Page 8 of Rafe: Sins of the Father

Moira couldn’t understand why I didn’t tell my parents to go to hell. My BFF has a totally different relationship with her parents than I do with mine. I could never tell them that. I could never rebel like that. I guess I’m not brave enough to stand up to my father. Hell, I barely had the courage to go against my mother’s wishes and get my ears pierced when I was fifteen.

Not go to Huntington? It would be unthinkable and unforgiveable.

Sawyer Lumber is about an hour from the airport, and my father finally turns off the highway into the entrance for the lumberyard.

It’s large, with a big area for tractor-trailer trucks to pull in and load. Someone is busy loading lumber on one now with a forklift.

We continue on, driving deeper into the property to where a steel building sits. The foreman’s office and several milling machines are inside. Outside are two sawmills that cut raw trees into boards of all sizes.

Farther up at the end of the long drive sits the big house on top of a slight hill.

I barely glance at it because my attention is drawn to the squad car sitting outside the entrance to the foreman’s office.

My father pulls alongside it and stops.

A man is bent over the hood, his hands cuffed behind his back.

When my father climbs from the car, the man turns his head toward us, and the prettiest eyes I’ve ever seen stare back at me through the windshield.

Danger flashes in their depths, a wildness I’ve never encountered, even in the baddest boys from high school. He’s calm, but I see a vein bulge in his neck, and his jaw clenches.

“What the hell is going on here, Thompson?” My father strides over to a man who looks like he must be the foreman. He’s not the same one who was here when I was a child, though. This man I’ve never seen before.

“He’s a thief.”

“What are you talking about?”

“There’s money missing from the cash box in my office. Seen him hanging around.”

The deputy sheriff checks the man’s pockets and pats him down, then shakes his head. “He’s got nothing on him, Mr. Sawyer.”

“That’s because I didn’t steal a damn thing,” the man in handcuffs barks.

“For God’s sakes, Charlie.” My father snaps at his foreman, then whirls to the sheriff. “Let him up.”

Another deputy pulls the man upright.

“Rafe wasn’t near the office, Mr. Sawyer,” another employee steps forward. “He was with me working on the sawmill, cutting tomorrow’s load.”

My father glares at his foreman and shakes his head, then swings a look at the sheriff. “We’re not pressing any charges. Thanks for coming out, Bill.”

“You sure?” Bill asks.

“Yeah. You boys take care.”

One of them clicks the handcuffs, and the man called Rafe pulls his arms around and rubs his wrists.

Once the squad pulls out, my father touches Rafe’s shoulder. “Sorry about that, son.”

Rafe nods, but glares at the foreman.

“Go on back to work,” my father says with a lift of his chin.

Once Rafe and the other employee amble off in the direction of the sawmill, my father whirls on Charlie Thompson.

“I get you don’t like the kid, but you pull a stunt like that again, and you’ll be out of a job. We clear?”

“Yes, sir. What do you want to do about the missing money?”

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