The words douse me like a
bucket of ice water. Like watching a train wreck and being powerless to stop
it, I tighten my grip on the pillow and listen to the unfolding disaster. “Uh,
what do you mean, you’re sorry?” Pause. Creak of shifting weight on the
hardwood. “Sorry for
hurting me
?” Another pause. “Whoa, whoa, this is
Ben, I’m just using his phone, but what the fuck are you talking about? What
did you do to Jackson?” He’s shouting into the phone now. Silence, then
muttering. “Son of a bitch hung up on me.”
I want to disappear. I close
my eyes, wishing that the next few minutes didn’t have to happen. When I open
them, Ben is standing in front of me. “I knew something was wrong.”
“Just go,” I plead. I don’t
have the energy to keep myself from imploding and fend off Ben’s curiosity as
well. I know I’m not being fair. He really does care, but he can’t fix me right
now.
He sits on the edge of the
bed. “No way am I leaving you. Tell me what he did.” His expression is
determined. Why does he have to pick this moment to dig his heels in? Not that
he ever
doesn’t
dig his heels in, but still. I can’t deal with him right
now. “Tell me or I’m going over to Matt’s house and I’ll beat it out of him, I
swear to God.”
“I…” Whatever I’m planning
on saying – which is nothing because there is no plan – gets caught
in my throat.
“Well? Spit it out,” he
prompts, adding as an afterthought, “I’m not leaving until you do.”
If I don’t tell him, he’ll
drive to Matt’s and get the information out of him one way or another. Ben
might seem like a softy, but he’s one hundred and seventy pounds of pissed off,
and he’ll use it if he really wants to. But if I do tell him, he’ll go over
there anyway. I don’t have much of a choice.
Not that I care about
protecting Matt. This is about protecting myself. I don’t want my shame paraded
in front of my brother, much less Matt’s parents or God knows who else will get
involved if he goes over there with his fists out. It should make me feel good
that he’s so willing to defend me, but it just… doesn’t. I want to hide away
until I can forget what happened, how it made me feel so small and worthless.
“Please go away,” I whisper.
Ben looks at me for a long
time. Finally he says, “If I do, I’m going straight to Matt’s.”
“Don’t.”
“Sorry, can’t do that.” He
pauses, meeting my eyes as his voice quiets. “Someone has to watch out for you
too, big brother.” Ben always hates it when I call him little brother, and he’s
certainly never validated my frequent assertion of being a few minutes older.
He stands up to leave. “Have it your way.”
Goddamn him for forcing me
to do this right now. Leaping off the bed, I tackle him. We both go down,
hitting the floor with an impact strong enough to knock shit off the walls.
“Jesus, Jackson, what the
hell,” he shouts, clocking me in the jaw with his elbow as he tries to push me
off him. I don’t care if it was an accident or not.
Suddenly I’m pissed. More
than pissed. I’m enraged. I hate that he came here for the summer. I hate that
he caught me jerking off to a gay magazine. I hate that I got outed because of
him. I hate that he keeps trying so fucking hard to bring us together again,
when it was his choice to leave. Mostly I hate that he left in the first place.
Balling up my fist, I hit
him in the chin. Pure shock spreads across his face. Eyes wide, mouth open, jaw
slack. He fights harder to push me away, but I don’t let him escape. My left hand
gripping his shirt below the armpit, I punch him again, this time near his
temple. He winces but doesn’t relent in his efforts to get away. Angry as I am,
a part of me is impressed. We continue to roll across the floor, me pummeling
him in the face and chest as often as I can while continuing to hold him close,
him working furiously to get free of me.
We’re an even match, but not
for the obvious reason. We’re only even because he’s not fighting back and I’m
so emotionally depleted that I might as well be half my size for the punches
I’m throwing. Some strength must still be left inside me, I think darkly,
because blood oozes from the corner of his lip and he’s becoming more sluggish
in fending me off.
With an unexpected shove, he
pins me between the bed and himself. I might have seen it coming if I were less
crazed, but what comes next I couldn’t have warded off even at my best.
Maneuvering himself with uncanny speed, he grabs my arms and tucks them behind
me, pulling my back toward his chest. Just like that, I’m completely
restrained. After a few weak attempts to free myself, I give up.
Rotating me around so he can
lean against the foot of the bed, Ben spreads his legs apart just enough so I
can stretch mine out as well. When we were younger, our parents took us to a
water park once, and we would go down all the slides in this position, just
like we were riding in a sled. Except of course Ben wasn’t restraining me then.
Our chests rise and fall
with labored breathing, and I can smell the sour scent of sweat on him. With
every ounce of my strength spent, I let him hold me for several more seconds
without making any attempt to move. As my breathing calms, so does my anger.
