Sticks and Stones

by Angèle Gougeon

  Jack’s attitude became the fire under Daniel’s skin. Another argument blowing up out of proportion and Danny would slam out the door, become quieter than usual, spend his nights at the bars they passed, learning how to hustle and cheat the townsfolk out of their honestly-earned money, cheat them out of their women, too.

  He came back to the motels covered in smoke and alcohol and the perfume of other girls.

  Sandra didn’t know where Jack went when he disappeared. Sometimes there was blood on his shirt when he returned, new bruises on his knuckles and his cheeks where someone had gotten a lucky hit. After a while, it seemed as though they couldn’t hit Jack at all.

  Most nights, they brought money back with them. Sandra didn’t know where it came from or how it was earned. She eventually learned not to ask; it was easier to ignore the mysteriously appearing money than face the long silences caused by her questions.

  Whatever she did, Sandra couldn’t make the boys stay inside. She learned how motels sounded at twelve o’clock at night when she was the only one in the room, diluted sounds of fake passion crawling through the thin walls. She learned that the silence Jack had given before was nothing like the absolute, sullen silence he brought to a room now. She learned Jack didn’t want to kiss her anymore.

  And Danny never looked.

  Sometimes she felt invisible, and then Sandra would head into the bathroom and watch herself in the mirror just to make sure she was still there. After a while, the boys would come back, crawl into bed beside her – sometimes Jack and sometimes Danny – making her shoulders hitch as a cold nose shoved into her neck, skin smelling of whiskey and beer and perfume, wondering if the women had been better than her. Probably. Of course they were. The women they found had more experience. Far more than her paltry three times.

  She tried not to be jealous. It wasn’t easy.

  The towns they drove through were all the same. There were the inevitable differences, of course. Some had more than one traffic light, some consisted only of a Main Street, others had a population of five thousand. There was this restaurant instead of that one, this haunted factory instead of the haunted house at the edge of town, a tiny grocery store instead of the widely known all-night convenience store chain.

  Once they settled somewhere, a couple weeks or a few months at a time, Sandra would escape the silent, heavy rooms by walking into civilization.

  Right now they were in an abandoned house close to the edge of town, the nearby population big enough that they could slip into daily life and go unnoticed. The electricity didn’t work, but the weather was warm and it wasn’t so bad, even if they had to use the money the boys brought home to buy jugs of water and sponge off in the cracked porcelain tub upstairs on the second floor. The wood sagged in places, soft pieces under their feet, and Sandra treaded carefully. She was sure the old boards would collapse and spill her down to the first floor, then all the way into the basement she never visited where the walls were too dark and shadowed and familiar.

  Sometimes, Sandra stared out from the windows in the early hours of the morning, wondering which town’s darlings kept her boys company. She’d wander the rooms and imagine the lives that had come before. She’d listen to the boards of the old house creak, imaging she could hear voices within the moans of the house, the laughter of children, the passion of a man and woman.

  Sometimes there were only rats in the walls.

  Sandra headed outside where she could at least pretend it was the wind she heard. The grass tickled her toes, the mud making her feet dark as insects hummed, weeds catching her ankles and toes.

  The house’s porch had fallen off years ago and Sandra found a place to sit against the siding of the house, back against the rotting wood and knees folded close to her chest. The moon was small, casting slivers of light across the neglected yard.

  She watched the car pull into the overgrown driveway.

  Jack hadn’t been seen for two days and Sandra had barely talked to Danny between his late-night haunts and even later-morning awakenings. She considered calling out to him as he exited the car. But the problem was that Danny wasn’t alone.

  The moonlight caught on the girl’s glossy lips. They looked swollen and her cheeks looked flushed as she giggled and stared at the old house like it was some kind of grand adventure. She was pretty, and Sandra felt something sick gather in her stomach.

  Danny had brought a girl home.

  He’d brought her here.

  Lem would’ve boxed him upside the ears.

