#fargo s5

Chapter 3. A pinky promise.

Roy always says that people get used to the good things very fast, and Gator should not give in to that desire.

But so far, Gator is only used to bad things.

Saturday morning passes... Normally. Almost. Gator sits across from his father and feels the air electrified by this theatrical calmness. Roy is in a white linen shirt with rolled-up sleeves – he does that when he wants to seem simpler, closer to the people, showing that he works tirelessly, too.

"Just imagine, eight years ago this district was drowning in lawlessness. Drunken brawls, fights, thefts. And now? Now people greet me on the streets. They shake my hand, tip their hats, they respect me." Roy says proudly.

Linda nods frequently, adjusting the napkin on the table under the plate. Her hand trembles slightly as she reaches for the coffee pot to pour Roy more coffee, and Gator notices it, notices how he catches her gaze, and for a second, a frightening shadow flickers in his eyes. But only for a second. Then he takes her hand, kisses her knuckles, squeezes it and places it back on the table. Linda forces a smile in return. Gator isn't always a witness to how Roy treats Linda, but he sees how she flinches at every rustle. She hates what she's become over the years of marriage. She finds Roy repulsive, his rules, this life she spends trapped in a kitchen whose walls are soaked with grease, and a bedroom that muffles any cry for help.

Gator hopes he at least makes things a little easier. But so far, for Roy, he's only a constant disappointment, a dead branch on the family tree.

"God sees diligence." Roy continues. "He rewards those who take responsibility. For family. For people. For an entire district." He smiles, and his smile is wide, white-toothed, but Gator knows it too well. It's the smile of a man used to being obeyed. He says he was chosen, that he didn't seek power. It came to the right hands on its own. Because order is always needed, and a man is needed to maintain that order. And that man is he.

Gator chews his scrambled eggs in silence. The eggs are fried perfectly today, as always. Linda made sure, because badly cooked food can ruin Roy's good mood in an instant. It's too fragile. Like everything in this house.

"Yes, order is needed," Gator forces out when the pause becomes too long.

Roy nods approvingly. "You know, you're better than a lot of boys, Gator. You don't stick your nose where it doesn't belong, you speak only when asked. The neighbor's brats just run around doing nothing and yelling." Roy suddenly leans across the table and claps his son on the shoulder. Gator feels the weight. This gesture is meant to be warm, fatherly, but inside, everything tightens because Gator knows: this approval is a reward for silence.

Roy plays the part of a model family man, hiding his despotic side, and everyone else can only guess what goes on in the house and never leaves the ranch.

Then Roy goes to the stables to look at the new horses and maybe ride around the area, check on those who've crossed the line of decency. Today, Roy will take it out on someone else.

Linda clears the table and starts preparing dinner. Gator doesn't like sitting in his room because it feels like he's being punished and locked up, so he sits in the kitchen doing homework at the table where Linda is chopping vegetables for soup nearby. She takes an apple from the basket, slices it, and slides the bowl toward Gator, then kisses the top of his head.

"Are you getting everything done?" She asks, nervously stirring the sauce with a small, nervous motion.

"Yeah, math is easy! I'm almost done." Gator finishes the last few equations and closes his notebook.

"Here, take the scraps to the animals." Linda hands him a metal bowl with vegetable peels and greens tops. Gator takes it and steps outside, heading toward the goat pen because it's the closest. He opens the gate and walks in, closing it behind him so the animals don't escape. Gator walks toward the kids, which are no longer tiny. Soon they'll need to be weaned from their mothers. Their horns have strengthened, and they play, butting heads with each other or against the fence. Gator gets too close, and it was probably a mistake to interfere in their game uninvited. One of the kids, the boldest and most spirited, freezes, sniffing the bowl in Gator's hands. He holds out a handful of scraps, and the animal takes a step forward, but instead of taking the treat, suddenly lowers its head.

Gator notices the movement too late.

He falls to the ground, feeling a sharp pain in his side. The bowl lies nearby, and Gator, covered in dirt and potato peels, watches the sky spin above him as he tries to gather himself.

"What are you doing sprawled out here?" A voice comes from above. Gator turns his head and sees his father sitting on horseback, looking down at him. With contempt. "Lying in the mud like a worthless pup."

"Mom told me to take the scraps," Gator says, struggling to push himself up on his elbows. A red stain spreads across his shirt.

"Mom told you. Well, run along to your equally good-for-nothing mommy." Roy sneers with sarcasm: he's known since Gator was born that there's nothing of the Tillmans in him."You couldn't even fight back, and it's not a human, just a beast. I praised you this morning, and it's clearly affecting you negatively. I said get up."

"I... I..." Gator holds on with all his might not to cry in front of his father.

"Don't go outside the ranch today. The last thing I need is you humiliating yourself in front of the neighbors in the first puddle you find. Go." Roy tugs the reins, and the horse snorts before heading toward the field.

Gator gets up. It doesn't actually hurt that much, he was just scared. He brushes off the dirt, picks up the bowl, and heads home. He feels ashamed for adding to Linda's worries and for making his father angry. Standing in front of the door, Gator first examines the wound himself, assessing how bad it is. A shallow scratch, bleeding a little.

