Sticks and Stones

by Angèle Gougeon

  It itched at Jack to let the man get around his back, across the diner where he couldn’t see him. They’d both taken seats facing the door, leaving Sandra facing in, and she watched the officer seat himself. He barely gave them a second glance. But nerves still danced low in her stomach. A careful shake of her head had Jack back eating. More slowly. He held his dinner knife like the dull blade would somehow protect them.

  When her soup was finished, Sandra pulled her scarf up, wrapped it around her nose and mouth and hoped, when anyone remembered them, all they’d think of were two men and a woman with a faded red scarf. “Let’s go,” Jack said, voice so quiet that the din of the restaurant nearly washed over it.

  Danny got up and headed for the register. It was close to where the cop sat and Danny stood there so long, staring into his wallet, that the cashier was getting annoyed.

  Jack huffed and got up to join him, just as the officer leaned over. “Trouble?” he asked, and it wasn’t said unkindly, but Sandra saw Jack’s hackles rise. Danny unglued himself, like he could feel Jack’s oncoming storm and knew how unfortunate that would be. He smiled, whole face transforming into something trustworthy.

  “No problem.” His voice was rough-soft, quiet with a bit of southern twang. Fake. Danny pulled two twenties loose and handed them over. Money was getting low and Sandra worried that they’d stop somewhere where the boys would hustle and gamble with their lives. Someplace where her nightmares would start coming true.

  Jack sidled back toward the table, coming to a stop several feet away, trying very hard not to glare, hands shoved deep into his jeans and one eyebrow riding high. He tried to smile at the officer. He looked like he’d eaten something rotten instead.

  “Passing through?” the cop asked, and Jack turned belligerent, immediately glaring at the floor. Sandra wished Jack had stayed in his seat. Danny was waiting impatiently for his change, lips pressed tight.

  “Why do you want to know?” Jack asked, voice quiet and dangerous and the lawman frowned. Danny forced a smile when the woman wished them a good day, nodding to her and the officer, apologizing, too. Jack glared and Danny dragged him away.

  The officer’s eyes followed them out the door.

  “Stupid,” Danny hissed with enough anger that Jack didn’t say a word. Danny pushed the pedal down and drove, drove, drove as far as they could go. “We don’t need anyone’s attention.”

  Sandra’s gun waited for her, down at the bottom of her bag.

  ~

  They drove down south, closer to the eastern coast. The chill in the air came from the sea and smelled of salt and rain. They paused at a beach, abandoned in the early morning hours, and Sandra watched as Jack and Danny chased each other across the dunes and through the waves. Seeing them like this, she didn’t know how her dreams could ever come true. She wasn’t sure she could ever use her gun on them, no matter what she had promised Lem.

  Saving the world should never have been her choice.

  Brushing sand from her legs, Sandra picked up her shoes and followed them to the car.

  They continued along the coast. They passed hilly, rocky fields, catching glimpses of fishing boats out on the sea. They stopped at a forested park, flashes of ocean coming through the trees, sneaking off the road to sleep uncomfortably and free in the car seats, doors swung open to leave room for Danny’s and Jack’s long legs.

  There wasn’t much to eat in the car. Sandra’s cold had long faded and they rationed leftover crackers, shortbread cookies, and water – keeping the boxes away from Jack because that was a surefire way to have them inhaled. Danny was restless and irritable and Sandra wondered if he was in a bad mood because she was. She was spooked. Maybe that was what kept him driving, long after they should’ve stopped, past the sea and past the long lines of paved roads, onto back roads and farther away.

  “Enough!” Jack finally growled one morning when his patience ran out.

  It was Danny with the stubborn jut of his chin, Jack standing annoyed and furious.

  “We’re going back to the city,” he said, deadly serious. “We’re going to get some real food, and then we’re getting a fucking room and some beer. Then I’m going to get drunk. And then you’re going to pull your head out of your ass and shut the hell up about it.”

