Blood Brothers

by Colleen Nelson

“What?” he asks, his voice tight with irritation.

  I stand there, clinging to what I need to tell him. The stupid, ridiculous idea that it will matter. That it will change things.

  The tattoo, what he’s already done for the gang, what he’s going to have to do; they’ve got him. He’s not getting out now. I don’t have to worry about my confession hurting Lincoln. The Lincoln I want to protect is gone.

  “It’s a message from Dustin. He misses you,” I tell him, my voice tight.

  A flicker of the old Link crosses his face, then disappears.

  He shakes his head at me, his eyes distant. “Just fucking go,” he says.

  He heads back to the garage, head bent low, shoulders slumped. I watch him cross the street and then I turn away, too. There’s a gaping hole where he used to be, like someone ripped out a piece of me and forgot to stitch it up.

  The city stretches below me. A breeze makes goosebumps rise on my arms. I pull the bandana up over my nose and mouth and get to work.

  I sketched quickly when I left the garage, emotion making the lines raw and powerful. On the roof of the building, the wind flips the pages of my sketchbook, threatening to carry it over the edge.

  Using my backpack to anchor it open, I study the piece. There’s no mistaking what it means. A guy staring out at the world, his mouth gagged by a Red Bloodz tag. The dagger from the tattoo stabbing him in the back.

  I hold a can of red spray paint in my hand. With a hiss, Morf hits the wall.

  I won’t rat on Henry, but I can’t stay silent, either. Hidden in the pages of my sketchbook are drawings of Lester, the truth of his murder. They need to make their way onto a wall so Morf can speak for the dead, lay blame where it needs to be.

  Lincoln

  I hear people partying at the clubhouse from down the street. Bursts of laughter sound like crows cawing. I want to be anywhere else but here. But there is nowhere else. I brush past four or five people on the porch to get to the door.

  Inside, the air is thick with smoke. “Linnnncoooooln,” someone yells. I turn and it’s Roxy. Her legs hang over the arm of a chair. There’s a lamp behind her, but the shade is gone, so it shines too bright and I squint when I look at her.

  “Where’ve you been?” I ask, coming closer. She’s drunk, or high, or both. Her mouth turns up in a smile and her half-closed eyes are glassy.

  “Around.” She sits up in the chair like she just had an idea. “Hey, I’m thinking about hitching west, to Vancouver. I don’t want to be hanging around here in the winter. Frickin’ freezing.”

  I don’t know if she’s being serious or not. I blink at her a couple times, waiting. “When are you leaving?”

  She shrugs. “Soon, I guess.”

  I think about her sister searching the city for someone who’s long gone. “You gonna tell anyone before you go?”

  “I’m telling you,” she slurs.

  I tiptoe around the words, worried I’ll say too much. “What about your sister?”

  Roxy tugs at a loose thread on the chair, wrapping it around her finger till the tip turns blue. “She’ll just make me go home.”

  “What’s wrong with that?”

  “Cuz, I can’t go back.” She sits back in the chair with a huff. “I got messed up in some stuff. I needed to get away. You know how it is.”

  “You needed some air.” I’m fighting for breath right now, I want to tell her. When Koob came by the shop, I thought about leaving with him. Walking away like all this shit with the Red Bloodz never happened. My insides screamed at me to do it. But my feet, my head, they went the other way, back to the garage.

  “Yeah,” she says and looks around. “But now I need more air. This place is getting to me.”

  “You feel like you’re suffocating,” I mumble, cuz it’s all familiar.

  Her breath catches in her throat in a little hiccup and she nods. “I knew you’d get it.”

  “You want company?” I ask, half joking.

  “Yeah. You’d come?” she asks.

  I let the idea float for a few minutes, thinking. “Why not?” I think about Dustin. Maybe it’d be better for him if I was gone. “You know anyone we could stay with?” I ask.

  Roxy’s eyelids are heavy, like she might pass out soon. “Where?” She tries to focus on me, but can’t.

  “Vancouver.”