His voice is quiet in my
ear. “If I let you go, you won’t attack me again?”
“I won’t. I promise.”
“All right.” He slowly
disentangles his arms from mine. I reach a hand up to massage my shoulder, sore
from where he held me. “Why did you do that?” he asks, wincing as he breathes.
His chin and jaw are red, and a hint of blood is hiding in the corner of his
lips. As if seeing through my eyes, he slides his tongue straight to the spot
and licks it away.
I look away. “I didn’t want
you to go to Matt’s.”
“Bullshit. I wouldn’t have
gone after you jumped me. Everything that came after that was for something
else, wasn’t it?”
He’s right, but I refuse to
let his eyes lock onto mine. “I can’t deal with this right now, Ben. I don’t
even feel like I can talk to you about any of this. I know you don’t really
want to hear it.” I feel bad, because that’s a lie, but I need to give him a
reason why I won’t let him in. I push myself to my feet, risking another look
at him. “Just don’t go over to Matt’s, okay?”
He seems upset, but he
doesn’t fight me on it. “I won’t.” He pauses, continuing to look at me.
“Jackson, I
really
don’t care that you’re gay.”
I give him a dirty look.
He’s just saying this now so I’ll open up. “You freaked out the second you
found out and then you moved the hell out of my room, because you couldn’t
stand being that close to your queer brother. Now you expect me to believe that
you don’t care?”
His face glows red. “I’m
serious, Jackson. It doesn’t bother me. How many times do I have to tell you
before you believe me? You’re my brother and that’s never going to change,
regardless of who you like to sleep with.” Apparently unable to help himself,
the earnest edge drops from his voice, and he grins. “Or jack off to.”
Dad picks that moment to
bust into my room. “What the hell was all that goddamn noise for?” His hawk
eyes snap between Ben and me.
“We were just messing
around,” Ben says, abandoning his pissed off look. He’s trying to sound
nonchalant, but his voice wavers ever so slightly. He’s still trying to
suppress pain from somewhere. I can see it in his face.
“Liar,” Dad growls, focusing
his attention solely on Ben. Snapping his fingers, he points at the floor in
front of him. Ben flinches, but he holds it together as he approaches Dad,
coming to a stop at the indicated spot.
Dad inspects Ben’s face but
doesn’t seem to find what he’s looking for. “Take off your shirt,” he demands.
Ben does as he’s told. His ribs look red and battered. I must have laid into
him harder than I thought. Moving down from his collarbone, Dad’s fingers press
into my brother’s ribs one by one. When Dad touches a spot even with the top of
Ben’s abs, he gives a muffled cry through clenched teeth.
Shit
. No
wonder he looked in pain when he was talking. Dad’s seething eyes drill into
me. I look away, unable to withstand the onslaught. “You did this,” he states.
Even if it weren’t true, I couldn’t bring myself to argue with him.
“Put your shirt back on. I
told you boys not to break any bones.” His voice is cold. He closes his eyes,
and for a moment I think he’s going to drop the bullshit and become Dad again.
But then he opens them, and when he speaks, he sounds just as angry as before.
“Get in the truck. We’re going to the hospital.”
* * *
*
“Bruised, not broken,” the
doctor says. He’s an older man with gray hair circling his bald head in a
horseshoe shape, but the moment he says that, I could kiss him. Ben, again
shirtless on the examination table, gives an audible sigh of relief, but I’d
bet money that he wasn’t worried about the longer recovery time associated with
a break.
“You’re sure?” Dad asks the
doctor.
The man nods. “Yes,
absolutely. Ben should be pain-free in just a few days.”
Ben and I look expectantly
at Dad. As mad as he might be, and as much as he might have been hoping that
Ben’s rib actually
was
broken, he’s a man of the rules. Technically we
didn’t break them. We know it, and so does he.
“That’s a… relief,” he says,
forcing the words out.
What a fucking lie. What
would he have done if it really had been broken? Did he have a punishment
already cooked up? Would it have been for both of us, or just for me?
None of us says a thing as
we cross the parking lot back to the truck. Dad’s ringing phone is the first to
speak. “Who’s this?” He answers it not particularly politely.
“Oh, I’m sorry.” Pause.
Listening. “Yes, I understand.” Ben and I are still waiting for him to unlock
the doors. “Absolutely. Thank you for letting me know. Yes, you too, Ms.
Baker.” He taps the screen on his phone and shoves it back in his pocket.
Neither of us dare to ask
him what that was about, but thankfully we don’t have to. “Cherie Dodd passed
away yesterday. Funeral is the day after tomorrow.” He doesn’t sound
particularly surprised, but then, she was pretty far gone, even if she wasn’t
on her deathbed.