  Danny’s eyes narrowed. He breathed out once, sharp and loud. Sandra wondered if he thought about bringing her into the argument, about how he was apparently following her lead, how he was wary even if he wasn’t sure why. Because she was scared. And Jack was too oblivious to care.

  “What’s your problem?” Jack asked. Danny’s eyes flickered to her. “You’re acting like dad,” Jack said, “You’re not him.”

  “And you’re not smart.”

  “Guys…” Sandra said.

  “Were you smart when you killed that guy?” Jack leaned close. He sneered. He hadn’t been there back then. He hadn’t met Aaron James Anderson. His tone was so ugly that Sandra stopped breathing and Danny’s fists went tight. But it was Jack who threw the first punch. His fist landed on Danny’s cheek and when he made a sound – a breathy, little laugh mixed up with a jeer – Danny snapped. Jack’s smirk flew off with Danny’s right hook.

  Danny was taller, but Jack was faster and had always moved like he had longer arms, ducking in and slipping out and feinting like a pro. He punched high and fought dirty and went low and got Danny’s knee. Danny went down. His shirt was full of dirt, a graze bringing up red down his left arm. His jaw was tight and angry and his shove made Jack’s next swing go wide.

  By the end, Jack had a bloody lip and a swollen eye and Danny’s nose was bloodied blue, cheek swelling up purple and black.

  They fought like they really hated each other, but when they were done, they clapped one another on the back and laughed. Sandra clenched her eyes and slammed the car door shut, flopping onto the back seat, pretending that her hands weren’t shaking. Outside, Jack whooped and brayed like a donkey.

  ~

  They ended up in a bar. Sandra was pretty sure she looked horrible. She couldn’t stop her eyes from flickering, staring. The back of her spine was numb from the cold metal of the gun she had stashed in her waistband.

  The alcohol stung Jack’s lip and he spent half the time cursing Danny, the other cursing the beer itself. They’d already swindled some college kids earlier in the night and the men had left angry and penniless.

  “Here’s on Jim Motlow,” Jack snickered, flicking the credit card over to the edge of the table.

  Sandra had a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. Jack’s smile was messy, uninhibited and swollen.

  “He was an asshole,” he told her. Danny was far enough gone that he just grinned silly, eyes bright and body loose even though she was winding tighter by the minute.

  “Good ol’ Jimmy,” Jack said. “What do you want Jimmy to get for you, San?”

  She shook her head and swallowed down bile, skin itch-itching. “You’re awful.” It wasn’t a compliment.

  Jack grinned unrepentantly. “I know.” He waved a hand in the air. “Barmaid!”

  Across the aisle, a burly man with a thick, brown beard gave Jack a dirty look. Danny made a soft sound that might have been a laugh. Sandra wished she could be happy like them. Danny reached across the table and took her hand.

  When they stumbled out at quarter to two, Jack had trouble walking and Danny had taken to slinging his arm around her, smiling at her like she was one of his girls. She snuck the car keys out of his pocket and navigated them across the mostly empty parking lot. The potholes caught their soles, making them trip and weave.

  Shadows shifted across the lot and Sandra tensed, felt Danny’s arm slip down her back. There was no time to move before someone slammed into her and she went down beneath Danny’s weight. There was a flash of shame and rage and a drunken haze before she rolled free. “What?” Danny sputtered as he pushed
up on one gravel-lodged hand, jacket torn at his shoulder. He moved stiffly but his eyes were clear.

  By the time she got to her feet, Jack was several yards away, on his back with a shadow crouched over him. It was one of the hustled college kids wanting his money back. He wore a dark canvas jacket and his blond hair glimmered in the bar’s dim outside light.

  “Where is it?” he kept saying and Sandra’s stomach sank so hard that she had to close her throat, force herself not to throw up. She knew this. It had been in her dream.

  She reached for the gun tucked into her pants.

  “Jimmy,” Jack smiled through the fresh blood, mouth stretched wide and teeth glittering red.

  “Where is it? Where’s my goddamned money?”

