staring straight up at the ceiling. "You're too little to understand. You an' Soda an' Pony. That's why Mom didn't tell you nothin'."

"Nuh-uh." I hated when people said that, and Darry said that all the darn time— he thought he was so smart, just because he was in eighth grade now. "Try me."

"Dad's sellin' crank and dope and stuff— pills people take to make 'em happy," he said flatly. "He told Mom he'd stopped a long time ago, when I was younger than Pony, but he's back on it again."

"Why?"

"'Cause it makes a lot of money." He threw his Little League baseball up at the ceiling, but didn't bother to catch it. "A lot more than roofin' houses when you're Injun, that's for sure."

"So why's it so bad?" I asked, trying to put the pieces together, but it felt like solving this tricky circle puzzle Pony had gotten for his last birthday, with no corners. "If they make people happy and make Daddy a lot of money."

He was silent for a long time, so long that I started shifting from foot to foot. "This kid in sixth grade, Timmy Shepard— his dad got shot last month sellin' them. They had to close the casket at his funeral 'cause his body was so messed up."

My eyes filled with tears again, but I blinked them back and bit my lip. I was a big girl, and you just didn't cry in front of Darry. "I don't want Daddy to die!"

"Yeah. Me neither." He gave up on playing catch with himself and pulled the covers back over his head. "You'd better not tell Pony an' Soda 'bout this. Or Mama. She'll kill me. She don't want y'all worryin'." He peeked out from under the blanket again. "Go to bed already, Christ. She's gonna come check on you any minute now."

When I stumbled back into my room, Pony was just waking up— he had a real early bedtime still, 7:30, and he'd managed to sleep through the whole thing. "What's goin' on?" Pony asked, rubbing his eyes. "You're s'pposed to be in bed. It's nine."

"Daddy's on a trip," I said, and sucked in a deep breath as I climbed under my Cinderella bedspread. "Dunno for how long."

His face lit up with a smile, showing his missing front teeth. "To Muskogee? Is he gonna bring us back presents?"

No, dummy, it ain't really a trip, I wanted to tell him. But Darry had trusted me with a secret for the first time ever, and he'd told me not to say a word about it. Not one single lousy syllable. "Sure. I bet. He always brings us back presents, right?"

After that, he went right back to sleep, but I couldn't. I was way too old to believe in silly stuff like monsters under the bed, but sometimes I still did, and Daddy came and peeked for me and said there were only little ones, just about big enough to nibble my toes. Now I guess it was open season on all of Jasmine Curtis, without him to scare them off.

Maybe Daddy was the king of the monsters, and that was why he scared the other ones away. Maybe that was why Mama made him leave.

I feel the need to not make anyone have to Google this— crank is basically slang for homemade crystal meth (which I don't believe is technically illegal, at this point in time, so it's just about the least objectionable drug Darrel is selling here), and dope is referring to heroin. Saving people's search histories here, because mine is already shot.