The Fortunate Brother (6 page)

“Cripes, what's she, Halloween out there?” asked Hooker. “Going dancing or hauling wood, my sons?”

“Hauling you in a minute, proddy dog,” said the taller one, Todd. “Slide over, help a man get a drink. Hey, bud, couple of Blackhorse!”

“What's that smell?” Skeemo made a face towards the brothers. “Gawd-damn, ye still smearing motor oil behind your ears? Women likes cars, ya effing baywops, not timber jacks.”

“Shaddup!” said Todd. “Last woman you had was greyer than her roots down south. Here, Snout.” He passed a beer to the shorter brother with the wide flaring nostrils. “How's she going, Kyle, man. Heard your mother was sick?”

“She's fine, b'y.”

“What do you mean, grey down south?” asked Hooker.

Jaysus. Kyle grunted. The brothers snickered through mouthfuls of beer, one of them bent over, spraying his boots.

“What's so funny? They goes grey down there?”

Jaysus.

“Never seen your poppy pissing?” asked Snout.

“Heard Syl went after Clar Gillard,” said Skeemo.

“Naw, just his truck.”

“Fuckin' arsehole.”

“Sick fuck.”

“Cruisin' for a bruisin',” said Snout. “Here, have a smoke.”

“Naw, quit.” Kyle drained his whisky and rapped his emptied glass on the bar for another.

“Where's Syllie this evening?” asked Hooker.

“He's home, b'y.”

“What happened anyway—Clar blocked the road or something?”

“Yeah, he was pissin' around with his dog.”

“Heard your mother told Bonnie to call the cops on him,” said Todd. “That's enough to get him going.”

“Suppose, b'y.”

“Keep your eye on that sick fucker.”

“Hey, Kyle, man, heard your mother's not well?”

Kyle drank deep from his whisky and felt the heat spreading through his chest and ordered a double. Todd pulled a flask from his inside pocket and Kyle took a mouthful of tequila that burned his tongue and distorted his face and singed tears from his eyes. He nearly blew it across the room but managed it down his gullet and shoved the flask back at Todd.

“What's, you gone pussy?”

“Give it here,” said Snout.

“Take it to the can, wanna get us kicked out?”

“Hey, Kyle, man, they're saying it might be bad.”

“I'm sorry man. Gawd-damn!”

Julia walked past. Julia. Chris's girl. Straight blond hair sliding across a willowy, slender back, a sideways glance at him. Hooker hung his arm around his neck.

“She's home early from university. Starting work with Roses at the truck stop in on the highway.”

“Should brighten the place.”

“Ask her to dance, b'y, when the band starts.”

“Shove off.”

“She never went out with him, you know. Just graduation.”

“Piss off, Hooker.”

“Hey, just saying. What's she at, Snout, b'y?”

“Nothing, now. Crab plant's closing for a week. Listen, Ky, your old man need help with Jake's house? Me and Father can give a few days.”

“I'll come,” said Todd.

“Can't tell a screw from a nail,” said Snout.

“Screw you, arse!”

“I'll give a hand,” said Hooker.

“Thanks, b'ys. I'll tell the old man.”

“Come on, let's grab a table,” said Sup. “Whoa, who're those girls over there?”

“Whoa, look at that tall one, butt like two clenched fists.”

“From Springdale—stay the fuck clear. Their men are on the highway by now with ball bats.”

“
Ball
bats! What the fuck's a
ball
bat?”

“They bats balls with 'em, don't they?”

“You talking about a baseball bat?”

Jaysus.

“Do bats got balls?”

“Sure, b'y. Big ones. That's why they calls your old man batty—he got big balls.”

“Is a bat a bird?”

“Yes, b'ye, like you. That's why we calls you Big Bird.”

“Always wanted a big bird.”

“Go sit with Alf Pittman's wife. She likes a big bird, twat on her.”

“How'd you know about her twat?”

“Borned Edgar, didn't she—fuckin' head on him.”

“Ever hear of stitches, low-life? I had a tumour in my belly twice the size of Edgar's head. Nothing there now but a pretty seam.”

“Shoulda left out a stitch, you'd have your own twat.”

“For you, arse, you gets any closer.”