  “Oh.” She tries to sit up, but flops back down, her forehead wrinkling cuz she’s confused. “You’re going to Van? That’s cool.” I look at her and shake my head. There’s no point talking to her when she’s like this.

  Vancouver. The idea makes me light-headed. People leave their home all the time. Lester was going to. Roxy did it, she ended up here, but still, she had the balls to leave. We’d be free. Me and Roxy, heading west.

  I leave Roxy on the chair and go upstairs. I don’t want to party. I just want quiet. A couple of guys jostle me on the stairs, but I ignore them. When I get to my room — and it’s only my room cuz no one else is in it and my duffle bag’s sitting in the corner — I lock the door, flop on the mattress, and stare at the glowing light bulb until I see spots. The word Vancouver runs through my head over and over until it turns into a nothing word and just a feeling: an escape.

  There’s a cannon tucked into my hoodie pocket. I take it out and stop in front of a random grey door. Paint hits the metal and a few drops roll down. Henry told me to tag the shit out of the West End. People need to know we’re here; we need to make a mark.

  I’m better than this. I didn’t tell him that, but tagging is old. I know what Koob and I can do together. There’s no thrill in tossing up a gang tag, no art either.

  A mailbox gets one, and a garage door and a loading dock. A dumpster in a back alley already has others, but I make the Red Bloodz tag bigger, so it takes up the whole side. A fire escape stretches up above the dumpster. I look around, pulling back my hoodie to check, and sure enough, I’m in the alley where I got busted. I saved Koob that night. He was shitting his pants thinking about what would happen if the cops brought him home. What Mr. K would do.

  I never go up buildings by myself. Too scared. I only go up because Koob does. I look at the fire escape, the way it zigzags up the building. I know what’s up there. Before I let my fear stop me, I climb onto the dumpster, the lid bending and creaking under my feet. Then, my hands are on the fire escape railing, rust flaking off, marking me black with sooty dust. The metal clanks under my feet, loose bolts making it shake as I go to the top.

  The wind is stronger on the roof, the air more biting. Gravel crunches under my feet and I walk around, close to the edge. I hate the edge, but I dare myself to look over. To take a breath. I close my eyes, imagining for a second what would happen if I fell. The splat I’d make. Like Lester, a mass of broken bones and exploded insides. It makes me dizzy thinking about it and I step back, gasping.

  I turn to the wall. Koob’s piece, the one we worked on, is still there. A can of spray paint crushes the city.

  Our tags in red at the bottom. Morf. Skar.

  I stare at it for a few minutes, trying to remember who I was the night we painted it.

  I toss the cannon at the wall as hard as I can, but it just rebounds off and falls to the ground at my feet. I want to tear the piece apart, brick by brick, so there’s nothing left to remind me of what we used to be.

  Jakub

  I open the front door. Same smells of mildew and wet wood in the hallway. Worn carpet and pulsing fluorescent bulbs lead the way upstairs.

  Dad’s cooking; the thick aroma of borscht fills the hallway. Salami, too, the garlic released by the heat of the frying pan.

  The door gives a familiar creak as it opens. Father Dom is here, sitting at the kitchen table. He waves a hand in greeting, his face heavy with what he knows. With what he knows I still have to do.

  I reach into the hot pan for a piece of the salami.
Dad slaps at my hand, but I take one quick and blow on it till it cools enough to eat it. There’s four bowls on the counter. Dad fills them with thick, creamy borscht. He adds a dollop of sour cream and swirls it into the soup. “What’s going on?” I ask, looking between them.

  “It’s for Lester.” He shrugs. “I wanted to do something. Laureen’s coming, too. I’ll go tell her it’s ready.”

  As he bends down to slip on his shoes, I hear him groan and lean against the wall, clutching his thigh.

  “Dad?”

  “Antony?” Father Dom says, rising from his chair. He waves us off.

  “It’s nothing. A twinge, that’s all.” But I see his face, forehead wrinkled and mouth screwed up as he tries to hide the pain.

  “I’ll go get Laureen,” I say.

  “No.” He turns to me, his eyes resolute. I open my mouth to argue, but his Polish pride flares. “I’m fine.”

