Brother (3 page)

Michael cast a wary look back at the cashier, his right hand catching a bottle of Jim Beam by its neck. He turned his back to the register and made like he was considering which beer to buy while he slid the bottle beneath his baggy sweatshirt. ­Michael was rail thin; at six two, he weighed less than 175 pounds. The bottle-in-the-sweatshirt trick usually paid off because it left him ample room to work with. A bigger guy would have looked like he had grown a block-shaped stomach tumor since entering the place. But on Michael, it looked like nothing more than a lot of fabric on a long-haired yokel in a backwoods store.

He started to make his way to the front, his heart pounding in his throat despite the fact that he'd done the exact same thing dozens of times before. An old guy had once pulled a gun on him. When Michael made a break for it, he found the double barrel of a shotgun pointed right at his chest. He still didn't understand how he had made it out of there alive. The guy could have shot him in the back as Michael ran across the parking lot with Reb's liberated bottle of scotch clamped in his fist, but the old guy had spared him, maybe because he'd caught a glimpse of his reluctance, or maybe because he didn't want to deal with a dead body that day. Parked just a few yards from the front plate-glass windows, Reb had seen everything. As soon as Michael had leapt into the car, Reb slammed his foot on the gas and they flew down the highway. They had both sat in stunned silence for a good half mile before Reb burst into a fit of maniacal laughter. Michael hadn't been able to help himself; he joined in too, despite having nearly lost his life over a bottle of Johnnie Walker Red.

The cashier looked up from
Flash Gordon
and straightened his shoulders, readying himself for a ring-up, but Michael's hands were empty. Michael slowed his steps, tried for a smile.

“Sorry,” he said. “You ain't got what I need.”

“Oh no?” The cashier tipped his head to the side, his gaze only wavering when the chocolate brown Olds slowly rolled past one of the gas pumps. Reb's head turned a full ninety degrees to see what was happening inside. That's when a flash of realization crossed the cashier's face.

Michael should have made his break right then, but something made him hesitate. They locked eyes. Michael tried his damnedest to look innocent as the cashier's gaze wandered along the faded cotton of his sweatshirt.

“Bit warm for that, ya think?” he asked.

“Depends on where you're from,” Michael countered. A sweatshirt in the dead of a West Virginian summer wasn't a big deal when you lived in hell.

The cashier tipped his head to the right, as if confused by Michael's response. That split second of befuddlement gave Michael the chance he was waiting for. He lunged toward the door. But the cashier was quicker than he looked. He launched himself off his stool and bolted around the counter as Michael neared the exit. The cashier was fast, but his stocky build left him clumsy. He clipped a display of plastic travel mugs—a dozen of them went clattering to the floor—and then pulled a Wile E. Coyote, his legs pumping like a cartoon beneath him as he stumbled, trying not to break his own neck. Michael used the man's momentary loss of footing to his advantage. He darted out of the building, the bottle of whiskey now in full view.

Reb had rolled the Olds to the far end of the lot and parked alongside the road that would take them away from the scene of the crime. Michael scrambled for the car, his arms pumping hard, the sweatshirt feeling like it was made out of lead. The amber liquid in the bottle caught the sunlight, its shadow giving the illusion of him wielding a crystal club. The car began to roll again, slowly at first, ready for him to jump in,
Dukes of Hazzard
–style. After so many runs, he had perfected the move. All he needed was an open window. In and out, nice and easy.

He wasn't more than five yards from escape when he began to relax. His racing heartbeat started to settle despite his full-on sprint. The cashier was in pursuit, but a good fifty feet behind him. No doubt he'd be left to shake his fist in the air as the two punk thieves disappeared down the road, Reb hooting and wailing with his head jutting out the driver-side window.