  Sandra just curled her legs tighter, watched as Daniel swung one arm over the girl’s shoulders, steadying her as she weaved on her dark high heels. Her skirt was short and cute and a little daring. She looked like a nice girl but Sandra already hated her; hated the nails that wrapped around Daniel’s wrist, hated the lips that grazed his cheek, the eyes that glittered coyly, dark and wanting.

  They reached the steps and Daniel boosted her up onto the first step they’d made out of plastic milk crates and planks of wood. Sandra did her best not to move. Silent and unseen. Nothing new.

  “Wait,” Danny said as she reached for the doorknob, lips almost on the back of her bare shoulders. “Wait.” Like he was finally thinking clearly again. “We can’t go in there.”

  “What – why? I wanted—”

  Sandra didn’t get to hear what she wanted because Daniel crashed his mouth to hers, pulling her against him hard, her head bent down and legs ending up wound around his waist, leaving one of her stylish blue pumps behind as Danny pulled back from the steps and slammed her against the wall. The girl gasped and Sandra froze even more than before.

  They were so close.

  She should get up, she knew. Move and walk away before things got out of control. But then the girl would see and Danny would see and—

  Daniel’s eyes slid sideways, met Sandra’s and his lips curled up into a grin as he pulled his mouth away from the girl’s neck, teeth flashing white. The girl moaned, twisted fingers into Daniel’s messy hair and he lowered his head back down, near the top of her breasts, still looking right at her.

  Sandra swallowed hard, closed her eyes, listened to the hot slick of his tongue and mouth, the hard pants and moans of the girl. Her body felt like an electric wire, nerves too raw and exposed and not in a good way.

  I hate you, she thought.

  The girl made a shuddering little sound and Sandra’s eyes cracked open, caught Danny’s gleaming on her, the way he moved let her know what he was doing now, a slow surge of hips that the girl seemed to love.

  I’d notice if someone wasn’t looking at me, Sandra thought. Even three sheets to the wind, she’d notice.

  Fabric grated against the wood siding, grass a soft noise underfoot and, this time, Sandra did turn her head away. The girl wouldn’t see her now and Danny already had. Her knees felt locked to her chest, acid burn in her throat. “Yes, yes,” the girl whispered, moaned, and Sandra almost crushed her hands to her ears. Her anger burned thick through her veins as Danny hummed back.

  Somewhere, far away where the town lights lit up the sky, a dog barked, the sound echoing into the distance as another hound replied.

  When they were done, Sandra heard the girl step back to the grass, giggling softly when Danny returned her shoe. She wobbled and hugged him around the middle as he led her back to the car, across the weeds and spotty grass and dust-dry gravel.

  Sandra doubted the girl noticed him looking back toward the house, or noticed his smug and satisfied grin.

  Their voices carried low and soft, and Sandra’s knuckles stung at her sides, pressed closed and tight and fingers aching from the urge to lash out.

  When they were gone she pushed herself up on shaking legs, climbed up the milk crate steps, and disappeared inside, into the house and into her room, locking her bedroom door.

  She was through with this.

  S
andra wrapped herself in her blankets, curled up like a cocoon, thinking: Fuck you, Danny Sloan. Him and Jack both.

  With or without them, it was time to start living again.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “Get up.” A fist pounded on the bedroom door.

  Sandra flinched out of bed, still caught up in her blankets and nearly falling all the way to the grainy floor. It wasn’t dirty, not with how many times she’d swept and mopped, but she could still feel the gritty film of old dust and wood beneath her toes as Jack thumped against the door one last time.

  “I’m up!” she called out and listened to him walk away; story of her life.

  She grabbed the only hair band she had left, pulling on a faded blue shirt and jeans with holes in the knees. They hadn’t done laundry in a week and her pants had grass stains on the hems. The dirty light of the window hit her in the eyes. It looked too damned early. The sky was still pink.