They scraped back chairs, settling noisily around the table. The boys kept putting drinks in front of him, and Kyle kept drinking them. The band started up with their bass and guitar and electronic drummer and its beat pounded through his head. He got up for a piss and staggered. Passed Julia going to the can and looked away. Kept walking.

Found his way back to his chair. Pushed aside somebody trying to haul him onto the dance floor. Rose called his name and he faked not hearing. He watched the horde of dancers shaking and twisting and Rose stood before him, too-tight sweater and a saucy grin. She grabbed his hand, yanked him to his feet and onto the dance floor. He caught a scowl from Hooker and winked and pushed away from Rose and staggered into Julia and her arms folded around his neck and his body folded around hers, soft, sweet…
put a candle in the window
…and he swayed with her and Creedence and his dick started swelling against the tautness of her belly…
I feel I've gotta move
…and then he pushed her away, Chris's girl, she was Chris's girl, and he was starting to sweat and he took long swaggering strides across the bar and made it outside and stood in the cone of yellow from the overhead light above the door. Fresh air caroused through his head. Fast. Too fast. He staggered off the steps and onto the road. Someone whispered near his ear and he startled sideways and was met with a meaty fist cracking against the side of his jaw and pain splitting through his head. Last thing he saw before hitting the ground was Clar Gillard's nice rounded face smiling at him.

He woke up to a pounding head and Creedence's final guitar lick. He saw the cone of light through a scraggly screen of dead timothy wheat. He was lying in a ditch across from the bar. His back was sore and his shirt hauled up, bared skin against rough, cold ground. He sat up—jaw aching, head splitting. He tried to
clench his teeth but couldn't from the pain. Mouth tasting like rust. Jaysus. It was bleeding in there.

He spat and got to his feet, reeling towards the bar. The young ones had gone off; there was no one about. He thought of going back inside and getting the boys and tracking down that fucker Gillard. But his feet were already embarked upon the road, weaving towards Bottom Hill, and it was easier to keep going. The road T-boned Bottom Hill near the top and he looked down Hampden way for Clar's truck—scarcely a light visible through the fog.

He was starting down the back side of Bottom Hill when he heard a creaking sound coming through the woods. There was a pathway coming up to his right, a shortcut down through the brush, passing the scorched remains of the Trapps' sawmill and ending at the bottom of the hillside, directly behind his house. His father had cut the trail to shorten their walking distance to Hampden. Faster route getting to school in the mornings than walking the length of Wharf Road and then cutting back up Bottom Hill. Kyle hurried past the shortcut. Rather a longer walk than passing that creaking, stinking ruin in the dark.

Another creaking started to his left and he picked up his step. Jaysus. He hated this gawd-damn stretch of road; there was always someone seeing a bear prowling around here. Chris wouldn't be scared. One night like this they were both walking down Bottom Hill and heard something coming up the road towards them—
click-clap, click-clap, click-clap.
And then a reddish pinprick of light appeared in the distance, weaving through the dark in their direction. Kyle almost had a fit thinking it was a fucking bear, and he drew back, readying to throw himself off the road and thrash insanely through the woods. But Chris reached back and took his hand and it was warm and strong and he, Kyle, was a big boy of thirteen or fourteen but he let his
older brother lead him towards that
click-clap, click-clap
and the reddish pinprick eye burning closer. Chris's step never faltered while Kyle's heart was kicking with fright. And then the thing was in front of them. A young fellow running with two Pepsi cans stuck onto the bottom of his boots, smacking his hands to his sides, a cigarette stuck in his mouth. Chris released his hand and they kept walking. Kyle looked back.

“What's that fucking idiot doing?”

“Scaring off bears,” said Chris.

Kyle thought for a minute. “Good thinking. But he's still a fucking idiot!”

Chris busted out laughing. It felt good, his making Chris laugh like that. Felt more like a friend than a kid brother. It was the first time he had ever felt a sense of his
self.

