I could kill you, Sam thought. I could kill you right now with my bare hands and no one would blame me.
Even though Sam hadn’t said the words out loud, he could tell his dad heard them and knew they were true. No one would blame Sam, he wouldn’t even blame himself, thinking of all the years his dad had beaten up on him and Mike. Their mother. Still, he let go, and his dad stumbled out of his grip, lurching forward with a rancid burp and making his way out of the room. Sam heard a soft thud, probably his dad landing face-first on the couch.
He couldn’t remember making up his mind. Sam grabbed his old frame pack from the back of his closet, along with a couple water bottles and his sleeping bag—a good one that his grandmother bought for him the year before she died—and Mike’s old green canvas tent. On his way out the door, he stopped to look at his dad, passed out on the couch.
“I’m not leaving because I don’t want to kill you,” Sam told him. “I’m leaving because I don’t want to be a killer.”
Nothing, just a muffled snore. Good riddance, Sam thought. He walked out the front door and kept walking all night long until he hit the Appalachian Trail. Then he kept on walking north.
• • •
By the time someone came home, Sam had settled into a rocking chair on the front porch. A woman driving a ratty station wagon pulled into the driveway. Sam could see two bright redheads in the backseat. The look of the mom when she got out of the car surprised him. She was very thin with no makeup, hair pulled back in a braid. Pretty, but she looked tired. She looked very much like an adult, which wasn’t how Sam thought of Mike. The last time he saw him, he hadn’t been much older than Sam was now.
The woman said something to the kids before trudging toward the house. For a second Sam thought maybe she knew who he was. Maybe his dad had woken up that morning in March, full of regret, and had become frantic when he found Sam gone. Maybe he’d done something a regular parent would do, like get on the phone and call everyone Sam might have reached out to. Sam had only shown his face in the small towns along the trail. For all he knew, his picture could be all over Facebook and Twitter. He might even be on one of those billboards. He was still seventeen, technically a missing child.
“Hi,” the woman said tentatively, stopping at the foot of her own porch as if she needed his permission to come any closer.
“Hi,” Sam said, afraid again that he’d got the wrong address. “I’m Sam. Mike’s brother.”
She hesitated a minute, like she was trying to work out in her head if she’d ever heard of him before. “Oh,” she finally said. “Oh right. Sam. Hey. I’m Marianne.”
“Hey,” Sam said, and he stood up. She walked up onto the porch and held out her hand. He could tell that she’d thought about hugging him, but decided not to, and he couldn’t blame her. The hand bath in her little stream was the closest he’d come to laundry or showering in over a week.
He shook her hand, then waited for her to say something like, Thank God you’re okay, or, Everyone’s been so worried about you!
But she only said, “Well, this is a surprise.”
Sam usually felt pretty comfortable around women. They tended to like him right away. But instead of giving her a slow smile, or trying to charm her, he found himself blurting out, “So did Dad call? Have you guys been looking for me?”
She looked confused. Then she shrugged, her face rearranging itself into a kindness that Sam liked. She was smart. In one second, she understood that Sam wanted to know if anyone had been worried.
“No,” Marianne said. “No, he didn’t. But I’m very glad to see you, just the same.”
• • •
The two redheaded kids weren’t Mike’s, and neither was the house. Marianne used to live here with her ex-husband. She didn’t go into a lot of detail about what had happened to him, but was otherwise friendly and chatty. She gave Sam some clean sweats and a T-shirt of Mike’s, and showed him the bathroom and the washing machine.
Marianne had refused his offer to help with dinner, so Sam sat at the kitchen table with the older girl, Susannah, filling out the questions from the bottle. Marianne told Sam how she worked at a day care, so she could bring Susannah and Millie with her every day. Mike worked at the Save-A-Lot, bagging groceries.
“He’ll be a cashier soon,” she said.
