I shrug. “A regular one, as far as I know. My guess is that Koby’s probably trying to freak him out.”
Ali nods thoughtfully. “Probably right.”
Brian is over in the vinyl section, flipping through the selections; I watch as he pull an album by Metallica out of the rack and turns it over to study the playlist on the back. In my experience, Brian has never been a big heavy metal fan, but I figure maybe he’s looking to expand his collection—perhaps to compliment his newfound love of slasher flicks.
“So, if you had to guess, which of these would you say has the most explicit language?” Koby’s asking the clerk, holding up a CD in each hand.
The kid considers. “Well, you can’t go wrong with the Manson, but there’s always Cypress Hill … ”
“Uh-huh. Uh-huh.”
I’m just turning around, to tell Ali that Koby’s shrink is going to come up with a whole new treatment plan based on his birthday present, when a movement by Brian catches my eye. My heart rate quickens as I realize that, in one swift motion, my brother has pressed an LP against the front of his body and zipped up his jacket to conceal it. He turns and begins walking casually toward me, his face expressionless.
“What are you doing?” I hiss. My mouth has gone so dry I can barely get the words out.
“I’ll wait for you guys outside,” Brian says, ignoring my question. I hold my breath, anticipating the shrill screech of alarms as Brian passes through the security zone, but remarkably, none come. The only sound is the bell of the Dusty Groove’s front door swinging closed behind him. Apparently no one is going to notice that my brother has just committed an obvious crime.
“Goddamnit,” I mutter to Ali, who looks at me blankly. “I’ll be right back.”
Outside, Brian is leaning against the Dusty Groove’s storefront, scanning the street and sidewalk. “See any suspicious activity?” I ask. “Aside from your own?”
Brian’s expression remains neutral. “Nope. All clear.”
“So,” I ask, “you’re a shoplifter now?”
Brian chuckles. “Why do you say that?”
I reach over and pull down the zipper on the front of his jacket, revealing the album behind it. “That’s why I say that.”
Without missing a beat, Brian reaches up and unzips his jacket the rest of the way, letting the album, Altars of Madness by Morbid Angel, into view. “Seriously, what does it matter?” he asks me. “It’s not like it’s important.”
“Not to you, maybe,” I tell him. “But I’m sure the owners of the record shop prefer people paying for their merchandise.”
Brian shrugs. “Take it back, then,” he offers, holding the album out to me.
“Why’d you take it in the first place?” I don’t have a lot of money myself, but I know my brother has plenty.
“Dov,” Brian says wearily, “chillax. Seriously, it’s not worth it, dude. I’m here to tell you that none of this matters. There are so many terrible things going on the world, so much pure evil … it’s truly pathetic to even worry about something like this.”
When Brian starts talking like this, there’s no point in arguing, and I’m halfway relieved when the door of the Dusty Groove swings open and my friends emerge.
“Got it,” Koby says brightly, holding up a plastic bag. “He’s going to think I’m a psychopath for sure.”
“Copy that,” Brian says. “Let’s roll.”
In the car, my brother is suddenly in high spirits, joking and laughing with my friends. He breaks the news about needing to stop at the flower shop, and Koby and Ali cheerfully agree, happy to go anywhere as long as they can remain in the company of the great and powerful Brian Howard. For a few minutes, anyway, my brother seems back on his game, charming my friends with his dynamic personality. Listening to him banter, I can almost be convinced that I imagined the emptiness in his eyes as he stared back at me outside the Dusty Groove.
Almost.
Longview Herald
Legendary Local Athlete Arrested
Well-known Longview High athlete and National Guard hero, Brian Howard, 20, is charged with theft after being apprehended Saturday following a report of theft from an area music store.
When contacted for comment, the owner of the Dusty Groove expressed shock, stating, “We might have expected this from his brother (Dov Howard, 16), but never from Brian. I’m still thinking this entire thing must be a terrible mistake.”