Except the closer Michael got to the Delta, the faster it rolled. What was supposed to be an easy five-mile-per-hour head start was suddenly double that, then triple. Still at a full sprint, he watched the car blast down the road without him, leaving him to choke on a cloud of road dust. Stunned, ­Michael slowed his run. He forgot that the cashier was still behind him until the guy crashed into his shoulder, linebacker style. ­Michael stumbled, and for a terrifying moment, the ­cashier had him by the sleeve. Michael jerked his arm out of the cashier's grasp and swung the bottle of Jim Beam, clipping the guy's jaw. The guy stumbled backward in surprise. He let go of Michael's shirt and nearly tripped over his own feet as he pressed his hand to his face, momentarily dazzled by pain. In that fleeting moment of freedom, Michael turned and booked it down the side of the road like an Olympic long-distance runner. He only hoped to God the guy didn't jump in his car and try to track him down.

Michael ran for about a quarter mile before he saw the Delta on the side of the highway. The parking lights were on, and the tailpipe rattled in time with the engine. Michael looked behind him as he gulped in air. The cashier had either given up or was getting his car. Regardless, he was out of sight, and Michael was confident enough to slow to a jog.

The closer he got to the Oldsmobile, the angrier he was. He could see Rebel through the rear window, sitting behind the wheel as casual as ever, puffing on a Lucky Strike. ­Michael clenched his jaw as he stepped around the car, peeled his sweatshirt off, and opened the passenger door. He retook his seat. But before he could gather up the courage to lay into his brother for the shit he just pulled, Reb smirked at his indignant expression.

“Sorry,” he said, breathing out a chest full of smoke. “I guess my foot slipped.” Reb reached over and grabbed the bottle by its neck, yanking it out of Michael's grasp. “But good job,” he told him, his eyes going dark. “
Son
.”

Michael looked away, staring out the window into the trees that flanked the quiet highway. He resisted temptation, didn't dare give Rebel the satisfaction of standing up for himself. It would only give him more ammunition. They'd get home, and he'd spout off about how Michael had spoken out of turn, how he was forgetting his place. Michael wouldn't be able to sleep for days, terrified of his bedroom door swinging open in the middle of the night, afraid that Rebel would fill the doorway with his silhouette, demanding that Michael get up so they could take a little field trip into the woods.

“Oh,
what
?” Reb asked sharply. “Suddenly you can't take a goddamn joke?”

Michael refused to respond, waiting for the car to start rolling. He was on the verge of protesting their stillness, ready to insist that the guy back at the gas station could pull onto the highway and roll up next to them within a minute or two. Maybe then he'd cock a sawed-off shotgun and blow them both away with a single trigger pull. But Michael didn't say that either. He was too distracted by his own imagination, black thoughts flooding in. It would have been nice to see a spark of true emotion upon his brother's face for once. It would have been novel to see a spark of terror light up his eyes—the same kind of terror he so often forced Michael to see on the faces of all those nameless girls. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad, getting his head blown off, as long as Rebel would be just as dead as him.

“Whatever,” Reb mumbled, shifting the car into drive and slamming his foot against the gas. The Delta fishtailed onto the asphalt. “Not like Daddy wouldn't bail your ass out if you
did
get caught.”

Michael bit the inside of his bottom lip to keep quiet. The idea of Wade springing him out of jail gave him a jolt of satisfaction. He knew that if it were Rebel, Wade would let him stew in the pen for at least a day or two. Michael hoped he
was
Wade's favorite, if only to get back at Reb for being so damn unappreciative.

 • • • 

Rebel caught Michael by the arm just after pulling the emergency brake into place. Michael's door was already open. He was desperate for some space. But Reb's fingers clamped hard around his wrist and his eyes narrowed into that vulture glare.

“I feel like I shouldn't have to remind you,” he said, “but I will since you're so fuckin' retarded. You talk and you're dead.”

Michael twisted his arm out of his brother's grasp, but he remained inside the car, his eyes fixed on his hands. Whether he was Wade's favorite or not, Michael belonged to Rebel. Nobody would so much as bat an eyelash at Reb's decision regarding Michael's future, or the lack thereof.

Reb snorted, as though miffed by his brother's lack of response, then grabbed his bottle of Jim Beam and shoved his way out of the car. When Michael failed to move, Reb ducked his head back into the vehicle and spit out: “Get outta my ride, dipshit.”

Michael slid out of the passenger seat, grabbed his sweatshirt, and walked toward the house. His feet were cold, his socks still damp from the basement cleanup. He fingered a gold loop inside his pocket. He had forgotten all about it until he shoved his hands into his jeans. The girl hadn't had much jewelry, just a single ring around the middle finger of her right hand.

