scars challenge
Approximately 600 words; thank you to nifra_idril for quick beta.
*****
The thing about Dad's visits was how *disorienting* they were. That disorientation was all out of proportion to their lengths, in fact -- Dad never stayed long, after all, and rarely as long as he promised to.
But, still, the house was so different when he was there. Grandmother doted on him, smiling and humming to herself and making his favorite dishes; Granddad didn't say much, but he seemed pleased, too, and he and Dad smoked their pipes in front of the fireplace and played chess before bed.
It was more than just that sort of thing, though, that Ben found so odd. It was as if the whole cabin was suddenly loud, and full, and expansive, where normally it was just neat and orderly and calm.
That sort of difference was hard to get used to. And by the time you did, Dad would be back on the trail, and everything would be back to normal, anyway.
Ben frowned down at his plate and chewed slowly on his biscuit as the grown-ups talked.
"Thank you, Mother," Dad said as Grandmother refilled his waterglass.
"That awful scratch on your arm, Bob," Grandmother said, sitting back down across the table. "I hope you've been taking care of yourself." She reached across for the potatoes, and Ben pushed them closer.
"Ah," Dad said, sounding pleased. He tapped his index finger against his chin. "There's a story behind that one, you know. Old Hank MacPherson. Blind as a bat, and he must be sixty or seventy now if he's a day. Finished up his twenty year sentence in Yellowknife a couple of months ago, stabbed a man and disappeared from civilization. Buck and I tracked him down. Finally found him 1500 miles away, living on the side of a mountain, trying to write his memoirs. Hadn't realized his pen had run out of ink." Dad shook his head. "I got this when we arrested him. Surprisingly agile for a blind man. Quick, too."
Ben stared at him, his mouth slightly agape, and Dad gave him a sharp look.
"Don't sit there looking slackjawed, Benton."
Ben could feel himself begin to flush. He looked back down at his plate.
"I see you've got a war injury of your own here, eh?" Dad said, a little lighter. Ben forced himself to keep still -- no flinching, no reacting -- as Dad reached out for his shoulder.
"Ben came home with that a few days ago," Grandmother said. There was a faint note of disapproval in her voice, but Ben had already heard all about it.
"Ah, well. We make sacrifices and all that. The line of duty, I expect, right, son?" Dad smiled towards him in vaguely fond manner, before his concentration drifted back to his food.
"It was an otter," Ben said softly to his plate.
"Hmm?"
"An otter," Ben said more loudly, raising his head to look at Dad straight on. "One of the boys had a dead otter. He swung and hit me with it. I expect there'll be a scar and everything."
Dad looked at him for a moment with a quizzical expression, and then said "Hmm" again to himself and took another forkful of his dinner.
Ben set his silverware down, picked his napkin and wiped his face. "Granddad, Grandmother, may I be excused from the table? I'm a little tired."
They both looked a little disappointed, but they let him go, and Ben fled to his bedroom to hide among all his books. Maybe he could stay there till it was safe to come out again.
*****
The thing about Dad's visits was how *disorienting* they were. That disorientation was all out of proportion to their lengths, in fact -- Dad never stayed long, after all, and rarely as long as he promised to.
But, still, the house was so different when he was there. Grandmother doted on him, smiling and humming to herself and making his favorite dishes; Granddad didn't say much, but he seemed pleased, too, and he and Dad smoked their pipes in front of the fireplace and played chess before bed.
It was more than just that sort of thing, though, that Ben found so odd. It was as if the whole cabin was suddenly loud, and full, and expansive, where normally it was just neat and orderly and calm.
That sort of difference was hard to get used to. And by the time you did, Dad would be back on the trail, and everything would be back to normal, anyway.
Ben frowned down at his plate and chewed slowly on his biscuit as the grown-ups talked.
"Thank you, Mother," Dad said as Grandmother refilled his waterglass.
"That awful scratch on your arm, Bob," Grandmother said, sitting back down across the table. "I hope you've been taking care of yourself." She reached across for the potatoes, and Ben pushed them closer.
"Ah," Dad said, sounding pleased. He tapped his index finger against his chin. "There's a story behind that one, you know. Old Hank MacPherson. Blind as a bat, and he must be sixty or seventy now if he's a day. Finished up his twenty year sentence in Yellowknife a couple of months ago, stabbed a man and disappeared from civilization. Buck and I tracked him down. Finally found him 1500 miles away, living on the side of a mountain, trying to write his memoirs. Hadn't realized his pen had run out of ink." Dad shook his head. "I got this when we arrested him. Surprisingly agile for a blind man. Quick, too."
Ben stared at him, his mouth slightly agape, and Dad gave him a sharp look.
"Don't sit there looking slackjawed, Benton."
Ben could feel himself begin to flush. He looked back down at his plate.
"I see you've got a war injury of your own here, eh?" Dad said, a little lighter. Ben forced himself to keep still -- no flinching, no reacting -- as Dad reached out for his shoulder.
"Ben came home with that a few days ago," Grandmother said. There was a faint note of disapproval in her voice, but Ben had already heard all about it.
"Ah, well. We make sacrifices and all that. The line of duty, I expect, right, son?" Dad smiled towards him in vaguely fond manner, before his concentration drifted back to his food.
"It was an otter," Ben said softly to his plate.
"Hmm?"
"An otter," Ben said more loudly, raising his head to look at Dad straight on. "One of the boys had a dead otter. He swung and hit me with it. I expect there'll be a scar and everything."
Dad looked at him for a moment with a quizzical expression, and then said "Hmm" again to himself and took another forkful of his dinner.
Ben set his silverware down, picked his napkin and wiped his face. "Granddad, Grandmother, may I be excused from the table? I'm a little tired."
They both looked a little disappointed, but they let him go, and Ben fled to his bedroom to hide among all his books. Maybe he could stay there till it was safe to come out again.