Authorities are investigating any possible involvement by Dov Howard …
Twenty-Five
(CNN)—Military officials confirmed today
that the most dangerous threat for U.S. troops in Afghanistan comes from an unexpected source: roadside bombs. These bombs, often referred to as IEDs or “improvised explosive devices,” are responsible for 70-80 percent of casualties,
according to Admiral Mike Mullen, chairman
of the Joint Chiefs of Staff …
Too soon, the weekend of our much-anticipated hunting trip is upon me. “There’s got to be a way I can get out of this nightmare,” I moan to Leo.
’Fraid not, Grasshopper. Your ticket says round trip on this one.
Just when I think things can’t get any worse, Dad comes off the road early and insists we have to leave for the hunting shack on Friday night rather than early on Saturday morning, as originally planned. “It’ll give us a chance to get up and do some scouting before dawn,” Dad tells me, obviously pleased.
Before dawn? This is just getting better and better.
With Brian’s arm just out of the sling, it’s all on me when it comes to helping Dad load up the Suburban for the trip. “Helping Dad” mostly involves Dad supervising and criticizing me as I haul sleeping bags, camping supplies, boxes of food and ammo, and the rifles in their canvas covers. To my relief, we’re only bringing two guns, one for Dad and one for Brian. I have zero interest in being schooled in the most efficient methods of killing.
“All right … that oughtta do it,” Dad finally decrees, giving everything one last once-over.
“Are you sure?” I ask, exhausted. “What about the kitchen sink? That’s still in the house.”
No comment from Dad, who is now looking me over. “You got some clothes to bring?” he asks. “What I mean is, you’re not planning on going out in that kind of a getup, are you?”
I glance down. Without even being reminded, I’d pulled on a faded old pair of Levi’s I’d found buried deep in the back of my closet. Besides that, I’m wearing a MCR T-shirt, a yellow hoodie, and tennis shoes, none of which seemed likely to provoke my father.
“Um … ” I say cautiously, “what’s wrong with this?” It’s a loaded question, but I decide that in honor of our hunting trip, I might as well pull the trigger.
Dad sighs impatiently. “Well, first of all,” he says, “your feet will freeze in those flimsy things. You need some boots … some of your brother’s old ones, maybe. Ask your mother; she knows where all that stuff is.”
“Okay.”
“And I’m betting those are the same clothes you wore to school today.”
“Not all of them,” I mumble. Even he should know I wouldn’t be caught dead in these jeans.
“To a deer, you’re going to smell like books and gym shoes and whatever else school smells like these days. Nothing that a deer is used to smelling, I’ll tell ya that. Why do you think your mother washes our hunting clothes in unscented detergent?”
Apparently I missed the memo about Mom’s role in the plot to kill Bambi. Frankly, however, nothing could surprise me at this point.
It doesn’t matter; Dad is on a roll. “And listen, that whole getup will reflect the light like a neon sign.”
This whole thing is getting downright silly, if you ask me. “What do you want me to wear, then?” I demand. “It’s not like I have a closet full of wool and camo.”
Dad gives me a look that says my tone is tiptoeing awfully close to the line of disrespect, but I just stare defiantly back at him. After all, wha
t’s he going to do … make me stay home?
Instead, he narrows his eyes in a glare designed to intimidate. “Go see if your mother has finished packing the cooler,” he barks. I’ve pushed things farther than was comfortable for either of us, so I turn obediently and trot back toward the house. Behind me, I can hear Dad muttering angrily to himself.
It’s nearly an hour later when we finally pull out of the driveway. Dad is in the driver’s seat and Brian is in the passenger seat. I, of course, ride in the back, squeezed in between gear and supplies.
The sun is sinking low on the horizon and Dad is disappointed we’ve gotten such a late start. “It’ll be pitch black by the time we get there,” he grumbles. “I was hoping we could get a look around tonight yet, see if there are any signs of bedding.”
“Don’t worry, Dad,” Brian says. “It’ll be dark, but we can send Dov out with a flashlight.”
I reach over the seat and smack the back of his head. “Very funny.” The last thing I need is for Dad to decide that’s a great idea. Anyway, I wouldn’t even know what I was looking for. “What does that mean, anyway?”