Jackson
An overcast afternoon with
low hanging clouds presides over the reception, sending waves of mist rolling
across Cherie’s lawn. The gardens outside her home are getting overrun with
weeds, and the vines have migrated past the trellises and are crawling along
the exterior walls.
The unkempt appearance is a
stark contrast to the manicured lawn and flowerbeds that I remember from when I
was here with Dad last year. I wonder if it looked like this when Ben came to
help with her raspberries that first time, or if everything went to hell in
just the last few weeks. He wouldn’t have known the difference, not then, but I
can certainly tell. Was it just in her last weeks that she was really slipping,
or did it go on far longer than that and I just never noticed?
For some reason, Dad didn’t
want to bring Ben and me to the funeral. So he left the two of us at Roanoke
Gardens, picking us up afterward for the reception. Ben and I both thought it
was weird, but after ending up at the hospital the other day for not-broken
bones, we didn’t dare push Dad on this one. It’s never been worth it to push,
but especially not now.
And the last few days?
Fucking miserable. I’m holding myself together, if only barely. Ben has backed
off at least, but I sort of wish he hadn’t. I know I told him to, and then
practically beat the shit out of him, but I really need him right now. I
haven’t talked to Matt at all. And neither has Ben, at least not that I know
of.
I stare down at the matte
black of my dress shoes as Dad knocks on the front door. Unlike at any other
social gathering, not a single sound can be heard from within. I get that
everyone is sad at a funeral, but sometimes I wonder if all that gloominess in
one place might just attract Death for a second round.
A heavy, middle-aged woman
opens the door, examining us. The lines around her face are vaguely familiar,
even though they reflect a weariness that isn’t. I assume she’s related to
Cherie. Her piercing eyes skewer Dad and his charcoal gray suit first. Then me
and my pure black one. Finally Ben in his khakis and dark blue polo. Is she
actually considering whether or not to let us in? Or is she just super nosy?
“Come in,” the woman says,
holding the door for us. Ben shifts beside me, and I feel bad for him. He got
stuck with what I used to wear to choir concerts before I quit in tenth grade.
I don’t have to look to know that the bottoms of the khakis are hovering around
his ankles.
Dad steps forward and we
follow him in. Inside it’s just as depressing as I imagined. There are maybe
fifteen people here, making we wonder how few were at the funeral. Isn’t the
reception supposed to fetch a bigger crowd? Maybe that’s just at weddings.
“Food?” Ben asks under his
breath.
I survey the spread in the
kitchen. “Uh, sure.”
Ben grabs a plate and just
stares. “What is this?”
“Tater tot hotdish.”
His expression empties of
all understanding. “Huh?”
I lower my voice. “Damn,
Ben, it’s a fucking casserole.” Minnesotans love their hotdish. It shows up at
every social gathering from grad parties to bake sales, whether it’s welcome or
not.
“Why don’t you just call it
that, then?” Ben quips.
Resisting the urge to smack
him as I grab my plate, I explain, “Because they’re different. Casserole is
slightly classier than hotdish. I mean, casserole is still pretty
salt-of-the-earth, but it’s no hotdish.”
He slops a scoop of gooey
beef mixture topped with half burnt tater tots onto his plate.
Not wanting to mingle with
anyone else here, we retreat to a spare bedroom with our food and take seats on
the bed.
Between mouthfuls, Ben
points to a plant on the dresser. “That’s the snapdragon I gave her.”
I wait to swallow before I
speak. “Cool.” Beside me, Ben drags his fork across the plate, guiding a piece
of tater tot from one end to the other. “What is it?” I ask.
He looks up, biting the
corner of his lip. “Cherie had me pick it out for her. She said she wanted
something that wouldn’t die before she did. I guess she got her wish.” As I
watch him, his vision blurs as his eyes drift across the emptiness of this
room.
I wonder why Ben is so
upset. “Cherie was a really nice lady, but she was old. It was her time to go.”
“Yeah,” he says. “I guess
so.”
In a way, I’m grateful for
the distraction. The distraction from what happened with Matt, and from Ben
always watching me from afar. If I could just forget that it ever happened,
maybe Matt and I could move on.
“I have to go to the
bathroom,” I announce.
“Right now?”
“No, next week.” My eyebrows
twist together in irritation. “Damn, Ben. Yes, right now.” I get up, leaving
him sitting on the bed. In the kitchen, I set my plate in the sink. The tater
tot hotdish is all gone. Go figure.
Avoiding eye contact with
anyone who looks like they might want to talk to me, I find the bathroom down a
short hallway and thankfully away from the action, if it could even be called
that.
When I’m finished, I make
sure the fan is on and the door cracked just a little so at least the next
person to enter will do so with caution.
I check in the guest room,
but Ben is gone. Where did he scamper off to?
