Brother (12 page)

Rebel threw the shovel at Michael without warning. ­Michael caught it reflexively, the spade's cracked and splintered handle biting into the palm of his hand. “Let's go.” Reb motioned to the moonlit trees, to the nowhere that Michael knew existed within those branches. He had been afraid of this moment for as long as he knew, and now it was happening. There was no one around to save him. Like Momma's girls, so far away from civilization that gagging them seemed pointless, Michael could scream all he wanted; nobody would hear him. At least not anyone who could help.

He stumbled into the trees, his boots flopping around his ankles. They felt too big without socks on, his feet swimming in shoes that were otherwise a perfect fit. He held tight to the shovel, his fingers squeezing the dry, weatherworn handle hard enough to make his palm ache. A voice inside his head screamed for him to spin around, to drop to his knees and beg his older brother for mercy.
Please,
he'd say,
please don't do this. I'll do anything.
But he continued walking, knowing that begging would only make it worse.

They walked for a good fifteen minutes before Reb muttered “Here's good,” and pointed to the ground at Michael's feet. “Start diggin'.”

Michael's bottom lip began to quiver.

Rebel was serious. He was going to go through with it.

“Start diggin' what?” Michael whispered, unable to help himself. But he was already digging despite the question that slipped past his lips.

“Whaddaya think?”

Michael didn't want to think, didn't want to know. This was just like in his dreams, where he always ended up dead. He sank the spade into the soft earth and choked back a sob. Reb could have at least let him say good-bye to Misty. He might have allowed Michael that small indulgence.

He dug while Reb watched from a few yards away. His brother had taken a seat on a large fallen branch and was holding his chin in one hand, as if considering his next move. Again, Michael was seized by an urge to plead, because if Reb killed him, Misty Dawn would be alone. If Reb got drunk and Momma got tired of waiting, Misty would be in her crosshairs. Wade would be the only one left to protect her, and Michael wasn't so sure that Wade cared enough to make the effort.

“That's good enough,” Reb said, as if speaking up to cut off Michael's train of thought.

Michael looked down at the hole at his feet. It was easier to see now. The sun was starting to come up. The sky was a sickly sort of purple, like a blood blister just starting to heal. The hole wasn't big enough for Michael's body, not nearly deep enough to bury the dead. Rebel rose from where he sat and closed the distance between them, grabbed the shovel from Michael's grasp and glared. “On your knees.”

Michael's heart sped up, thudding so fast and so hard that when he sank to the ground, he had to lean forward and press his palms to the earth to keep himself from passing out. He shut his eyes, waiting for the world to stop spinning. When he opened them, he stared at a few of his most prized possessions, dropped into the hole he'd just dug.

A small plastic toy stared up at him from its grave. It was a tiny pink pig Misty had won out of a coin-operated machine when they were kids, the kind of cheap stuff that came in clear plastic eggs. He stared at the picture postcard of Times Square printed on beat-up cardstock. Someone had made the back out to a guy named Travis.
WISH YOU WERE HERE! LOVE, BRENDA.
Honolulu was there too, the back of it blank, its corners soft and worn from being thumbed for some many years. A
Garfield
comic Michael had cut out of a newspaper obstructed Hawaii's beachside view. They were all things he had squirreled away, the things that made him feel a little more human. But among them was one item that didn't belong, something he was sure Reb had tossed into the mix on purpose. It was a business card from the Dervish, the store's name scripted in colorful, bubbly, Woodstock lettering. Michael's mouth went dry at the sight of it. Reb had included it for no reason other than to remind Michael of Alice, the girl he'd never get to know because he was about to be dead.

Rebel crouched in front of the hole, reached across it, and caught Michael by his chin. He squeezed hard. Michael's freshly split lip cracked with a sizzle of pain and began to bleed again. “Does Misty turn you on?” he asked, his words spoken through clamped teeth. “You wanna sleep with your sister?” Michael winced as the sting of his swollen lip blossomed, the pain leaching into his gums and teeth. “You see this stuff?” Reb released him and scooped up the items he'd tossed into the excavation in the ground. “Who does it belong to?” Michael was afraid to answer, but Reb insisted, shoving the memorabilia into his face. “Who does this shit belong to, Michael?!” His voice rose an octave. His patience was dwindling.