Dad puts on the pickup’s blinker to turn onto the highway. “Scouting for bedding sites,” he tells me. “Bucks spend the whole night chasing down doe, then they bed down before daybreak. Right around midday … when they’re all rested up … that’s when we want to be ready for them. He positions one arm as if he has a rifle pressed to his shoulder. “That way they’re staggering around, still half asleep, and … ka-blam!” He shoots Brian an appreciative grin. “I imagine you’ll show me up good this year, what with all the target practice you’ve had lately.”
I watch for my brother’s reaction, but when he speaks, his voice is steady. “No doubt,” he says. “I can’t wait to get my hands back on a firearm. There’s something so soothing about firing a weapon.”
Man, I’m going to get all the girls with a sweet line like that.
The hunting shack is located in godforsaken country about an hour north of Longview; from what I understand, Dad and Brian rent the same cabin every fall. By the time the Suburban turns off the highway and crunches onto gravel, the blackening sky is brightened to navy by the moon overhead. It rained earlier in the week, and the Suburban’s tires bump and skitter across the washboard surface of the road, sending our high beams bouncing crazily. Before I know it, we’re pulling up in front of a run-down structure—it’s the legendary “hunting shack.” With an emphasis on shack.
“I’ll head inside and get some light going,” Dad informs us as he shuts off the engine. “You boys can start unloading.”
Brian opens the passenger door and jumps out, his heels crunching in the gravel as I reach across the sleeping bags and spring my own door handle. First things first: nature is calling.
Once I’ve relieved myself into some scrub bushes, I come back, expecting to find Brian making a pile of things for me to carry inside. He’s nowhere to be seen; the only movement is from inside the cabin, where a blaze of light tells me Dad is making progress. A moment later, Dad crosses in front of one of the grimy windows, a kerosene lantern in his hand. The conditions are even worse than I imagined; I can hardly wait to see where I’ll be sleeping.
“Brian?” I call. When there’s no answer, I glance around nervously, hoping my brother isn’t going to start the weekend off by scaring the shit out of me. It’s just my luck he’ll do something to send me screaming toward the cabin like a girl. I’ll have to listen to Dad and Brian giving me crap about it for the rest of the weekend.
“Brian?” I call again, steeling myself against any sudden attacks. “Bri?”
“Keep it down,” Brian whispers sharply from directly behind me.
Wheeling around, I find Brian standing behind me, his back inches from mine. Even though I tried to prepare myself, it’s a good thing I’ve already emptied my bladder. “Jesus, Brian!” I snap, “Don’t sneak up on me like that. Where were you, anyway?”
Brian turns toward me. “Checking the perimeter,” he mutters. “All clear.” In the light of the moon, his eyes are unnaturally bright; for some reason, Edward Cullen crosses my mind, and I curse the day Miranda made me watch Twilight.
“Knock it off, dude. And don’t tell me to keep it down,” I add irritably. “We’re out in the middle of nowhere.” I rub my arms, pretending that the reason I’m shivering is because it’s cold.
“You’re right about that,” Brian agrees cryptically.
“Whatever that means,” I retort, avoiding looking at him. We’ve only just arrived and already I’m wishing this little vacation was over.
Somewhere along the line, Brian already unloaded his rifle from the Suburban; now he picks it up and threads the straps of his duffel bag over his shoulder. I watch him double-check to make sure the Suburban’s doors are locked, which seems ridiculous considering we’re miles from civilization. “Grab the other stuff,” he instructs me, staggering a little as he heads toward the shack.
“Roger-wilco.” I salute. Oh yeah, I think bitterly as I load my arms with gear, this is gonna be LOADS of fun.
NARRATOR: “You are traveling through another dimension, a dimension not only of sight and sound, but of mind. A journey into a wondrous land of both shadow and substance, a land of imagination. Next stop … the Twilight Zone …”
Twenty-SiX
Inside the hunting shack, the woodstove is having a hard time overcoming the cold November air. Soon I’m shivering, despite having pulled on the extra sweatshirt Mom forced me to bring. The rest of my hunting party doesn’t seem a bit bothered by the cold; Brian even shed his jacket. He’s sitting on a battered kitchen chair, oiling his gun with a soft white rag.