  “Fine,” I mutter as the door clicks shut behind him. Hearing his uneven footsteps in the hallway makes me shake my head at Father Dom. He reaches into the inside pocket of his jacket and slides it across the table at me.

  “Look.” He jabs a finger at it.

  I lean over. It’s a clipping from today’s paper; the bolded headline reads: “Suspect Arrested in Fenty’s Bar Killing.” I grip the table and sit down. “They caught Henry?” I exhale.

  But Father Dom shakes his head. “Read it.”

  Police have arrested 32-year-old Lawrence Girard for the murder of 53-year-old Lester McFarlane. McFarlane’s body was found badly beaten in an alley behind Fenty’s Bar, in the West End, on Oct. 3. Girard was arrested for on unrelated charge later that night and police found McFarlane’s wallet in his possession. Police suspect robbery led to McFarlane’s beating and subsequent death.

  Father Dom drops his voice to a rushed whisper. “I know him.” He taps the photos. “He comes to the soup kitchen, brings his children.” He grabs my hand, squeezing it hard. “This can’t go on. You have to tell the police.”

  The room feels like it’s shrinking, the walls swirling around me. “You don’t get it!” I blurt out, frustration straining my voice. “You think if they arrest Henry, this will be over? His crew will come after me. And Dad. They’ll turn on Lincoln, if they think he snitched.”

  I take the article off the table, fold it, and stuff it in my back pocket. My heart’s still beating quick when Dad and Laureen shuffle through the door. She’s wearing her slippers and the ends of her hair are curled tight and springy. Dad goes to the counter and brings back a half-empty bottle of vodka, another gift from Father Dom. He pours a mouthful into each of our water glasses, even mine.

  “To Lester,” he says.

  “To Lester,” we chorus. The liquid goes down my throat, settling in my stomach like hot charcoal.

  “Feels empty around here,” Laureen says. The first spoonful of borscht sits on her spoon. “He was a good guy, you know. Always paid his rent on time. Never gave me any trouble. Not like —” She points to the apartment downstairs with a raised eyebrow. Mr. and Mrs. Domestic Abuse. “Heard they caught somebody.” She looks to us for confirmation.

  Father Dom nods. “It was in the paper this morning.”

  “Goddamn son of a bitch,” Laureen swears and looks quickly at Father Dom. “No offence,” she says.

  He waves her apology away.

  “I hope he gets sent away for life.” Her face twists with bitterness.

  “Me too,” Dad mutters.

  I sit between them, the truth smouldering inside me.

  A car, a low-rider, drives past, slowly. Its suspension creaks as it goes over a pothole. I bend my shoulders under my hoodie, sticking to the shadows. I snuck out when Dad’s snores filled the apartment, raiding the garage for what was left of my cannons.

  It’s closing time for Fenty’s Bar. People stumble on the sidewalk, leaning against each other; fragments of conversations float past me, most of them slurred. I duck into the alley, where I found Lester. The yellow police tape is gone, and I say a prayer when I pass the spot where he lay. It’s too dark to see, but I imagine his blood still stains the pavement.

  I jump onto one of the dumpsters and cling to windowsills a couple of inches thick until I can get to the fire escape and climb up to the roof. Only it’s not me three storeys above the alley, it’s Morf. Daring, bold Morf going places Jakub would never venture. The payoff is big. A piece in this location could run for weeks, maybe months, too tricky to buff. That’s what this piece deserves.

  Morf will speak for me. His voice will scream loud; it will echo off the cement walls until everyone hears.

  I put on my bandana, feel the familiar clunk of the ball against the sides of the cannon. My sketchbook lies open at my feet. I don’t need it, though; the image I’m painting tonight was burned into my memory days ago.

  When the final hiss of the spray can hits the stucco wall, I take a step back and look at Lester lying in the alley, a work boot off to the side. His face half-covered by hair. “RIP Lester” scrawled in bubble letters under him.

  The Red Bloodz tag hangs ominous over his body.

  Tossing the cannons into my backpack, I begin the dangerous climb down. When my feet hit the ground, I look up at the piece. Lester floats above me, and my pulse races. More than anything I’ve done, this one matters. And there’s no mistaking what it means.

