Brother

by Ania Ahlborn

  “What’ve you been doin’ in here?” Reb asked, stepping behind Michael and snatching the sheet of newspaper off his desk. “Haven’t seen you all day.” Michael made a swipe for the paper, but Reb twisted away, peering at the doodles in the margins. He gave Michael a weird smile. “Don’t Alice draw stuff like this? You fallin’ madly in love, little brother?”

  Michael didn’t respond. He simply extended an arm for Reb to return what was his.

  “Must be nice knowin’ someone’s taken an interest in you, huh? Must feel good to get some attention instead of bein’ ­ignored all the time.”

  Rebel’s tone was strained, and Michael could smell the alcohol wafting off of him—a sharp, fermented stench. Reb acted strange when he’d been drinking, seesawing between self-pity and aggression. Sometimes he’d ramble on about how nobody appreciated him. Once, during a particularly rough night, Reb stood on top of his chair in the middle of dinner and announced that he was nothing but a slave. Used and abused. Never paid. Undervalued. Wade had laughed. Misty had rolled her eyes. Momma had told him to get his dirty goddamn boots off her chair, as though she hadn’t heard a word he’d said. But Michael had felt bad for him. Even if the declaration held no merit, the fact that Reb had said it meant he felt it. Michael didn’t know much, but he knew feeling that way couldn’t have been good.

  “You’re drunk,” Michael murmured, catching the paper by its corner, but Reb yanked it away again.

  “You don’t think you’ve got a real shot with her, do you?” He tossed the newspaper at Michael’s outstretched arm.

  “Why not?” Michael turned his back on his brother, smooth­ing the wrinkles out of where he had crumpled the page in his hand. “If you can get with Lucy, why can’t I get with Alice?”

  “Because you ain’t me, you stupid shit.” Reb smacked the back of Michael’s head with an open palm. “We ain’t even related by blood. Think about it.” He gave his own forehead a few rough taps. “Can you think about it, Mikey? You able to process that little nugget of hard fuckin’ truth?”

  “What do you want?” There was only one reason Rebel came into Michael’s room, and that was to tell him to get ready to hit the road. Sometimes their trips would be quick. They’d get lucky and find a girl wandering the side of the highway, hitching in the dark, a thumb pointing upward whenever a pair of headlights shined along the horizon. On those nights, they were back home before the sun came up, but hitchhikers weren’t that easy to find. Reb said they were like winning cash at a card table—if you knew what you were doing, you could usually get lucky. But even lucky players came up empty now and again.

  “First, I want Miss to stop playin’ that goddamn song. How many times has it been now?” He scowled at the wall that separated Michael’s room from his sister’s. “Then I want you to stop askin’ stupid questions. But since that ain’t happenin’, I want you to get your shit and meet me downstairs.” He turned to go, then paused in the open bedroom door. “We’re out of tape. Grab a fresh roll.”

  Michael frowned at his poor attempt at artwork while ­Rebel’s boots banged down the stairs. When he had drawn himself and Reb in the Delta, he had imagined them driving to the Dervish to see the girls. But the more he looked at it, the more he understood that wasn’t what was happening in the picture at all. Ray looked too serious, his expression both determined and hungry. Michael appeared too defeated to be excited by the prospect of seeing Alice again, his gaze turned out the window. Those two crudely rendered people weren’t headed toward social interaction. They were speeding down a darkened highway toward screams garbled by fear and desperation.

  Michael had drawn them on the way to work.

  I should really quit my job.

  Rebel called up from the first floor. “You comin’ or what? Jesus Christ, Misty! Turn that shit off!”

  Michael gritted his teeth. He jerked his desk drawer open to clear its top. He grabbed a broken red crayon from the corner of the drawer and scribbled red wax over Reb’s face, pressing down as hard as he could. The red blotch spread involuntarily, spilling onto Michael’s drawn face. Onto Misty Dawn dancing in the yard. Across the entire sheet of newspaper. He pushed into the desk until his hand ached, the crayon wearing down to a nub within seconds. The newspaper was suddenly in his hands. Crumpled. Torn. Strips of black and white and red flying through the air, Neil singing She’s got the way to move me over and over and over again. Breathing hard, he shoved himself away from the desk, his pulse blinding him with its bass-like thump. His fingernails bit into the flesh of his palms. And then, just as quickly as the rage had consumed him, it was gone. ­Michael turned away from the mess strewn across the floor and left the room.