“You boys as hungry as I am?” Dad asks jovially. He’s lit the gas stove, and I watch as he pours several cans of beans into a pot from a cupboard over the sink. I hope he’s wiped it out, at least. Dad locates the package of brats Mom packed, then slices them into the beans. A few minutes later I’m encouraged to find that even though I’m slowly turning into the abominable snowman version of myself, the food smells great.
Dad looks up from the stove. “What … you cold, Dov?”
“Are you kidding me? You can see your breath in here.”
“Don’t be a … ” I watch as Dad catches himself. I know Mom’s voice is scolding in his head: You don’t give Dov a hard time now, you hear me, Mick? He sighs, then finishes with, “It’ll warm up in here in a minute.”
I’m just thinking wow, Dad’s kind of trying, when he drops the spoon in the beans and strides the few steps to where I’m curled, kittenlike, on the threadbare sofa. His rough fingers brush my neck as he pulls my T-shirt away from my throat, peering inside. “No wonder you’re cold, kid,” he scoffs. “You’re not wearing any long johns.”
Brian glances up from his work. “No long johns?” he repeats absently. “There’s an extra pair in my duffel, bro.”
Disgusted, Dad releases my T-shirt and goes back to the beans as I reluctantly unfold myself and go to find Brian’s duffel. He’s set it just inside the only other room, a rough-walled bedroom furnished with two rickety sets of bunks. As I kneel and unzip Brian’s bag, an icy draft comes from the direction of the window; something tells me that even inside my sleeping bag, it’s going to be a long, frigid night.
Mom sealed most of Brian’s hunting clothes into plastic bags, presumably to keep them from being contaminated by the nasty scent of anything human. I locate the package containing the extra set of long underwear and undo the stay-fresh seal, letting the thin, waffled fabric unfurl into my lap. It’s hard to imagine how this flimsy layer of cloth is going to make me feel any warmer.
As I stuff the empty plastic bag back into the duffel, my hand brushes against something solid. Without thinking, I pull it out of the duffel into the moonlight shining through the window … then nearly drop it when I realize it’s a revolver.
“Hey,” I call. “What’s up with this, Brian?”
“With what?” A m
inute later, my brother appears in the doorway. His jaw tenses when he sees me holding the gun. “Oh,” he says. “It’s a firearm, moron.”
“Uh … yeah, that part I get.” I lay the gun carefully back in the bottom of the bag, hoping it isn’t loaded. There are many questions to be asked, but I can’t put any of them into words.
“You find the long johns?”
“Yeah.” I shiver, trying not to think about the fact that I have to undress in order to put them on. At least there will be no problem fitting them under the butt-ugly baggy Levis.
Peeling clothes off in the chill of the bedroom is painful, but worth it; once I manage to scramble into the long johns and back into my clothes, I begin to feel better almost immediately. It isn’t clear whether it’s the extra layer of clothing or the fact that the wood stove has finally coughed forth enough warmth to heat the shack, but either way, I’m able to relax enough to eat my share of brats and beans.
“BLLRRRRPPPP! ” Brian lets loose one of his famous deep belches. “Good chow, Dad.” He’s right—the food is delicious and did its job warming me up from the inside. Now that I’m feeling better, sleep seems like more of a possibility.
“Yup,” Dad agrees, patting his stomach. “Good stuff.”
After we finish, he collects our paper plates, stuffing them both deep into the plastic garbage bag he’s brought along. The shack doesn’t have running water, so the best Dad can do is rinse off our utensils in a bit of drinking water and wipe out the cooking pot with a handful of paper towels.
As he ties the garbage bag closed, Dad watches Brian, who’s stretching his shoulder carefully. “You sure you’re going to be able to manage the rifle tomorrow, buddy?” he asks. “That kick might be a little rough on the shoulder.”
“I’m not worried,” Brian says. “It’s just a little stiff yet. At night, mostly.”
Dad clears his throat. “You haven’t told us about it yet,” he says. “What exactly happened over there? Your injuries, I mean.”
I’m surprised to see Dad asking so gently; I’ve never known him to be shy, or even careful, when asking about something he wants to know.
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