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“You better take care of it, sweetie.”
He’s leaning against the fence, the sun is hot, the bunny is kicking its back legs in the grass uselessly. He told you when he gave it to you and again, when he showed you how to use it.
If you’re gonna go- go taking shots at anything with a pulse you better be ready, Beth.
“Why’s it doing that?”
“You must’ve got it in the head, huh?” He raises his bottle to his mouth. The bunny had been living in the bushes in the backyard all summer, munching on lawn clippings, its eyes black and beady and stupid. Now those eyes are wide open like it’s so scared. You thought it would be harder to hit. Dad gulps down his beer and lets out a satisfied sigh. “Getting pretty good with that thing already.”
You’re still holding the slingshot. It’s heavy and too big for your hand.
Y-you know, your daddy had one of those when he was little. All the boys did.
“It’s dying, Beth.”
“I know,” you mumble. You wish it would hurry up. You wish it would stop jerking and flopping around. The more it kicks the more it kind of goes in a circle, there in the grass between you and your dad’s feet.
“So…” He lifts the bottle up to his eye and the sun shines through the dark brown glass. Gold lights dance on his face. It’s empty. He tosses it over the fence and into neighbors yard before digging a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket. He gestures vaguely at the dying animal.
“So, what?” You ask. You pulled him out of the garage by his sleeve, tugged him around the side of the house where Mom wouldn't see, and brought him here so he could help you.
“So take care of it, Beth.”
He lights a cigarette and doesn't help you.