  He grabbed a roll of duct tape from the hall closet and stepped into the night.

   • • •

  The little house with the green shutters looked different in the dark. Michael couldn’t decide whether it was because he hadn’t seen it at night or because of the angle. He’d only ever peered at it from the hill that was now behind him, not from the crushed gravel of the driveway that rolled out toward the garage. A few lights shone through curtained windows, and the flicker of a TV screen flashed against the interior walls in shades of blue. He’d wrapped girls up in tape dozens of times, but he’d never been brazen enough to pull someone out of their home. Something about abducting a woman out of her living room felt like far worse a crime than shoving a hitcher into the car trunk. Home was supposed to be safe. There was no place like it.

  “I’m goin’ in.” Reb buttoned up his jean jacket as if doing so would somehow conceal his identity. “You watch the clock, give me ten minutes, then come in through the back.”

  “How do you know it’s gonna be open?” Michael asked.

  “Gotta hunch.”

  “But what if she ain’t alone?” Michael’s gaze flitted to the front window. This whole thing still felt premature. Sloppy. If Rebel walked in and found the woman lounging on her couch with a man at her side, Reb would either end up seriously hurt or the man would end up dead. Michael assumed the former was more likely, though he’d never tell Reb that to his face. And if that woman did have a boyfriend or a husband, he was probably a logger or a miner, a tough West Virginian son of a bitch who’d swat Rebel across the room like a fly. His brother wouldn’t stand a chance, and Michael wouldn’t have enough time to get the hell out of there before Mr. Miner came running into the yard. Teeth bared. Big arms held over his head like a grizzly. Ready to crush the skull of whoever had thought they could screw with his woman.

  “She’s alone,” Reb murmured beneath his breath. Despite the fact that Michael had only seen this house twice before ­tonight, Ray was somehow positive. The mark was clear. It was safe.

  “You don’t want me to just go in with you?” It seemed like a better option. They could tape her up in the living room. If it was just Reb, she’d go racing around all over the place. Sure, the house was in the middle of nowhere, but keeping her quiet was a good idea. You never knew when a car was going to pass by or when some night owl was going to take Fido out for an evening stroll.

  Rebel narrowed his eyes and Michael shrank away from the glare. “I told you, ten minutes.” He stepped out of the car, leaving the door wide open behind him. Michael fumbled with the dome light. He turned it off as Reb stalked along the wild grass and ducked around the side of the house, probably looking for open windows or an unlocked door.

  There wasn’t much to fear in places like this. That’s why people moved out to the country. It seemed safe and peaceful and perfect until you caught a lunatic crawling through your bedroom window. Michael glanced at the analog clock recessed into the Delta’s dash, its phosphorescent hands glowing weakly in the dark. Then he opened his door, looped his hand through the fresh roll of duct tape, and slid out of the car.

  He crossed the front yard to the small bistro table beneath a tree and took a seat in its metal-backed chair, waiting for some sign of struggle—a scream or the breaking of glass.
The inevitable noise of someone watching their life flash before their eyes. When it remained silent, Michael got up and walked the dozen yards it took to get to the darkened road. He knew he shouldn’t have gone so far from the Delta—Reb had told him to be ready—but he had seven more minutes to wait.

  Stepping onto a small boulder along the side of the road, he balanced there, wondering if Rebel was into old ladies. Maybe his brother was discovering his own tastes rather than letting Momma dictate them with her MO. Reb wanted to break the rules, and this one seemed as good as any to break.

  There was a bang from inside the house. Michael turned to look at the cottage from the edge of the road. He hopped off the rock he was balancing on and hurried back to the Olds­mobile. There was no screaming—just the sound of things being thrown. He imagined Rebel dodging table lamps and crystal ashtrays, wondered what he’d do if the woman actually got the better of him and came bursting out the front door. What if Reb didn’t come bolting from the house after her ­because he was unconscious on the living room floor? What if it was because she had stuck a kitchen knife through his neck? Would Michael let her get away? His pulse quickened at the possibility of the woman slashing Reb to ribbons, of his brother dying on a cheap Formica floor.