By the time Mike got home, Sam’s clothes were tumbling in the dryer. Sam could tell when he came in that Marianne had already called to give him a heads-up. He looked on edge, like his long-lost little brother wasn’t the most welcome sight in the world. He also looked kind of bloated and puffy, and older than . . . how old must Mike be by now? Twenty? Twenty-one?
“Hey,” Mike said. “Look what the cat dragged in.”
Sam stood up to shake Mike’s hand, hunching his shoulders a little so he wouldn’t tower over his brother. This wasn’t deferential. It was strategic. Mike could be competitive, and right now, Sam needed to make sure he didn’t feel threatened. He needed him to be a big brother.
Mike clapped his hand onto Sam’s shoulder, squeezing a little. “What are they putting in the water back there in Seedling?” he said. “Growth hormones?”
Marianne laughed, sliding chopped onions into a wide frying pan. They sizzled as they hit the oil, and Sam breathed in the scent. Sometimes, lately, his body forgot to be hungry. But it had been a long time since he’d smelled a home-cooked meal.
Mike grabbed two beers out of the refrigerator. “Let’s go out back,” he said to Sam. “You can fill me in.”
At the kitchen table, Susannah lifted up the pen they’d been using, giant blue eyes imploring.
“We’ll finish when I come back,” Sam promised her.
• • •
Things started out okay, with Mike showing him around the yard and asking him questions about the past couple years.
“Typical,” he said when Sam told him about the cigarette.
Mike pulled up his shirt to show him a couple of his own scars, and reminded him about the time Dad had broken his wrist dragging him into the kitchen to clean up after dinner. When his wrist swelled up, their dad had made a deal with both of them, saying he’d only take Mike to the emergency room if they promised to say he’d fallen on his Rollerblades.
“That guy will never change,” Mike said, and then drained the last of his beer.
Mike was interested in how Sam had made his way here—“You walked?” he said, incredulously. Sam told him how he had partly survived on food that grew on the trail, like berries and mushrooms and assorted wildflowers. The fishing was decent and sometimes he’d stop in a town to work for a day or two—offering to mow lawns or paint fences, so he could afford supplies. There were also plenty of people on the trail who were willing to share food around the campfire.
“Girls,” Mike said with a crooked smile. “I see nothing’s changed in that department.”
“Marianne seems cool,” Sam said, redirecting the subject, and right away he saw he’d made a mistake.
The barest bit of anger passed over his brother’s face, like he didn’t want anyone complimenting her. “She’s all right. The kids are a pain in the butt, but it’s a free place to live.”
Sam didn’t say anything. He accepted the second beer Mike handed him even though he’d barely taken a sip from the first. He reminded himself that Mike was the only person in the world who might offer him a place to stay. He thought of the girl he’d been going out with before he left, Starla, and how he hadn’t gotten in touch with her because he thought she might tell his father where he was. Turns out it didn’t matter. His father hadn’t been looking.
Over the past few months on the trail, Sam hadn’t let himself think much about Starla or any of the other kids from his class. He hadn’t pictured them graduating without him, going to work in the mines, or switching from part-time to full-time at whatever job they already had. Some of them
would get married. A few of the especially smart ones, like Starla, would head to West Virginia University. Knowing Starla, she was probably already packing to leave.
Marianne poked her head out and said, “Dinner’s ready, guys.”
“All right,” Mike said, scraping his chair noisily on the deck. “Let’s see what she oversalted tonight.”
Marianne was already back in the kitchen giving the girls their plates of chicken and Brussels sprouts. Sam hoped she hadn’t heard Mike.
Mike grabbed another beer and started to hand one to Sam.
“No thanks,” Sam said. “I’m good.” Mike shrugged and gave it to Marianne instead.
“These things again?” Mike said, spearing a Brussels sprout.
Marianne slid into her chair apologetically. “Sorry,” she said. “It’s something green the girls will eat.”
Sam quickly took a bite so he could say, “Wow, this is amazing. Thank you.”
