Rob Scott - Lessek_s Key

That’s right, John Elway. He was the standout superstar at Stanford, and he does not want to play in Baltimore. He has told his agent. He has told the media. He won’t go to Baltimore, and we are going to get him right here in Denver. I tell you, this kid has an arm like a god, and if we can get him here with the Broncos -

Ten o’clock. No, later. They do sports later, almost at the end. So it has to be almost ten-thirty. Hannah sat up and was surprised to find her mother’s old coverlet, the ratty one with the frayed edges, thrown over her. She had been sleeping longer than she thought. Normally, I wake up when she covers me out here. She curled back beneath the blanket, falling into the indentation she had left in the pillows, two pillows, and watched news clips of college football teams battling their way across a gridiron. She guessed that the focus of the report was a blond man, the quarterback from the team in red. He’s cute. He can play here. That’s okay with me.

The Sorensons’ living room was located just off the kitchen, next to the area they used as a dining room for company. When it was just the three of them, they always ate their meals in the kitchenette, where a small table, easy to set and easy to clean, provided a pleasant place for family dinners and quick breakfasts before school. The dining room had a longer wooden table, conservative chairs, and a cabinet stacked nearly to overflowing with decorative china. A centrepiece of fake flowers adorned the table year round, their perpetually bright colours illuminated for dinner by candles in the candleholders Hannah’s mother had bought one summer on a trip to Boston. When no one was visiting, the dining room remained dark, the door closed.

Tonight, light spilled through that doorway. Hannah craned her neck, not wanting to actually move to see who might be in there at this hour – she wished she could see around corners, a cool superhero power. Then she heard them, above the noise of the television news (more blather about John Elwood or whoever he was), her parents were sitting in the dining room talking – no, arguing. This can’t be good. Hannah tried to go back to sleep. They only sit in there when it’s really bad. She closed her eyes, certain if she kept them shut long enough she would drift off to sleep, but it was no good; closing her eyes just sharpened her hearing.

To get to her own room meant passing the open door – they would see her, and they would be angry; why was she listening, this was none of her business. Hannah pressed her head down into the pillows and ground her teeth, and focused on the news, listening to everything the sports commentator was saying about John Elwood. That wasn’t his name. But they had already gone to another commercial. Sports were done for the night.

This time it was dog food. What is a gravy train, anyway? It was no use; Hannah could hear every word.

‘But she loves you. Doesn’t that make any difference to you?’ Jennifer Sorenson was pleading with her husband. Hannah didn’t know who she was.

‘I don’t give a fuck about her.’

Slurring. He’s been drinking again.

‘But she’s left her husband; she’s waiting for you. Are you going to tell her that you’re planning to live here with us, or go to her? Either way, Gary, it’s up to you, but you can’t keep doing this to us – to Hannah or to me.’

‘Just shut the fuck up about Hannah!’ Gary Sorenson was yelling now. There was no drowning this out.

‘I’m not going to cry, damn it. You are not going to make me cry again, Gary, you’re not. But you have to decide. We love you – I love you, Gary, I still do, and Hannah idolises you, but you can’t take advantage of us this way. Not me, and not your daughter – no more.’ Jennifer, despite her promise, started crying.

Hannah rolled over on the couch, covering her ears with the pillows, trying not to hear her mother saying, ‘I don’t care about the women, Gary, because I believe you still love me, but you have to stop with the booze – it’s going to kill you. You know that.’

Hannah heard the squeal of a chair being pushed back and her father shouting, ‘I told you to shut the fuck up! Do you not understand shut the fuck up? I will drink if I want to, and I will-’ The chair slammed against the dining room wall, rattling the porcelain. ‘-I will fucking go and fucking do what I want to!’

‘Gary, I’ll make it easy for you: just go. She loves you; she left her family for you – why, I don’t- Well, anyway, I’ll take Hannah, and we’ll go to Bryan’s. You can have three days, Gary, and then I want you gone, out of here.’ Hannah heard her mother walk out of the dining room to the master bedroom. The door slammed.

What are you doing? Come and take it back, Mom, you don’t want him to leave. I don’t want him to leave. Where is he going? I don’t want to go to Uncle Bryan’s; I want to stay here. Mom! Take it back now! He’ll leave if you don’t come out here and tell him you’re sorry.

She could sense her father’s hesitation. He was probably standing beside the table, lighting another cigarette, or maybe pouring another glass of whatever was in the bottle he kept in the cabinet by the phone. Hannah was too terrified to move, so she pulled the blanket up beneath her neck and tucked in the sides until she was wrapped entirely in old knotted wool.

Hannah was seven years old and she had known for a while something was wrong. Her father was gone too much; when it was normal for dads to come home, her dad often didn’t. Sometimes he came back two or three days later, arriving at seven o’clock in the morning, a funny time to get home. He would call into work and tell them he was sick, then sleep much of the day. By dinner time he was up and dressed. After a fight with her mom, he would be gone again.

But that doesn’t mean I want him to leave for ever. Hannah used a corner of the blanket to wipe her face – then she felt a tug, gentle at first, like a friend gripping her hand and pulling her across the playground at school. But there was no one with her now.

What is that?

It came again, a tug on her wrist.

From the dining room, she heard her father lift the chair and slide it back into place beneath the table. He would sit there for the rest of the night, drinking and smoking until the sun came up. Then he would take a shower and leave for work. Some nights, he cooked eggs, adding whatever leftovers were in the refrigerator to his omelettes: green beans, chopped turkey, bits of hot dog, anything. The smell always lingered until Mom got up and sprayed the house. Some mornings Hannah would see him in the dining room asleep on his folded arms, an ashtray overflowing with cigarette butts and grey ash at one elbow.

There was a tug again. This time the little girl’s wrist actually jumped up from the blanket, as if an invisible someone was lifting it. ‘What is that? Who is doing that?’ Hannah whispered, waving the offending wrist in front of her face, trying to see in the darkness if someone had sneaked in and tied a string around her arm.

She heard the dog pad in from the kitchen, his paws tapping out his approach on the linoleum. He was a big dog, like a wolf, and he climbed on the couch to curl up across Hannah’s feet. As she felt the warmth of his fur, Hannah drifted back to sleep, wondering why she couldn’t remember when they got a dog.

In the background the television was on. The boisterously loud refrain of a commercial woke Hannah from where she had fallen asleep. Her eyes widened in an effort to stay awake.

This time, the tugging came more frequently.

Churn woke to the snow tickling his nose and cheeks. The world, muted and out of focus, gradually exposed itself. Although he could feel it snowing, he wasn’t cold; rather, it was uncomfortably warm. Churn couldn’t recall the last time he had seen snow south of the Great Pragan Range. He was dimly aware that his body had been broken – he had so many injuries, there was no better way to describe it. A tugging sensation came from his left, as if he had been gripped by an invisible spectre, and Churn struggled to turn his head.