August in Sterling feels like a cruel kind of trap. The air outside is heavy and green with a false sort of warmth, but it never reaches past the skin. Down by the Kenai River, the water moves too fast, dark and heavy with silver salmon pushing upstream.
This is the time of year when he packs up and leaves for days at a time, heading down toward the village where the drinking never really stops. Everyone knows when he is gone because the house finally stops holding its breath. The floorboards don’t creak with that familiar, heavy weight. My mother almost looks like herself again for a little while, and my brothers can run outside without watching the tree line.
But the days always run out.
I know the exact signs of when he is coming back up the dirt road. The sun stays high for a long time this late in the summer, but the light doesn’t feel golden anymore. It feels sharp. He stumbles back from the river with that hollow, ruined look in his eyes, smelling like stale beer and wet grass. That is when the noise starts. That is when the house turns into a place where nobody is safe.
My mother tries to lock the back door, but locks don’t mean much when someone is determined to break through what is already fractured. My brothers crawl under the old iron bed in the back room, pulling the quilts tight over their heads so they won’t have to hear the shouting. I stay by the window, watching the road, waiting for the moment the screen door slams.
You learn how to become small in a house like this. You learn how to swallow your own breath and pray that the morning comes faster than he does.
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