“Me,” Michael croaked.

“That's right,” Rebel said, crumpling Times Square in his fist. “And how does
this
feel?” he asked, shredding the comic into pieces and letting the fragments drift to the ground like big flakes of snow.

“Bad,” Michael whispered, staring down at his destroyed possessions.

“It feels bad for someone to mess with your shit, huh? It feels bad for them to do what they want with it like it belongs to
them
instead of
you
, don't it?”

“Yeah.” The word was nearly inaudible.

“
Don't
it?!” Ray yelled.

“What do you want?!” Michael yelled back, the world going wavy behind a veil of tears.

Reb rose to his feet as Michael swept up a few pieces of the comic, wondering if he could tape it back together—he probably could, if he found all the bits.

“Bury it,” Reb said flatly.

Michael looked up, his breath hitching in his throat.

“You heard me. Bury that shit—see how it
really
feels to lose somethin' you care about.”

Michael swallowed. He crawled a short distance to the small mound of dirt and pressed his palms against it. He hesitated, not wanting to do it, afraid that burying his things would make him different. That it would disconnect him from his secret hopes and dreams, leaving nothing but this life. The farmhouse. The Oldsmobile. The screaming girls.

“But Reb,” he whispered, ready to beg, not caring if it made his brother angry or not.

Rebel didn't give him the chance to plead. He shoved his knee between Michael's shoulder blades and grabbed him by the hair. He craned Michael's neck back so he was staring up at the wisteria-colored sky, up into Reb's snarling face.

“Misty Dawn is
my
sister,” he hissed. “You don't touch her unless I say you can touch her. You don't even
look
at her unless I say you can.”

“I'm sorry,” Michael said. “It wasn't what—”

“Shut up,” Reb snapped. “I don't want to hear no stupid excuses. I saw it with my own two eyes. You wanna call me a liar?”

Michael shook his head, still held captive in Rebel's grasp.

“If Wade tells you to do somethin', you ignore it. If Momma tells you to do somethin', you don't do a fuckin' thing until you come to me and clear it. And if Misty Dawn tells you to do somethin', you tell her to get bent. You've gone and forgot rule number one. . . .”

“I haven't.”

“Then what is it?”

“You're the boss.”

“And you don't goddamn question me.”

“I don't question you,” Michael quietly repeated.

“And if you do, what happens?”

“We go into the woods,” Michael whispered.

“And do
what
?” Reb yanked on Michael's hair, craning his neck back at a painful angle.

“Leave me there.”

“Leave you there for what, asshole?”

“To die.” Michael squeezed his eyes shut against the words, only to fall forward when Reb shoved him, releasing his hair.

“I'm sick and tired of your shit, Michael. This is your last chance. Next time you piss me off, we're takin' this same drive, takin' this same walk, but instead of diggin' a tiny hole, you're gonna dig your own grave, and then I'll kill you. Shit, I might kill you on your own fuckin' birthday. How great would
that
be? Live fast and die young.”

Michael slowly looked up at him. He didn't doubt Rebel would follow through on his threat, but he couldn't help wondering how his brother would get his booze without getting caught. How would he snatch girls off the side of the road without them escaping? How would he deal with Momma and her insatiable urges while juggling alcoholism and Wade's disapproval? Rebel acted like he was in charge, like he had it all figured out, but he never once stopped to consider that anytime there was a job to do, anytime they needed
results
, Michael was there to help . . . was there to do most, if not all, of the work. A spark of bitterness ignited in the pit of his stomach.
Brothers in arms, my ass,
he thought. Rebel didn't see Michael as a brother; hell, sometimes it seemed as though Reb didn't see him as a human at all. Michael was a means to an end. A tool. That was it.

Anger bubbled up his windpipe like bile, but he said nothing, digging his fingers into the dirt instead.