He wished Chris was here now; he wished his big warm hand was holding his. “Where you at, old buddy?” he called to the heavens. He felt himself choking on unleashed tears and bent over to get a grip on himself. He bent too far and staggered off balance. He was closer than he thought to the edge of the road, and with a yelp, he fell over. Rolled down a rough slope, his shirt scraping up his back and his ribs striking against the cold rough bark of a black spruce. He tried to get back up, tried to pull his shirt back down, but the pain in his ribs cut off his breath. Jaysus. He heard something or someone cry out—a faint cry—more like a scream, a weird scream.

He lay still, listening, and heard nothing, only the wind rifling through the trees. The fog crept through the woods and drifted over his face like melting snow, and he smiled. Julia…

A knife-cutting pain through his ribs. He opened his eyes to darkness and wet ground pressing against his face. He tried to move—oh Christ, his ribs. He held on to them and crawled back up the bank to the road, wondering how the hell he'd ended up down there. He smelled smoke. Someone had a fire lit. Kate.

He started down Bottom Hill, legs straddling the quavering road like a fisherman negotiating a heaving boat on choppy seas. He turned onto Wharf Road and then onto the gravel flat, his stomach roiling. He bent over and vomited so hard he emptied his stomach with one heave. His stomach kept heaving and he fell to his knees now, gagging on bile and gasping for breath. Water leaked through his eyes and nose and his head spun and he held it in his hands. Jaysus.

Dragging his coat sleeve across his mouth, he stood. He waited a moment, his stomach settling. He weaved cautiously towards the glow of the fire. It was just Kate sitting there, picking at her guitar strings.

“Hey.” He lowered himself onto a log opposite her and missed, his butt hitting the beach rocks hard. “Hey, Kate. Sing us a shong—
song!
”

Kate tightened a key on the neck of her guitar. She didn't look up, didn't speak, didn't smile in greeting. Her fingers weren't calm and fondling and patient with her tuning, but fidgety and stiff. She tightened and plinked and tightened. Her hair wasn't braided tonight, but fluffed out in soft, rippled curls that floated around her shoulders. Hardly ever saw her hair loose. Going to church, sometimes. She always went to church Sunday mornings.

“What's up?” he asked. A dog barked from up the road and he shivered. “Arse. Near broke my jaw.” He wriggled his lower jaw.

“Who, the dog?”

“Close enough. Gillard. He sucker-punched me.”

Kate bent her head over the neck of her guitar.

“Down by the bar. Just out of nowhere. Punched me.”

“He's been prowling about of late. Something getting him stirred again.”

Kyle wriggled his jaw some more. “Don't think it could wriggle if it was broke?”

“No.”

“Yeah. Good, then. What's up, Kate?”

“The moon's up, Kyle. Somewhere.” She gave him a wan smile. She popped him a can of beer and he sucked back a mouthful, sloshing it around and spitting it back out, staring after it for blood—couldn't rightly see. He reached for a stick and gave the fire a good stoking. Flankers popped like orange stars. He laid the stick down and sat back, feeling nauseated again. He watched Kate's fingers plinking at her strings in a non-rhythmic manner.

“Hey, got a new song?”

“Not a night for singing.”

“Got a new song, though? You always got a new song.”

“Yeah, I got a new song.”

“Let's hear it.”

“Don't got the words yet.”

“What's it called?”

“Papa's Quilt.”

“Kinda quilt?”

“Made from my grandpoppy's PJs.”

“His PJs? Is he dead?”

“He is. My mama made me the quilt.”

“Sorry, Kate.”

“He's not. Be over a hundred if he was still alive.”

“Right, then. I like old men. Old men piddling about. Was it all right then, when he died—or passed? My sister Sylvie. She
don't like saying dead. She says passed. Like they've passed on by and are still passing.”

“It was a nice passing. I'm sorry, Kyle. We don't all get the gentle goodbye.”

He lowered his head, then got the spins and sat up rapidly. He heard a series of low coughs coming from over by the river, somewhere.

“Someone back there?”

Kate strummed her guitar.

“I think I heard someone. Over there. You hear anything, Kate?”

“A boat, I think. Someone in a boat.”

“In this fog? Fools.”

“Lots of fools around, Kyle.” She kept strumming, her face turned from him.

“Seriously. They can drown in this.”

“Death bothers you, don't it?”

“Thought it bothered everybody.”

“Been walking to greet us since the minute we were born.”

“Cheery thought.”