By Edward Michael Supranowicz
It was an old clapboard two-story farmhouse. The nearest neighbor was about a mile away in any direction. When his mother and stepfather had another child, Jake was given an upstairs bedroom. It was private, but cold in winter. It got even colder when his parents closed the stairway door to keep the heat from the coal stove downstairs.
Jake’s mother had wanted a new life with her new husband, so tried to get rid of all reminders of her old life, part of which was two children from different men. Her mother did accept Jake’s older half-sister, but would not accept Jake because she had only raised daughters and really could not handle two children at her age.
Because the farmhouse was so isolated and Jake’s mother’s husband sometimes worked the night shift, a pistol was hidden above a kitchen cabinet. Jake’s mother told him where it was and never to touch it or move it. It was the country, and guns were more tools than weapons, so Jake never gave it a thought.
2.
When or how the dreams started, Jake was uncertain, but they did recur most nights. Jake was standing on the landing at the top of the stairs. His parents would open the door at the bottom and tell him to jump, that they would catch him. Jake was hesitant, but his parents stretched out their arms and smiled reassuringly.
Jake jumped, and they would move away at the last second. He always jumped, and they always moved away. He always woke up before he would have crashed onto the floor, but always worried that he would not wake up.
3.
Family is important, especially when one is uncertain whether he really has one. Jake would visit his mother and stepfather in the city, a city where houses crowd around each other. Every now and then he would slip her a twenty to use for whatever she pleased, money she usually spent on Jake’s half-siblings.
Conversation was casual today, as always. Jake avoided anything resembling confrontation. But like a sudden storm, his mother stared at him, her eyes glazed over, in a coquettish voice said, “ I have a gun hidden in the kitchen. I can get to it in two seconds no matter where I am standing.”
Jake visually counted the steps to the doorway.
* * *
Edward Michael Supranowicz is the grandson of Irish and Russian/Ukranian immigrants. He grew up on a small farm in Appalachia. He has a grad background in painting and printmaking. Some of his artwork has recently or will soon appear in Fish Food, Streetlight, Another Chicago Magazine, The Door is a Jar, The Phoenix, and other journals. Edward is also a published poet who has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize multiple times.