Chapter 4: Chapter 4 - The Durhams

John crossed the bridge over the Battle Axe River on his way home that evening. His dad hadn’t answered his cell phone, so John had to walk all the way back to his house. He would have to hurry if he wanted to get his dad’s permission. Thankfully, his house was on the way to Donovan’s, though the Durhams lived on the outskirts of town.

John sighed as he walked up the sidewalk toward his redbrick, single-floor house. They had moved there a week ago, and the small ranch house still didn’t feel like home. The TV flickered through the bay window and the garage door hung open on the far side of the house. Their SUV sat, still cooling, on the cement slab. Dad was home. John unlocked the door and walked into the smell of stale beer. His father sat in a drab chestnut recliner, a bottle of beer attached to his right hand and a remote control to his left. Three beers sat on the end table, silently watching the show along with their owner. His dad had started early tonight.

“Dad,” John began. His dad didn’t answer. “Dad. Dad! DAD!” His father finally looked up from the television and blinked. “What is it, son?” “I’ve tried to call you, like, five times. Why don’t you ever answer?” John asked.

“Huh?” John’s father asked, and then he checked his phone. “Looks like you did. I guess I lost track of time. Do you need something?” He sipped his beer absently.

John exhaled in exasperation. “I met a friend at school today. He wanted me to eat dinner with his family. Can . . . May I go?”

John’s father rotated the bottle in his hand. “I think that sounds like a good idea. Go ahead.” John pursed his lips and shifted his feet on the gray carpet. “Do you even want to know who they are? They could be serial killers or something!”

“Well, are they?” His father asked, returning to his TV show.

“No, Sir,” John answered finally.

“Well, then it doesn’t matter, does it?”

John walked out the door and trudged toward the road. Their yard stood, silent and open, on his left. There wasn’t a single thing in it, not even animals. It was as if even they felt like they were trespassing on the sanctity of this lonely house. The only time anything moved in the yard was when John mowed on Saturdays.

John walked back to the bridge of the river and made a left on Fremont Street to head north toward the Durhams. Fremont Street was the main street of the town.

John had to walk down Fremont Street past rows of businesses to get to his friend’s house. He turned to his right below a neon sign that flickered “Wright’s Pharmacy” above an old brick building. John stopped and ripped off a chip of the gray, peeling paint which had been layered on the brick wall several decades before.

His dad hadn’t always parked himself in a recliner. He used to take John camping and fishing and hunting. All that changed when John’s mother died. Now all his dad did was work, sit, watch television, and drink. And did he drink!

John walked for a couple of miles until he reached the Durhams' house just outside of town. It was a nice house. Blue vinyl siding wrapped around its two stories. Donovan stood on the front porch waiting for John.

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When he saw John, Donovan waved and walked into the yard toward their gate. Ivy leaves climbed the vinyl walls. Deep red trim outlined the four windows and the porch.

Unlike John’s lawn, which was small and bare, toys littered the ground. A plastic, green tractor stood in front of the gate. John wondered how many kids the Durhams had to make such a mess.

“I’m glad your dad said you could join us,” Donovan said as he opened the gate. “Just so you know, my family’s a bit weird.”

“My father was in the Air Force, and we moved around a lot. I learned how to fit in pretty much anywhere.” John paused for a moment. “What do you mean, they’re weird?”

“Hunter families are their own special kind of weird. It’s kinda hard to explain,” Donovan said apologetically, “I just wanted to warn you. They’re all weird, especially my sister.”

They walked up the steps leading to the front door. They could see the yellow kitchen on the other side. The wonderful smell of chicken parmesan wafted through the screen door. John’s stomach rumbled appreciatively. “Oh, that smells good. My dad only makes us food out of a can.”

“Maybe you should learn to cook,” Donovan’s mother called from the kitchen. She was a tall woman with dark, shoulder-length hair that brushed the shoulders of her green, knee-length dress. Dark brown eyes peered from beneath strong eyebrows and were framed by a creamy, round face. She was studying a cookbook with some celebrity chef smiling from the side. “You would definitely eat better.”

Donovan held the door open for John, and they walked into the kitchen. It was just a hallway with a sink on one side and a stove and fridge on the other. Spaghetti lounged in a large pan on the stove. Just past the kitchen stood the dining room. A door to the right held a set of stairs ascending to the second floor, and a door to the left opened into the living room. Two small voices argued there, but he didn’t know who they were.

He turned the corner and saw a young boy and a girl. The girl was pale and sat on the floor in a blue dress. Her blond hair stood end on end. The boy was dressed in jeans and a t-shirt and wore close-cropped brown hair. They seemed to be fighting over something.

“That’s my dime,” the girl said, her shock of blond hair seeming to shoot farther outward in her fit of anger. “Give it back.”

“I found it on the floor,” the boy answered.

“That’s because I just dropped it. Give it back!”

Donovan’s mother walked over to the living room. “Daniel Thomas Durham, give your sister back her dime. Both of you come into the dining room. It’s time to eat. I want you to meet a new friend of your brother’s.” Donovan’s mother turned to John and smiled. “Just make yourself at home.”

“Thanks, Mrs. Durham,” John said. The little girl, obviously the talker of the two, put on her best serious face and said, “Hello, my name is Cynthia, and this is my brother Daniel. It is very nice to meet you.” She raised her hand and grabbed John’s hand as strongly as she could, which was not terribly hard.

John had to laugh. “It’s nice to meet you, too. My name is John.”

“Okay, it’s time to eat,” Mrs. Durham yelled from the kitchen. “Christian, Corinne, it’s time for supper. Everyone, please come to the dining room.”

The Durhams stood at their assigned seats. Donovan pointed at a chair to his left, indicating that it was John’s chair. John obediently stood behind it.

“So, ah, those two are your brother and sister?” John asked, unsure of how to ask his real question.

Donovan smiled. “What, don’t you think we look alike? Look, I know what you’re going to ask. Let’s just say that we have a very broad gene pool. I take after my dad’s side of the family, and they take after my mother’s.”

John nodded. Christian Durham, a tall, muscular man with bronze skin and hazel eyes, came down the stairs into the dining room. The lights of the ceiling fan gleamed off his bald pate.

“You know, Diana, I love a woman who looks good cooking,” his deep baritone voice said as he wrapped his arms around his wife.

Diana laughed, turned, and kissed her husband on the side of his face. “Where is Corinne? That girl is always late.”

Donovan whispered to John, “Probably reading some military book. She’s so weird.”

Christian moved toward his seat at the head of the table. “Corinne, it’s time to come down now. Donovan brought a friend from school.”