He wanted to be nice, it was true, but also the food was amazing. Usually he wasn’t a big fan of Brussels sprouts, but these were tender and crunchy at the same time. Salty, sure, but in a good way.
Mike rolled his eyes. “Sam has a special way with the ladies,” he said. It was probably supposed to be a compliment, but it didn’t sound like one. Mike gave Sam’s head a weird little shove. Sam could see the little girls leaning closer to each other.
“What do you think, Marianne? You think my brother’s a good-looking kid?”
Marianne laughed uncomfortably and took her first bite of food. Clearly there was no right answer to that question.
Mike cocked his head and pulled on his earlobe. “Got a hearing problem?” he said. “You think my brother’s handsome? Blond hunk of muscles over here?”
Sam could see it on Marianne’s face, the same look their mother used to have, measuring and calculating. Strategizing the best way to calm this uncalmable person.
Then Millie piped up. “I think he looks like Prince Eric.”
“Prince Eric has black hair,” Susannah said.
“Except for that.”
Mike stared straight ahead, probably trying to remember which movie Prince Eric was in. Sam had no idea, either.
“Thanks,” Sam said, with what felt like the first real smile he’d cracked in a long time. “That’s the nicest compliment I’ve ever had.”
The girls smiled back, but Sam knew right away they’d all made a mistake. In fact they’d passed the point where they could make anything but mistakes. Mike stood up angrily and got another beer, reaching into the fridge with such intensity, you’d think he was grabbing a weapon.
After dinner, Mike marched out of the kitchen while Sam tried to help with the dishes.
“You know,” Marianne said, “it would actually help me more if you kept them occupied.” She jutted her chin toward the girls, and Sam knew what she meant: keep them out of Mike’s way. He picked up Millie and brought her back to the table to sit with her sister. Then they went to work finishing the note from the bottle.
“Okay,” Sam said. “We already wrote that we found it in Temple Stream. Right? That’s what it’s called?”
“That’s what it says here,” Susannah said, pointing to where Sam had written it down earlier. “I can see the T.”
“T,” said Sam. “Like my last name.”
“But not our last name,” Susannah said. “Mike’s not our father.”
Marianne paused for a second at the sink behind them, then turned the water higher. Sam knew it was to drown out their conversation so Mike wouldn’t hear. Hopefully he’d already stumbled upstairs and passed out. The one good thing about mean drunks is eventually they pass out, and nothing can wake them. It was a familiar feeling, hanging on, tiptoeing across glass, until that breath of relief.
“I have to put my address,” Sam said. “Do you think this person will write back?”
“Maybe he’ll come visit,” Susannah said. “Like you.”
She recited their address for Sam, who filled it in. Mike appeared in the doorway, leaning against the doorjamb.
“What’s that?” Mike said. “You living here now?”
Millie echoed the words in a different tone. “You’re living here now?” she asked, excited. “I thought you were just visiting.”
“He is just visiting,” Mike said. He reached over and took the sheet of paper off the table, crumpled it, and tossed it in the general direction of the garbage. Millie burst out crying as it landed on the floor. It made Sam sad to see the expert way in which Susannah stood and guided her sister out of the kitchen, using the other doorway. Sam waited until he heard them reach the top of the stairs before he spoke.
“Sorry,” he finally said. “It just feels so much like home, I guess I forgot myself.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“What do you think it means? Want another beer, Mike? Or would you rather I pour you a shot? You can scare little kids much faster if you go straight for the hard stuff.”
Mike leaned across the table and pointed a thick finger in Sam’s face. “You shut up,” he said. “Just shut up.”
The steady rush of water shut off. “Mike.” Marianne’s voice was quiet.
“YOU.” The word was so loud, it made it seem like he’d been whispering. “YOU STAY OUT OF THIS.”