  “You’re too late, Jimmy. We spent it.”

  “You’re a fucking liar. Did you steal my card, too, huh?”

  “You’ve never learned how to party, have you?” Sandra could only see half of Jack’s smarmy grin, but Jim landed another punch and Jack’s lip split for the second time that day. Danny staggered to his feet and Sandra was already across the lot thinking, No, no, no.

  “Danny, don’t!” she called out.

  Jack breathed in funny, like he was choking and Jim was calling him “Asshole,” and Jack’s other eye was swelling shut.

  “Fucker,” Jack said, like words were the only weapon he had left.

  “Stop it,” Sandra yelled and she was pushed away, a hit catching her in the stomach and her ribs. She fumbled with her gun, got it ready, spread her feet and steadied her arm.

  And suddenly Danny was there and he had a piece of metal in his hands.

  “Don’t, Danny,” she pleaded.

  Sandra watched him bring the long pole down.

  Jim sunk to the ground, unconscious and bloody at his temple. Danny breathed heavily and shook as he reached down to haul Jim off of Jack, fingers lingering to make sure there was still a pulse. He nodded at her. He didn’t even look at the gun in her hand.

  She wasn’t even sure they realized.

  She hadn’t been pointing it at Jim Motlow.

  In her dream, Danny Sloan slammed the metal down and it went through Jim Motlow’s back. He died. She and Jack and Danny ran. And it was only the start.

  Here, Danny ran inside to call 911. Sandra helped Jack to the car. She tucked the gun into the back of her pants.

  It was only the start.

  Chapter Nineteen

  They were in rusty number fourteen. The motel was scummier than most and Danny lifted Jack out of the backseat with his hands fisted in his brother’s bloodied shirt.

  “I can walk,” Jack protested and struggled. He slumped toward the ground and Danny slung his arm around his shoulders, keeping him upright.

  He was dumped on the bed farthest from the door. The bedspreads were an alarming shade of pink. Danny went back to get their bags and Sandra found a clean towel in the bathroom, wet it, and crouched beside Jack. He looked horrible, like a survivor of an illegal boxing match. His eyes were so swollen that he jerked when she touched his knee.

  “Doing alright?”

  “Just dandy.”

  Sarcasm. Good. “Hold still.” Gently taking his chin, Sandra dabbed at the corner of his mouth. She wished they had a plastic cup he could rinse his mouth into. His teeth were still completely red. “Your mouth still bleeding?”

  “Don’t think so.” His tongue worked. “Kind of hard to tell.”

  Sandra nodded, and then realized he probably couldn’t see and patted his arm instead. The way he moved away told her the rest of him wasn’t feeling so good either. For a moment, her throat closed down and she had to shut her eyes.

  She started when Jack tangled his fingers in her hair. “I’m fine,” he said.

  Sandra shook her head, but softly said, “Sure you are.” She left the damp towel in his hand when Danny reappeared with their gym bags and found him a big shirt and some clean boxer shorts.

  He fought, of course, when Danny tried to help him out of his clothes.

  “Would you stop that?” Jack swiped one hand, actually managing to catch Danny’s shoulder this time. “I’m not fucking three years old – I can undress myself!”

  So Danny backed away and Jack hissed as he bent his arms and stretched his shirt and all around did a pretty bad job of it. Sandra ended up grabbing the hem of his shirt, pulling it and stretching the collar around his mangled face. Jack put up a whole lot less of a fuss with her. His chest was already mottled black and blue. Nothing was broken but it didn’t look so good – looked awful like Danny’s nose, like the both of them, all battered to pieces.

  Sandra spent ten minutes muttering about boys before Jack would take the painkillers. And then they got him into bed with his boxer shorts, missing the shirt, and let him fall away, skin feverish and flushed and hair plastered to his head. Sandra felt gone, far away and slow, like she was the one only half aware, cocooned by blankets and pain and a haze of drugs and worry.

  She rubbed her hands over her face and sighed.