  “What?” she asked, when she got downstairs, combing her hair back with her fingers and jumping over the third step to avoid the creak that seemed to fill up the whole house.

  Jack had a piece of bread in his hands and Daniel was busy drinking a glass of orange juice. He didn’t look over and Sandra didn’t try to make him, sure her mouth was showing just how unimpressed she was, all pinched down tight. Jack’s shoulders straightened a little, like he thought she was irritated at him and was getting ready to do battle, chin tilting up in what Sandra recognized as his new habit, pretending more was okay than it ever really was. When she didn’t say anything, he relaxed and frowned over at his brother.

  “We’re taking you shooting,” Danny said.

  Sandra rolled her eyes and made a face at his back. Jack scowled at his brother and headed for the door. “Why would I want to do that?” She grabbed an apple off the counter and followed Jack to the door anyway, Daniel trailing after them both. He wedged a bit of wood into the frame to keep it closed as he stepped down onto the milk crate and wooden plank stairs.

  “Dad should’ve taught you long ago,” Jack muttered like he wasn’t really thinking, and Sandra heard Danny’s steps falter, felt her heart do the same. Somehow Jack had gotten the keys and he slipped behind the wheel before Daniel could get them back.

  Sandra was left standing by the car’s back door, not sure she should even get in.

  Jack started to look pissy again, so she slid inside, did up her seat belt and stared hard out the window. Half the sky was still dark. The other was bringing the whole world awake.

  They didn’t drive long, but the air was quiet when they stopped, the town far away on the horizon, lights blinking out one by one.

  As it was, it turned out “going shooting” was just code for standing in the middle of a field trying to crack tin cans off a couple of logs.

  Daniel got their guns out of the trunk, a quick gleam of silver and metal that Sandra didn’t want to think about, air so cool she wished she’d worn a jacket instead of just a shirt.

  “We’ll show you how to take it apart later,” Daniel said. “How to clean it.”

  Sandra nodded, and wondered if he noticed she hadn’t looked at him directly since walking down the stairs. She wondered if it bothered him, like them ignoring her had bothered her, and then Jack was steering her shoulder forward, setting her in place and telling her, “Pay attention,” and setting the gun in her hands.

  It was heavier than she expected. “Don’t close your eye like that.” Jack adjusted her fingers, held them a second before moving back, hand on her shoulder again. “Keep them open. Line it up… Come on. There, you got it. Support your arm. Now breathe in. Breathe out, nice and slow…. Pull the trigger on the exhale.”

  The recoil didn’t hurt, but the pop of the bullet felt awful, left her nauseous, made her think of Lem and the holes in his chest.

  “Good first try,” Jack told her, grinning faint, one hand still on her shoulder, closer to her shoulder blade. “You’ve got to loosen up, take more time. Make sure you feel steady, take careful aim before you pull down. Let’s try it again.”

  It might’ve been the most Jack had said to her all at once in a whole month.

  The bullet missed. Sandra thought it soared somewhere overhead. Her hands didn’t shake, but her insides flipped all about, fish in her belly, as Jack adjusted her aim once more.

  “You’re showing her wrong,” Danny said, suddenly at her side, and Sandra had to clench her jaw to keep from jerking. She never wanted to move fast with a gun in her hands. You never pointed it at a living person, not unless you wanted them dead; she knew that.

  Jack grumbled, glared, but moved back – let Daniel step into his spot.

  “Spread your legs a little wider, the same as your shoulders. Lean forward a little. Not that much. Just a bit. You’re shorter than us; you need to find your center of gravity, stop the sway from side to side.” She felt this was said more toward Jack than her, but she listened, heart nearly stuttering to a stop when Daniel placed his hands on her hips, angling her whole body slightly off to the side.

  She wanted to push him off. Maybe punch him, too.

  “You balanced?”

  Not even close. “Sure,” she said, and hoped he couldn’t hear her voice shake.

