Chapter One:
Bobby Twist was too much like his father.
It was no fault of his grandfather's, who had done his very best to pamper and punish any bit of Jack "Rodeo" Twist out of his son. It may have been the fault of his mother, who hadn't been around enough to instill a love of adding machines and math to counteract the wildness in Bobby. But mostly, it was his fault. His grins, rides on the tractor, the full, crushing hugs he'd give him before leaving on one of his trips up North, as though he may never see him again… It added up to one powerful love. By the time the rumors started going around, it was too late. Bobby was Jack's son, completely, and so their "falling out," as his mother called it, was downright horrible.
It happened when he was sixteen, the day after his birthday. His grandfather had bought him a car— not a broken down old thing like Jimmy Bell had, but a new car, cherry red, like his mother's old Pontiac. His lip had curled up as he saw it (he smirked just like Lureen, Jack had always said), imagining what Jimmy Bell would have to say.
He would never have expected just what Jimmy had to say.
They'd gotten into it just after the lunch bell had rang. Bobby had taken Sandy Black out to the parking lot to show her his car, and Jimmy slinked after them, angry at being shown up by a boy a year younger, who wasn't even on the football team.
"New car, Twist?"
"Yep," he'd replied, grinning ear to ear, arm slung around Sandy's shoulders.
"Guess we know who got this for you. Bet you wish your granddaddy was your father instead of that lowlife excuse you've got for one."
"Don't you say nothing about my dad, Jimmy. Least both my parents are still 'round."
He shouldn't have said it; Bobby wasn't cruel, and he knew it was a sore topic. Jimmy's mom had run off with another man a year before and Jimmy was stuck with his dad, who was a right bastard.
Jimmy looked just like him as he smiled. "Damn, boy, I'd rather have no parents at all than have one who was queer."
It was such a ridiculous remark that Bobby almost laughed, or would have had it not been such an insult. "My dad's no queer."
"That's not what my pop says. Why you think he goes off to Mexico? For the beer? There's lots of little fags down there to roll over for your daddy."
He didn't remember hitting Jimmy. His hand came away sore, blood smeared on the knuckles. Sandy let out a cry; Jimmy was still smiling, a little blood dripping from his nose and coloring his pale lips.
"He even tried it in town once, they say. Down in the red light district. Must have got real desperate, huh, Bobby? Didn't find what he was looking for. Prob'ly settled for your mom that night, huh? Turned her over and—"
He'd thrown himself at him, slamming his body against Jimmy and both of them fell to the ground. Jimmy was laughing until Bobby slammed his fist into his mouth, the ring on his finger splitting the lip. Then he stopped and started to fight back in earnest. But Bobby was Jack Twist's son, and no son of a rodeo cowboy lost a fight, even if it was just on the hard packed dirt parking lot of a Childress County high school. Bobby had the upper hand before long, and kicked Jimmy for good measure before pushing a wide-eyed Sandy away from his car, getting in, and peeling away. He needed to get home.
His father was rarely home for lunch. A salesman did his work over meals, but with the icy season coming in, there weren't any new models to pitch and so Jack was sprawled on the couch, greasy chicken leg in hand, cold beer on the coffee table, eyes glued to the TV set. The rodeo, of course. A man's sport, a man's man. Bobby smiled.
Jack looked up as he shut the door. "Bobby, what are you doing home so…" He trailed off, threw the chicken leg back onto his plate. "Wait, you okay, son?"
"I'm fine, Dad," he said, but Jack was already dragging him to the kitchen. He grabbed a paper towel, ran it under a little water and held it up to his son's nose. "You get in a fight?"
"Jimmy Bell is a fucking idiot."
"Language, boy." Then he smiled, lowered the paper towel and threw it into the wastebasket. "I never liked him. At least tell me you won."
"A fair bet. Left him in the dust."
"What happened?"
It was too ridiculous to ask, talk about. But he shrugged and asked, "Dad, you ever step out on mom?"
"Cheat on Lureen? What's that got to do with Jimmy?" he asked, then shook his head, understanding. "That boy accuse me of something?" Bobby nodded and Jack grinned again, clapped him on the shoulder. "You don't have to defend your old dad. But I'm glad you did. But don't let me catch you fighting again, you hear? I don't want anything happening to you."
There was pride in his face despite the warning, a man's pride for his son, almost a man himself. Bobby chuckled. "It won't happen again. It was ridiculous anyway. He's a real idiot, Jimmy Bell, calling you a queer."
He wished he had been looking down, anywhere but at his father, because there was no mistaking that look. Guilt. His eyes, already so big, widened almost imperceptibly; the hand on Bobby's shoulder let up a little, then crushed down harder than ever.
And Bobby knew.
"It's not true," he whispered.
"Bobby—"
"You have a wife, a kid… It's not true. Queers don't have kids or wives or go hunting in the mountains three times a year…"
He stopped, because there it was again, the eyes. His stomach fell, felt like it was turning inside out, and it was a good thing he hadn't eaten because he would be throwing it up about now…
"All this time? You disappear for days and that's why? And Mexico? That true too?"
"Bobby—" Jack said, and reached out.
Bobby jerked away. "Don't touch me."
"I'm your father, don't talk to me like that!"
"You're disgusting!" Bobby screamed, and it was the last thing he ever said to his father.
Two weeks later, two weeks of sulking and glowering and not speaking at dinner— when he came home for dinner— his father was dead.
He knew the official story, of course, but he wasn't deaf to the rumors like he had been. He heard exactly what they were saying about Jack Twist in the halls of his high school, the streets of the town.
After all, it's not everyday they get to kill a fag in Childress County.
It was the first week of October when he died. Thanksgiving was horrible without him; they watched football, Granddad was oddly silent, and Bobby almost threw up, remembering old fights over the television when he was younger.
Christmas wasn't much better, not with his mother grumbling under her breath about falling sales and his grandfather's gleeful return as the patriarch of the Twist apartment. It seemed that two months of silence about Bobby's good-for-nothing father was enough respect for the dead.
Bobby himself wasn't sure how he felt. It was disgusting, wasn't it, what Jack was? And all those years pretending? He wasn't a good man. He would never have done that if he was a good man. But his father had swept him up into his arms when he was a child, taken him to the rodeo (which Bobby had never liked, though he would never have admitted it to Jack), kissed his mother under the mistletoe every Christmas, a passionate kiss, fueled by Christmas spirit— and spirits. That wasn't the man who had driven to Mexico to… It made Bobby sick just thinking about it. What did he even know about his father?
It was the day after Christmas that Bobby received his first Christmas card from his grandparents— the Twists, lonesome souls from Wyoming. The card was faded, like someone had bought it years before and kept it packed away. It had a picture of the baby Jesus, swaddled and in his manger, the North Star above him. Inside was a crumpled ten-dollar bill and a short paragraph in shaky script. It said something about being sorry about his father and sorry for never having sent a card before, and finished with a wan expression of hope for a visit someday.
He wondered if they knew about their son. Knew what he did. Surely no one who would send a card with the baby Jesus would have harbored the knowledge of such… transgressions. Sin, plain and simple. He shoved the card back in its envelope and it took up residence in the back of his sock drawer.
It was May before he came upon it again. He cocked his head to the side, staring at the little Jesus and the shaky script. He looked away, caught his reflection in the mirror above his bureau. There were tears in his eyes and he didn't even know why. He looked away, back down at the envelope and the address scrawled on it. And Bobby Twist made his decision.
He was going to Lightning Flats.