  When Danny breathed, his nose made an odd, whistling noise. He still had blood on his shirt, on his chin, and all the places Jack had smacked and leaned against. Jack began to shiver and Sandra stripped the quilt from the other bed, tucking it around him, even though she wasn’t sure it would make a difference.

  “How’s your face?” she asked quietly. Danny’s brows went low, crinkled, bruises making him look like a raccoon. Him and Jack, what a pair. Sandra stared at him, found it hard to meet his eyes.

  She would’ve shot him. She would’ve.

  When he settled onto his bed, Sandra went into the bathroom, washed her face, tried not to think, and got ready for sleep. He was still awake when she came out, but he never said a word, not even when she crawled in beside him.

  In her dreams, Jack and Danny slipped farther away. A house fell down, Jack strangled a girl, and Danny killed another killer.

  Their eyes were black. And so were hers.

  Sandra woke, got ready, and helped Jack back into the car.

  She thought about the gun.

  ~

  They moved two cities away. Danny and Sandra looked for jobs and they rented a real-honest-to-God house. It was a small thing, hardly big enough to stand up in, never mind live in with two towering men.

  Danny came back from his search with a mechanic shop’s business card tucked into his front pocket. He still had bruises, a red mark right over the top of his nose that was sure to scar, and Sandra didn’t bother asking what story he’d sold to pull that off. She got a job as the new barista at the coffee shop down the street, evening-night shift from five to twelve. Danny was usually home by then and the two boys would stop by, Jack limping along, settling into a table all to themselves along the back wall. They’d watch her and the customers and make no friends in the way only they could. Sandra was the only night worker, starting right after the extremely short training period where her trainer had spent more time popping gum than actually teaching her. Not many people came in and there were little cue notes stuck behind the counter in case anybody ordered something insane, like a triple-something or other, double double with foam.

  The boys didn’t always stop by, but they were always there to walk her home, Jack wincing the whole way. The people that came in didn’t cause problems and there were the regulars who got to know her name. Frank and Betty. Haldon. Sandra liked making up stories for them. It was surprising how much she learned by just being behind the counter. That’s how she knew Frank and Betty weren’t married, but they were seeing each other despite the rings on their fingers. They weren’t sleeping together, not yet, but it was only a matter of time. Haldon always followed them into the shop, twenty minutes to the dot.

  Private investigator, for sure. That, or he was sweet on Betty. But that was doubtful. He was rugged and intense in a wa
y that reminded Sandra of the boys. His coffee was always black, no cream and no sugar, and how Frank and Betty hadn’t noticed him following them by now, she had no idea.

  Jack kept a special watch on Haldon.

  It made Danny worry as well. Not Sandra. She knew. Haldon wasn’t so bad. And as long as no one paid him to investigate them, he didn’t particularly care if Jack came in covered in bruises and spitting blood. He’d been in some fights back in his day. Besides, he’d already figured out they were brothers and that the younger one still had some growing up to do.

  And her, well … she didn’t even register on his radar. She was cute and unimposing, quiet and polite. She didn’t try to force any of that frou-frou drink crap on him and that was just great.

  Sandra secretly kind of liked him a lot.

  When she was at her job, she didn’t have to think. She didn’t have to worry about the boys and the future and about how her dreams just might be right. For just a little while, she could pretend she was normal and all was right with their world.

  When she wasn’t at work, and it was those days where Jack was aching and stomping and grouching around the house, Sandra would escape to Alan Rashim’s garage. Danny’s boss didn’t mind and, even if Danny wasn’t so thrilled about her walking five blocks through one of the worst parts of the city, Alan always treated her respectfully and was good to his workers, and Sandra was glad Danny had found work there. The radio was always on, softly playing Louis Armstrong, John Coltrane, and Patsy Cline. Alan had pop he was willing to share that reminded her of old things, smaller towns and barbershops and tiny corner stores. They had to use a bottle opener to get the metal lids off and the glass was always cool between her palms.