Wade and Misty Dawn were sitting at the kitchen table while Momma seared meat on the stove. They all turned to look at Michael when he stepped into the house, then they turned back to their respective tasks. Momma's kitchen knives glinted in the musty light. Wade had laid them out in a straight line, arranged from largest to smallest upon a stained tea towel. Wade drew one of the blades across the surface of the whetstone he held in his left hand. The hiss of metal against rock mingled with the sizzle of frying food. Misty was working on a new macramé project. Currently, she was wild about making plant hangers and wall decorations. She'd knotted together a belt to wear with her various hippie skirts and had recently completed a hobo bag with tassels so long they nearly swept the ground when she walked. Michael approached the table, pulled the ring from his pocket, and covertly dropped it into Misty's lap. Her eyes lit up, but she said nothing. Rather, she moved her macramé over it and continued to work.

Rebel stepped inside the house a minute later, the bottle of Jim Beam already missing its cap. He took a swig before advancing further inside, then slid the bottle across the table prior to collapsing into his seat. He slouched, kicked up his dirty shoes, and regarded his family with a bemused look. He was like a king looking down upon his peasants, watching them toil away at the mundane.

“Makin' another ugly belt?” he asked, raising an eyebrow at his sister.

“It's a halter top,” she murmured beneath her breath. “Don't see no reason for you bein' rude, neither.”

Michael stared down at his feet. He made a move to exit the room, wanting nothing more than to pull off his soggy boots. But he stopped when Wade posed a question: “You went out like that?”

Michael turned to face the Morrows. Wade sounded as though he was directing his query at Reb, but he was surprised to see Wade staring at
him
instead.

“You have blood on them boots,” Wade said. “Probably have blood all over, but you went out anyway. Into town, right?”

“Not into town,” Rebel cut in, defensive. “Just a goddamn gas station. No big fuckin' deal.”

“You think that's smart, Michael?” Wade asked, ignoring Reb's interjection.

Michael's stomach twisted. He had made a mistake, and mistakes weren't taken lightly in this house. He should have stood up to Rebel, should have insisted he had to change before they went anywhere. This stuff was a matter of staying safe or getting caught. He had put the entire family at risk.

“Are you gonna answer me, or are you gonna stand there lookin' stupid?” Wade asked.

Michael's jaw tensed.

Rebel rolled his eyes and grabbed the bottle, holding it just shy of his lips.

“I'm sorry,” Michael murmured, afraid to meet his father's gaze.

Reb laughed, then took another swig.

Wade's movement was sudden. He shoved his chair away from the table, stepped across the kitchen, and slapped the bottle out of Reb's grubby hand. It thunked against the hardwood and slid across the floor, spilling precious amber liquid onto the planks. Reb made a move to grab it, an exasperated, almost childlike yelp escaping his throat, but Wade gave him a shove back into his chair.

“You mean to tell me that goin' to the gas station was ­
Michael's
idea?” Wade asked. “You tryin' to lie to me about that?”

Reb bared his teeth at his father and pushed him aside, snatching the bottle off the floor. He stared at it, wild-eyed. Only a fourth of the way full now. “Son of a bitch!” Rebel slammed the bottle onto the table. Michael flinched at the noise. Misty jumped, but her eyes sparkled at the exchange. Misty loved drama. Next to her records, it was all that she had. “I had to drive forty miles round trip for that shit!” Reb roared at his dad.

“Might be cheaper to save on gas and pay for it in town, don't you think?” Wade asked.

Misty breathed a soft giggle, prompting Momma to twist away from the stove and grab her by the hair. She gave it a vicious pull.

“You best shut up, girl,” she hissed into Misty's face. “You ain't part of this.” Releasing her, Momma shoved her daughter's head down toward the surface of the table, as though trying to slam Misty's face into the wood.

Michael swallowed against the lump in his throat. He pressed himself flush against the kitchen's far wall. The last time the Morrows had exchanged words, Misty got it bad. She always got it bad, whether she had anything to do with it or not. Momma directed all her rage at her daughter and hardly ever at her sons.