  “I’ll let you get away,” he whispered. “Just kill him. That’s all you gotta do.”

  He blinked at his own words. Did he really mean that? If Rebel really did die, what the hell would Michael do then? He’d drive the Olds back to the house, grab Misty, and leave Momma and Wade in dreamland. They’d drive into town and find Alice, and the three of them would take off to New York City.

  Even Pittsburgh or Columbus, Ohio, would be better.

  He chewed on his still-tender lip, wondering if any of that was possible. Would he be able to get out of Dahlia and start a new life if there was no one there to stop him?

  At the eight-minute mark, Michael pushed away from the Delta and followed Reb’s path around the side of the house. Reb had left the back sliding-glass door open a crack, and ­Michael quietly pushed it over before slipping inside. A strangled cry sounded from down the hall. Pivoting on the soles of his old boots, he trotted down a picture-lined hallway until he reached an open door.

  Rebel held the sobbing woman down on the bed by her wrists, quiet pleas escaping her throat.

  “Please, Michael, don’t. . . .” she croaked.

  Michael froze in the doorway, the world momentarily tilting on its axis when his name slipped past her lips. How did she know . . . ? Had Rebel told her that his brother, Michael, would be there any minute, ready to help?

  He swallowed and stood idle at the threshold. Reb shot a look across the room, his jeans unzipped, his most private parts exposed. Michael looked away, squeezing his eyes shut as though he’d walked in on something he wasn’t supposed to see.

  “What the hell are you doin’?” Reb snapped. “Get over here!”

  Michael forced his eyes open and shifted his weight to his toes. He moved fast, already peeling a strip of duct tape from the roll.

  The woman was weeping. Her hair, which had been pulled into a ponytail, was now halfway down. The rubber band barely held back an unnatural reddish-blond. Rebel had bloodied her face, most likely with a swift whack to the nose. The blood dribbled across her mouth and chin, staining her powder-blue tank top. A golden M glinted from a chain tucked into the hollow of her throat.

  “Grab her hands,” Reb demanded. Michael took one of her arms and wrapped the duct tape thrice around a wrist. He yanked it toward her other hand, and then taped them together as quick as a rodeo star. Rebel let her go, then tucked himself back into his jeans while Michael taped the woman’s mouth shut. “Take her to the car,” he said, shoving his fingers through his hair. It was then that Michael realized the woman wasn’t wearing any pants. A pair of plain white panties were skewed around her hips, half on, half off. Michael stared at the woman’s hips, reluctant to push her out of the house without at least giving her something decent to wear.

  “What’s wrong with you?” Reb asked, shoving Michael out of the way when he hesitated to move. His brother grabbed the woman by the back of her neck and shoved her into the hallway.

  Michael blinked and followed Rebel out the front door and to the car. The woman was now fighting like hell, thrashing and bucking in Reb’s arms. Halfway across the yard, they stopped and Michael tied her legs together at the knees with a thick binding of tape. He then moved down to her calves, and finally her ankles, repeating the process. Rebel dragged her the rest of the way to the Oldsmobile. He popped the trunk and dumped her inside before marching around to the driver-side door with a dissatisfied grunt. Michael was left with the woman staring up at him, her eyes pleading, begging him to reconsider, beseeching him to be her savior. When she tried to scream around the tape stuck across her mouth, he slammed the trunk closed.

  He expected Rebel to yell at him as soon as he fell back into his seat, but his brother said nothing. He simply threw the Delta into reverse, peeled out of the driveway, and fishtailed it onto the road.

  But halfway home, Rebel broke his silence with a laugh. It was a severe, heartless titter that made Michael’s skin crawl, a sound that he’d never heard escape Reb’s throat before. Michael wrapped his arms around himself and stared out the window, watching the headlights slash across the trees. He wondered where Reb had gone, because Reb was gone. Not here. Lost somewhere along that winding rural West Virginia road.