"Mom?" Gator calls out loud enough for Linda to hear, but not sharply so as not to startle her. He walks toward the kitchen. She's already turned off the soup on the stove and gotten out the first-aid kit because she saw what happened through the window. A frown lies between her brows, but Gator can't tell if it's stern or pitying. Gator puts the bowl in the sink and walks over to his mother, head lowered, the way he usually approaches his father. "I'm sorry."

"Show me." Gator lifts the hem of his shirt. Linda silently cleans it and puts on a plaster. She sees how Gator has wilted and become quiet. She takes his hands in hers and squeezes them. She understands Roy's anger and knows what awaits them when he returns and reproach her and Gator at lunch. Linda hopes with all her heart that he won't turn out like his father. Gator is too soft to give harsh orders and solve everything with violence the way Roy does. And even if Roy manages to drill Gator into the man he wants him to be, Gator will never be able to take Roy's place. Roy simply won't allow it. "This isn't your fault, sweetheart."

Gator hugs her around the neck, and for a while they sit like that.

"It'll heal, and I'll wash and mend the shirt. Go change. And try to stay out of your father's way today." Linda strokes Gator's cheek and returns to cooking.

Gator goes to his room and changes into a clean shirt and shorts. He decides to go outside and wander through the wasteland behind the barn, where the tall grass will hide him from everyone. He flattens the grass with his foot and sits down with his back against a pile of old boards eaten by wood-boring beetles.

He pulls his knees up and rests his head on his arms, hiding his face. The wound throbs with a dull ache deep inside. Gator sobs, because finally he can be alone, and no one will judge him except himself. Suddenly he hears someone making their way through the grass on the other side of the pile of boards.

"Gator! Where are you?" You search for him, pushing through the grass, and when you finally find him, he doesn't even lift his head to look at you. "There you are!"

"How did you find me?" He mutters, his voice trembling a little because Gator can't calm down that fast.

"I was waiting for you to come out of the house. I'm bored on my own." You notice, of course, that something's wrong with him. "Are you crying or what?" You never stood on ceremony and always asked directly, because you knew how he got lost amid poorly phrased requests and questions, expecting a trick or mockery.

"No." His voice still muffled from speaking into his knees.

You sigh, walk over to him, and crouch down to look at his face, sticking your head under the bend of his elbow. "Will you tell me?" But this doesn't cheer Gator up, and he turns away, curling into a ball. "Well, as you like." You shrug, and Gator hears the grass rustle again. He glances out of the corner of his eye, but you're not leaving. You sit a little further away and fuss with the grass, not looking at him, and it gets a little easier for him to start talking.

"Father said I'm a disgrace for our family." Gator begins, and you don't move: it seems to him that you're not listening, continuing with your own business. "Today he saw again how weak I am. He reminds me of it often, I already know it without him." The confession comes out on its own, everything that's built up spilling over. "Maybe I could have fought that goat off. I didn't have time, I didn't expect it. I'm pathetic."

"You're not pathetic, Gator." You answer. "You can learn to take a hit, but your father can hardly be fixed." That thought makes Gator pause.

"I'm tired of every step I take being wrong in advance. Even when I do what he wants." Gator sighs heavily.

"Everything can still change." You finally turn and look at him, and he no longer hides, though his eyes are a little red and his lashes are clumped with tears.

"Do you really think so?" Gator asks, because for him, all the days blur into one long nightmare that sometimes mixes with colourful dreams.

"Everything changes gradually. It's just not always noticeable right away." You come closer and sit next to him, reaching out your hand.

Gator places his palm on yours. "Us too?"

"Us too." You nod. You slip a ring made from a clover flower onto his finger. It's a little small. He looks at the spot where you were sitting, and there are many plucked blades of grass lying there, because you couldn't get it right on the first try. That's what he likes about you: you don't give up, you keep going until you get it right. He looks into your eyes, then at his hand. Gator smiles. And you laugh too, covering your mouth with your hands, and on each of your fingers there's one flower. "I don't want this to change."

"What?" You brush the hair from your eyes, tousled by the wind.

"Our friendship. I want to have our friendship no matter what."

"No matter what. Always." You hold out your pinky to seal the promise, and the clover flowers on your fingers catch on each other. You lean in, and at first, he doesn't understand what you're doing. You're dangerously close. But you just touch your forehead to his temple and nudge him jokingly.

"Hey, I've had enough for one day, have mercy." Gator smiles crookedly.

You don't answer, just pull him closer with one arm around his shoulder and hug him, because you know he needs it. And Gator flinches a little when you squeeze him, pressing too hard on the bandage. He immediately checks to see if the wound has started bleeding again. You check too, though there's not much to see since it's all covered with the plaster.

"Actually, scars are cool. I heard somewhere that scars make a man. But I think it applies to anyone. They are almost like memories." Another wonderful trait of yours – you turn bad things into good ones. Maybe that's why you and Gator get along so well, because you have some optimism he lacks, and he has the seriousness that he teaches you when you need it. "Come on, the wild strawberries in the lowlands are ripe." You stand up, and Gator hesitates for a moment before following you.

Today he'll trust your optimism.

Taglist: @dreamerjj