  Lincoln

  I stand outside my house for a while, watching Dustin through the window. Dad’s home with him, sleeping in a chair while Dustin stares at the TV. With my hood up, I’m invisible in the shadows. I wait until Dustin falls asleep, too, stretched out on the couch, one arm dangling to the floor.

  I think about sneaking inside, lying down in my own bed. More than anything, I want to press rewind. I want back into my house, into the life I had. But it doesn’t work that way. I’m not that guy anymore. I’m on the outside now and there’s no getting back in.

  Knowing what I gave up makes my chest hurt, like a hole is burning through my ribs. I turn away, slinking back to where I came from.

  My phone’s been ringing all night. It goes again, making my pocket vibrate. I take it out, pull out the SIM card, and drop it down the sewer grate. I toss the phone onto the road; the plastic cracks and shatters. I can’t go back, but I don’t have to go on, either. Maybe I can run away with Roxy, leave all the shit behind and start fresh somewhere new.

  I’m still carrying around Roxy’s sister’s card. It’s in my pocket. If Roxy hitches out west, her sister will never find her. I wonder about the stuff Roxy got mixed up in, if it’s as bad as she thinks it is.

  When I get to the clubhouse, Roxy is outside, having a smoke. Her hood is pulled up over her head, sleeves pulled long over her fingers. She’s chewed a hole on the cuff part, so her thumb sticks out.

  The ring in her eyebrow glints in the dark, catching light from the bare bulb on the porch.

  “It’s friggin’ cold out,” she says when I get close. I point to the flip-flops on her feet. No shit, she’s cold.

  “You could smoke inside.”

  She shakes her head. “I needed some air.”

  I get a weird twinge. “How come?”

  She takes a long drag and blows the smoke out the other side of her mouth. “Doesn’t matter. You got any weed?”

  “Not on me. Probably some inside, though.”

  She’s staring across the street, shivering. My feet tap the stairs. Spongy, rotten boards hide the sound.

  “Saw my sister today.”

  I turn to her quick, surprised.

  “She didn’t see me, though. She was asking about me, to anyone who passed by. She was always like that, pushy.”

  “Did you talk to her?”

  Roxy shakes her head and her shoulders slump. “I wanted to, but there’s so much —” Roxy breaks off. “She’ll hate me.”

>   I take the smoke from her and take a long puff. “You think she’d still be looking for you if she did?”

  Roxy’s quiet and I hope she’s thinking about it. I pass the cigarette back to her and she takes a drag off it, blowing a stream of smoke into the night.

  My hands go to my pocket, brush against the softened edges of the Missing Rachelle card. “Were you serious about going out to Vancouver?” I ask.

  She takes so long to answer, I wonder if she heard me. “I don’t know.”

  “If you do, I’m not going,” I tell her.

  She looks at me, flicking the fringe of hair out of her eyes. “Figured. With your brother and shit.”

  I snort and shake my head. I want to tell her that just cuz we share blood, doesn’t make us brothers.

  “They were looking for you before. Henry and the other one,” she says. “Asked if I knew where you were.”

  “You know why?”

  She shakes her head. They were probably pissed that I wasn’t answering my phone. I pull the card from her sister out of my pocket and hand it to her.

  “What is it?” she asks.

  “Just look at it,” I say. When she does, her mouth goes tight.

  There’s a pounding of feet through the house and Jonny bursts through the doors. “He’s out here!” he hollers into the house.

  Roxy looks at me like “I told you” and makes room for me to stand up.

  “What?” I say, cuz he’s staring at me.

  “Why haven’t you been answering your fucking phone? Your brother wants to talk to you.” The way he says brother make me grit my teeth. He’s a slimy little shit. He holds the door open, waiting for me, like he’s a friggin’ bounty hunter. I look at Roxy, but she’s staring at the card, the cigarette forgotten in her hand.

  I got no choice, I go inside. From the door, I can see Henry at the kitchen table, so I head that way, slowly though, cuz needles of worry move up my spine.