“It’s her house,” Sam said, his voice very low. He was remembering the way his father had felt in his hands, all that soft flesh that would have been so easy to pound. Now for the past few months he’d been walking twenty miles a day, sometimes more. He had walked over mountains, over a thousand miles. While Mike had been bagging groceries, drinking beer, getting soft. Sam was taller, younger. It would be so easy to just stand up, take him by the collar, and give him what he deserved.
Upstairs, he was sure, the girls were cowering. Sam pictured them, tiny ears pressed against the floorboards.
“I guess it’s a good thing you don’t smoke,” Sam said, motioning toward the row of round scars on Mike’s arm. Mike looked down and swayed on his feet—he’d lost the brace of the doorjamb when he’d stepped toward Marianne.
“Forget this,” Mike said, and started to retreat. Then he turned back, this time pointing at Sam. “You’re gone in the morning.”
“My thoughts exactly,” said Sam.
Mike nodded as if he’d accomplished something, then walked out of the room.
Marianne came to the table and sat across from Sam. They both sat quietly, listening to him make his way upstairs, their breath held to see if he’d start in on the girls. But all they heard was a door close. The whole house breathed a sigh of relief. The drunk was down. At least for the night.
“Why would you let him stay here?” Sam asked. She looked so tired, but she had kind eyes. Her hair looked like it had been bright red like her daughters’ once, now it was a soft chestnut. Sam wondered if she had a father like Mike. When Sam was little he used to think of his father as two people, Daytime Dad and Nighttime Dad. He tried to remember how old he’d been before he couldn’t look at one without seeing the other.
“It’s your house,” Sam said. “Why don’t you kick him out?”
“He’s not always like this,” Marianne said. “I think it’s just bringing up a lot, seeing you again after so long, and . . .”
Sam held up his hand. He couldn’t stand it, listening to her make excuses.
“Maybe,” Sam said. “He may not always be like this. But you know at the same time. He always will be like this.”
Marianne nodded, her eyes filling with tears. Part of Sam wanted to reach out, take her hand. Comfort her. But another part knew that even though she knew he was right, and even though there were two little girls upstairs listening, nothing Sam said or did would make any difference.
• • •
Hours later, Sam lay on the couch und
er the quilt Marianne had given him. It was the first soft place he’d slept in months, so you’d think he’d be dead to the world. But his eyes had been open long enough to adjust to the darkness, staring up at the ceiling. Even though he’d only had one sip of the first beer, the taste lingered at the back of his throat. It made him feel sick, like somehow he had something to do with the way Mike had acted.
Mike hadn’t been as bad as their dad. But then, their dad hadn’t always been that bad, either. When Mike and Sam were little—more or less the same ages as Millie and Susannah—it had gone pretty much the same way. A steady stream of beers led to their dad getting slowly meaner; the things he said, especially to their mother, meant to provoke a reaction that he could get pissed about so he could then blame whatever he did on everybody else.
Sam knew there was a good chance Mike wouldn’t even remember telling him he had to leave. If he wanted to, he could stay. Either way, his brother would wake up hating himself, full of apologies.
Sam pushed the quilt aside and got up. He would’ve finished doing the dishes in the sink, but he didn’t want to wake anyone. Instead, he fished the crumpled paper out of the trash and smoothed it out. He hunted down a clean piece of paper and a pen, along with an envelope and a stamp, and copied everything down carefully:
Who are you? Your name and address and phone are optional. Sam Tilghman. I don’t have an address or phone.
Being as precise as you can, where did you find this bottle? In Temple Stream, below my brother’s girlfriend’s house in Farmington, Maine, tangled in some reeds in a little curve by the shore.
On what date? Somewhere in June. I lose track these days.
In what circumstances? That is, what were you doing when you happened on the bottle? I was taking a break from leaving the world behind. That turned out to be a mistake.
Add any notes or information you’d like: Just, thanks for this. Now you’ve got me thinking about the poetry of streams. That’s a good thing to think about. Better than anything I could’ve come up with.
The Distance from Me to You Page 5