Rebel let his head flop back on his neck as he stared up at the sky. He released a frustrated sigh, then shot Michael an annoyed glare. “All right, get up. Just remember, if you ain't my friend, you ain't friends with no one.”

“I thought I
was
your friend,” Michael muttered toward his hands. “Besides, ain't being family better than that?”

Reb paused, as if considering something, but he shook his head, dismissing the thought. “Grab that shovel,” he finally said. Then he began his trek back through the trees.

 • • • 

On the way home, Rebel stopped at a gas station along the side of the road. The place was closed, and Michael considered protesting, but he decided to take his fury out on the gas station's front window instead. Locating a brick next to the door—one the owner probably used as a makeshift doorstop—he smashed the glass. He risked going in twice despite the wail of the alarm, dumping armloads of bottles into the Delta's trunk. It was their most successful haul yet, one that would keep Rebel off ­Michael's back for weeks. But Reb didn't look the least bit satisfied. He simply took silent swigs of cheap bourbon as he drove, not once looking in Michael's direction. The lack of interaction solidified Rebel's threat inside of Michael's head. No matter how angry Michael was with his brother for making him feel worthless, Rebel would make good on his warning. He'd take him out into the woods, slash his throat, and leave him for dead.

But just as he was ready to accept the fact that Rebel didn't care about him, that the whole brothers-in-arms thing was a lie, Reb sighed and cast a sideways look his way.

“You're a good brother, you know,” Reb said. “I'm sorry.”

It was the first time Rebel had apologized for anything. Ever.

And suddenly, all Michael wanted to do was cry.

I
T FELT THAT
the more Michael became a Morrow, the less part of the family Ray was. It was as though there was only room enough for one boy, and when Ray had dragged Michael into the mix, he'd diluted his own importance within the group. And now, after the cherry-bomb incident, Ray felt on the verge of exile.

For Michael's seventh birthday, Michael was assigned a job that solidified his place in the Morrow household. Wade gave him a kid's rifle—one of Ray's old Christmas presents—and gave Michael the task of going into the woods and foraging for food. Ray had never actually used that gun—he was too impatient for hunting—but it still stung. It was
his
gun, one of the best gifts he'd ever gotten from his pop, and Wade hadn't even asked if Ray minded whether Michael used it or not.
Use it or lose it,
Wade liked to say. Punishment for the cherry-bomb affair, no doubt. Ray had never liked his dad much, but now he was really starting to hate him.

After Wade issued Michael Ray's old rifle, Michael would get up early every morning while Ray rolled around in a tangle of sheets. Midmorning, he'd bring back chipmunks and squirrels, foxes and raccoons. Momma had nearly laughed herself into a fit the day he brought back a skunk. Rather than eating the stinky animal, Wade taught the boy how to skin it and make a hat out of the hide. Michael ran around wearing that stupid thing all winter long, a skunk tail dangling down the back of his neck. He'd shampooed it a half dozen times, but it still smelled like shit.

As far as Michael's new hunting job was concerned, Ray held out for as long as he could, but eventually his curiosity took hold. He wanted to see his little brother in action, hardly able to believe a seven-year-old could bag so many forest animals on his own. He followed Michael into the woods, the rifle slapping the back of Michael's legs as it bobbed behind him on a strap. Ray kept his distance as he watched the kid stalk through the trees, searching for something to kill. Nearly a mile from home, ­Michael fired off a shot at a family of gobbling turkeys and Ray couldn't help but be struck by the fact that
this
was the boy Wade had wanted. Ray had never fit the profile of a good son, and now that Wade had ­Michael, Ray had been reduced to a shadow of what could have been but never was.

Michael missed the turkey. As the flock squawked and dispersed, Michael screwed his nose up in disappointment and sulked. That was the start of his dry spell. It was as though Ray's presence had cursed the young hunter to return home empty-handed day after day, resulting in Michael going to bed earlier so he could get up sooner. By the fifth unsuccessful day, Michael turned in before the sun set, pulling his blanket over his head to block out the light. It amused Ray how affected Michael was by failure. He found solace in the idea that, despite being in Wade's favor, Michael may have been a disappointment after all.