Leaning over to peek out the
kitchen window, I see Matt standing beside his truck talking to Ben. He’s
wearing a suit and actually looks rather dashing. I keep staring out the
window. They’re deep in conversation. Matt has an oddly smug look on his face,
but Ben is turned away from me. I don’t know how I feel about Matt anymore, and
I sure as hell don’t want to talk to him right now.
The moment I hear the shout,
I know it’s them. I’m out the front door in less than five seconds, not giving
a shit about the librarian-looking lady I bump into on my way out.
Matt is pinned against the
passenger side of his truck, the black of his suit contrasting against the red
paint as Ben’s arm jams into his collarbone.
As if stepping away from
reality, I consider that Matt’s suit looks a lot like mine – a stark
difference to Ben’s highwater khakis and ugly polo, which you’d think he’d
picked up at a thrift store just before we came here. I almost laugh, but Ben’s
snarling voice drags me back to the moment. “Stay away from my brother, you son
of a bitch!”
“Dude, get off me!” Matt
tries to shove him away, but Ben has his neck pinned now.
You go, Ben,
I
think as I race toward them.
I would never have expected
Ben to actually throw a punch, but the first blow makes contact with Matt’s
jaw. His eyes widen just before Ben hits him again. This time he drops to the
ground. Ben is on him in less than a second, punching him mostly in the face,
again and again. Matt tries to push him off, even knee him in the crotch, but
he’s not fast enough to get my brother off him.
Ben’s storm of rage is so
fierce that he doesn’t seem to notice me yelling at him until I grab him around
the chest and yank him back. “Jesus Christ, Ben,
stop!
”
Ben doesn’t make me fight
him, but where his fists left off, his mouth picks up the slack. “You miserable
piece of shit,” Ben screams at him. “You couldn’t leave my brother alone for
what, three days?”
Blood trickles from Matt’s
lip, and he’s going to have at least one black eye. His features are tainted by
fear as he tries to brush the dust and drops of blood off the front of his suit
jacket.
I drag Ben farther from Matt
and the elderly pickup truck, aware of several adults now gathered in front of
the house. “Let’s walk,” I tell him, pushing him roughly along the street. I
can feel the stares of a dozen or more people on us, but I refuse to look back.
From Ben’s rising and
falling shoulders to the set of his eyes, his determination doesn’t abate as we
continue down the block. “Where are we going?”
I glare at him. “We’ll call
Dad for a ride later, but I don’t want you to get arrested. You were beating
the shit out of him.”
The misty evening covers us
in droplets of moisture, making the air feel unnaturally heavy between us as we
walk at the side of the street. “Why was Matt even there?” Ben asks.
A car approaches us, and for
a second I think it’s going to stop. When it passes, I exhale in relief.
“Cherie was like his great aunt or something. He mentioned it one day at the
greenhouse when he saw her leaving,” I explain.
He shakes his head. “Weird
coincidence, huh?”
“Not really,” I say with a
shrug. “Northfield is small. Lots of people are related.”
I feel like I’m on the verge
of freaking out, just going crazy, destroying everything in my path, and
tearing down the walls of the world itself. Instead I take a deep breath, closing
my eyes and shutting out everything, letting my gradually slowing heartbeat and
the sound of my footsteps become my entire consciousness. I can’t believe Ben
attacked him like that.
“You said you’d let this
go,” I finally say.
Ben reaches across the
distance between us to bring me to a stop. His hand comes to a rest on my chest
before sliding up to my shoulder and giving it a squeeze. My fuzzy vision
focuses briefly on his fingers and the blood, not his own, streaked across his
knuckles.
Ben looks sympathetic for a
moment. “I couldn’t,” he says before dropping his hand and continuing walking.
“Hey, wait,” I call after
him. Jogging a few steps to catch up, I fall into step with him again. “Why did
you do it? What did he say to you?” When Ben doesn’t answer, I add, “If I
hadn’t come outside when I did, you might have put him in the hospital. You owe
me an explanation for that.”
His voice is soft. “Are you
going to keep seeing him?”
“I don’t know. Probably not.
You made a damn fine mess of things.” We’re both quiet again, longer than I
want. “Why did you do it?”
The expression he’s wearing
is so full of agony that I’m afraid he’s going to start crying. “Please just
trust me that he deserved it. He’s no good for you. I know that you’re going to
have all kinds of questions, but please, Jackson, if you’re ever going to trust
me on anything, it should be this.”
What choice do I have? I
could grill him about it until he finally explained what the hell he means,
but… Ben has never asked me something like this before. “Okay, I trust you.”
It’s another hour before Dad
picks us up. He looks pissed off, but the ride home is a quiet one. For the
first time today, the mist rallies together and it starts to rain. The
windshield wipers swoop back and forth, but none of us says a word, not even
after we pull off the dirt road and into the driveway.