  “Okay then. Get yourself ready.” Another adjustment, him telling her to aim above the target and bring it down, line up the sights, and “Don’t pull the trigger, alright? Squeeze it. You don’t want to knock all your hard work off balance.”

  This time the shot went to the left.

  “Again,” Danny said.

  When Sandra finally zinged a can, sharp crack and pop and metal thrown off the stump, she shrugged Daniel away, set her feet and raised the gun.

  “You got it.”

  “Guess I do.”

  She didn’t let him put his hands on her again.

  ~

  Sandra thought they had taught her to shoot because they were never around anymore. The pack protected each other, but there wasn’t much of a pack now. So they did the next best thing and left a gun in her care. She guessed they thought it’d work better than the knife she already had.

  She wasn’t sure whether things were more strained between her and Daniel, or between him and Jack. Those couple of hours together tore everything to the seams. The boys took off as soon as they reached home, Jack staying just long enough to teach her how to properly clean and take apart the gun she didn’t want to own before hightailing it down the empty road, dirt kicking up around his boots and jeans as he walked to town.

  The whole room smelled of metal and oil.

  Sandra kept thinking she smelled blood under everything else. Gasping and falling and bang bang. The metal felt alive under her hands. She thought it would bite her if she let it.

  She spent an hour cleaning everything she could find, their guns as well, going over the motions in her head – don’t close your eyes, steady your arm, breath out, squeeze, don’t pull…

  Somehow, it felt important.

  She wished it didn’t.

  At quarter to five, Sandra packed the guns away, hid hers under the loose board in her room, and walked out the door.

  The air was a lot dryer than it had been that morning. Everything felt quiet and the dust kicked up like it had for Jack, settling on her clothes and her face and getting in her nose. Being out and about felt great and she wasn’t waiting around anymore. The town was far enough away to stretch her legs, fifteen minutes at a fast walk, and even longer than that to reach the diner or the four-screen movie theater or one of the bars that littered the evening-rush streets.

  There was a rumple of bills in her pocket and Sandra didn’t think any bar would let her in, but maybe she’d try later if she couldn’t find anything else to do. First, food. And then maybe a guy. Maybe she’d see how Jack and Danny would like that. Not that they’d know. She wouldn’t bring him home. S
he wouldn’t shove him in their faces or grin about it afterward, edging needle smiles under their skins.

  She might not even be able to touch him.

  Breathing hard, Sandra slammed into the mom and pop diner, getting a side booth where she could watch the door, listening to the steady hum of cups and cutlery hitting plates, people whispering and laughing and a couple of young kids sitting over in the corner shrieking as their dad dumped back cups of coffee, looking like he was praying hard for salvation.

  “What’ll it be, hun?” The waitress looked maybe two years older than her, four at the most, eyes heavily lined with kohl, and lips a slick, natural pink. It took Sandra a long moment to recognize where she knew her from.

  Suddenly she wasn’t so hungry anymore.

  She was a lot angry though.

  I saw you fucking Danny last night, she wanted to say. But it wasn’t really the girl’s fault. The boys were just like that – sucking in everyone who stepped into their path, in a good way or no.

  Her name tag read Francis and she looked right tired.

  Sandra could commiserate.

  “Coffee.”

  “Sure thing.” Francis smiled, and it was getting harder and harder to hate her. The kohl made her eyes darker, deep-set and droopy in an almost sultry way. “Anything else?”

  Sandra shrugged, rubbed at her temple, eyeing the menu that quickly blurred out of focus. “Not right now?”

  Francis hummed, leaned forward to collect the menu and gave a sympathetic smile, “Hard night?”

  “No … no, I’m fine.”

  That got her a knowing look, a secret smile, and a, “Know a little bit about those myself.”

  Sandra couldn’t quite stop her uncomfortable answering grin, or the blush that started up her cheeks. She looked down to play with her cutlery, waiting until Francis had moved off toward the kitchen before biting her lip hard.