Chapter 6: Beaver

Megan had given me until Friday, and by Thursday I still had no answer.

Withdraw my complaint and apologize, or she would tell the board what Shane did, in his own words.

I did not know what Shane had done, and the only person who did was not picking up.

So I drove to Beaver, because I couldn't think of anywhere else to go.

My dad's hardware store sat on the corner of Third Street between a pharmacy and a closed bank.

He was behind the counter cutting a key for a woman with a dog under her arm.

He took one look at my face and said, "Go sit in the back."

I sat on a bucket of fence staples in the stockroom for forty minutes and listened to him sell hinges.

When the bell on the door went quiet, he came in with two cups of coffee and sat on a paint can across from me.

"Okay," he said. "Is she pregnant?"

"What? No."

"Did you hit someone?"

"No."

"Did someone hit you?"

"Dad."

"I'm trying to rule things out. Your mother used to say the face you make is the same one for everything."

I told him.

Not all of it, but the dinner, and what Megan said, and the Friday deadline, and that Shane had said yes.

My dad listened with his elbows on his knees.

When I finished, he was quiet for a while.

"Well," he said. "I never liked her handshake."

"You shook her hand once."

"That's enough."

I laughed. It came out wet, and he let me have it.

Then he asked, "What did Shane say, exactly?"

"That it happened. That I should be mad at him. That he doesn't get to explain."

"That's not what a man says when he's proud of something."

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