  When they finally turned onto the road that would take them back to the farmhouse, Michael dared whisper a question into the Oldsmobile’s cab.

  “How’d she know my name, Reb?”

  Rebel didn’t answer. He just laughed again.

  16

  * * *

  THE MORNING RAY had watched Michael unlatch the rabbit cage and pull Snowball from behind the fencing, he lay in bed, waiting for Laura­lynn’s wail. She was usually the first of them up, but the fact that Ray was waiting with baited breath turned the minutes into hours. By the time Lauralynn screamed, Ray had actually started to drift back to sleep. As soon as he heard her, his eyes darted open. Michael, who had snuck back into bed after he’d done the deed, didn’t move when their sister cried out. He was faking sleep so hard it seemed that he had paralyzed himself in the process.

  Ray bounded out of bed and hopped over to the window, shoving the dingy curtains aside just in time to catch his older sibling kneeling in front of the rabbit cage. But to Ray’s surprise, it wasn’t just Snowball who was missing. The cage was completely empty. Michael’s plan had worked like a charm. He nearly said something to his kid brother, thought about congratulating him on a job well done, but rushed downstairs in his pajamas instead.

  Misty Dawn had her arm around her big sister’s shoulders. Michael drifted onto the back porch a minute later, but he kept his distance. He sat on the bottom porch step with his hands covering his mouth. Ray was tempted to say something—Don’t look so guilty, you idiot. Michael had done a bang-up job covering his tracks, and now he was going to give himself away with that pathetic look of shame plastered across his face.

  “What happened?” Ray asked in his best I’m-super-concerned voice.

  “My bunnies!” Lauralynn’s words were nearly indecipherable around her sobs.

  Ray widened his eyes in a dramatic sort of way as he stared at the empty cage. “Oh no!” He almost cracked a grin at how ridiculous he sounded. “They got away?”

  Lauralynn didn’t reply, because she couldn’t speak. She was crying so hard now that she could hardly breathe. Misty Dawn rubbed her back and whispered, “There, there, we’ll find ’em,” like the dumb little girl she was.

  Find ’em? Ray thought. Sure, you’ll find ’em—just wait ’til dinner.

  Ray turned to look at Michael, who was still petrified upon the steps. “What’s wrong with you?” he asked, padding back up the porch steps. “It almost looks like you opened the cage.”

  Michael jerked his head up and stared
at his brother with wide, glassy eyes, and then he burst into tears. But rather than dodging back into the house, he ran for the girls, threw his arms around them both, and wailed “I’m sorry, Lauralynn!”

  Neither of the girls deciphered his apology. Michael had practically confessed to the crime, and they mistook his admission for mutual sadness.

  The day dragged on, and Ray’s siblings spent most of it among the trees just beyond the backyard. Even Michael was helping Lauralynn look for her fluffy babies, as though finding at least one of them would somehow redeem him from the evil he’d done. Ray hung around the back porch, listening to them calling out bunny names—Snowball! Blackie! Mr. Buttons!—as if the things had the capacity to respond like dogs.

  “They’re pretty stupid,” Ray told Momma as he buzzed around the kitchen. “They think them rabbits are gonna come hoppin’ back outta those trees because they heard their name or something? Bunch of idiots, if you ask me.”

  “I don’t think nobody ’round here did ask you,” Momma replied, not once turning to look at her boy.

  When Momma finally called them to the table, Ray had to cover his mouth to keep from laughing. It was as if she’d done it on purpose, leaving the rabbit intact the way she did. She presented the roasted critter on a platter the way any other family would present a turkey on Thanksgiving. Snowball lay on a bed of leafy greens, surrounded by steamed carrots, like the punch line to a particularly gruesome joke. She hadn’t even bothered to chop off the head. The ears had wilted in the heat, and the eyes were nothing more than black cigarette burns, but there was no mistaking it for what it was. Lauralynn screamed so hysterically when she saw it, Ray was sure she was within inches of a puking fit.

  He expected her to turn tail and bolt up the stairs, slam her door and refuse to come out for a few days. But rather than escaping the dining room in a flurry of tears, she screamed at Momma instead. “You did this!” she wailed. “YOU killed my bunnies, you bitch!”