by Ania Ahlborn
“Oh, hey guys,” he said.
Then he lunged.
Misty twisted in place, her hair flying out around her in a pale yellow-red halo. She tried to duck around Reb, but he grabbed her by the arm and gave her a vicious pull. Misty cried out. Her right arm flopped at her side. She stared at it with disbelief, her mouth a large O of surprise, tiny gasps escaping her throat like the chirps of a bird. Her arm hung limp, unmoving. Reb grinned at her shock, as if amused that she couldn’t catch her breath to scream.
Michael seized the opportunity. He swung the chair at his brother rather than the window, but Reb saw it coming. He grabbed the chair in mid-air, and with the piece of furniture held aloft between them, he reeled back and planted the heel of his foot hard against Michael’s chest. Michael fell back against the wall, the wind knocked out of him, the chair clattering to the floor.
Reb turned back to Misty, and when she finally sucked in enough air to cry out again, he buried his fist just beneath her rib cage. She doubled over with a groan but wasn’t allowed to writhe for long. Reb jerked her up to her feet by her good arm and pushed her out the door, then stopped short to shoot Michael a look. It was a challenge: Well, come on, protect her. Then he gave Misty a brutal shove toward the stairs.
Michael stood frozen against the wall, his chest heaving, his eyes burning, his world spinning out of control. He could hear Reb barking commands at their sister while Misty made horrible retching sounds that echoed up the stairwell. He felt something loosen inside of him, snap out of place and tumble from the center of his chest to his feet.
Rebel was leading her to the slaughter. He was going to drop her at Momma’s feet, a woman who was only waiting for an excuse. The time had come.
Downstairs, Misty screamed.
Michael forced himself to move.
He ran down the hall and caught them at the base of the stairs. Misty was on the floor, holding her uninjured arm out as if to ward off evil—the devout lacking a cross to shake at the devil. Rebel loomed above her, waiting for something.
Michael descended the stairs, hating how slowly his feet were moving, how reluctant he felt, when he should have been leaping to Misty’s aid. But a lifetime of being afraid couldn’t be cast off like a worthless hand-me-down. He was no superhero. His fear was too ingrained, as much a part of him as a fingerprint.
When he finally came to a stop on the third riser from the floor, he saw what Reb was waiting for. Momma crossed the room with a dirty dish towel in her hands, the faint scent of raw onions trailing her like an aura. Her face twisted up in a strange brand of scorn. “What’s this?” she asked, giving Reb an expectant look.
“It’s a whore,” he told her. “Just like you always said.”
Momma’s gaze drifted from Rebel to where Michael stood on the stairs, lingered there for a moment, then moved to the weeping girl at her feet. Wade appeared at the opposite end of the foyer, the dining room to his back. He kept his distance, looking more annoyed by the unfolding events than worried. For whatever reason, Michael caught himself wondering whether this was what Vietnam had been like—Reb, a soldier, standing over a sniveling woman; others waiting to see what was going to happen, whether the soldier would have mercy on her or pull out his weapon and silence her cries, nobody truly caring either way.
“Misty Dawn is gone,” Reb announced. “This ain’t my sister. She’s diseased, contagious. Michael might already be sick.”
Michael blinked. He looked to Misty for explanation, but she had her forehead pressed to the floor. A pool of saliva had collected beneath her nose and mouth. She continued to cry into it like a leper waiting for death.
“She tried to seduce Michael a few days ago, but I caught her.”
Momma’s gaze snapped up from Misty Dawn to Michael.
“I warned her,” Reb explained, “but she tried it again, last night when I was gone. And she’ll only keep tryin’ until she gets away with it.”
“How do you know?” Momma asked flatly.
“Because he told me.” Reb motioned to his brother.
Michael’s mouth fell open. “What? I . . . no.” He shook his head in denial. Reb was lying. If Michael had said anything, he had insisted that Misty hadn’t done anything at all. Yes, she had come into his room, but it was only because she was hurt and lonely and desperate for affection. Anyone else would have done the same thing.
Misty turned her head enough to look up the stairs at him, and despite her desperation and haze of pain, Michael spotted a look of betrayal in her eyes.
How could you?
He shook his head again.
You told?
“I swear, I didn’t say nothin’,” he promised, his gaze fixed on his sister’s anguished face.
“So it’s true,” Momma concluded.
“No!”
Michael rushed down the remaining stairs and crouched beside Misty. She turned her face away from him, glaring down at the floorboards, making him hate himself for being so stupid. Rebel was right, always right—Michael was an idiot; he always messed things up.
“Well, which is it?” Momma asked, her tone unnervingly steady. “Either Misty Dawn tried to seduce you, or Ray is lyin’. Either way, someone’s sinnin’.”
Michael looked up at his mother. The floral pattern of her dress made her look alien-thin. From his vantage point on the floor, her cheeks looked hollow, almost sunken, and the circles beneath her eyes were so dark they were nearly black. She looked like a monster—a praying mantis with a taste for blood.
“Falsely accusin’ a family member of lyin’ is lyin’ too,” Momma said. “And you know what lyin’ will get you.”
Exile.
The woods.
Michael’s gaze darted to his father, searching for help. Wade stood motionless for a long while, as though considering the situation. But he eventually bowed his head in a solemn way, as if to say that Momma was right: lying was unforgivable. Rebel was turning Misty in out of loyalty to the family. He was betraying one for the good of all.
A sob wrenched out of Michael’s throat. He folded himself over Misty’s crumpled frame, his cheek pressed against her ear, and whispered, “I’ll go to the woods for you, Misty. If you want it, I’ll go.”
Misty found a second wind. She pushed him away and sat up, her face slathered with tears and spit. Her hair was plastered across her cheeks and forehead in wet, matted strips. She looked at her mother, narrowed her eyes, and hissed, “It’s true. Misty Dawn is gone. I’ve come for Michael. I’m a no-good filthy whore. Now kill me, you stupid bitch.”
Michael stared at her.
Terror choking on its own heartbeat.
Reb teetered between what looked like surprise and glee.
Momma’s face twisted into a mask of furious disgust so all-encompassing that Michael half-expected fire to burst from her eyes, her mouth, her fingertips. He waited for Momma to reach down, grab Misty by the hair, and yank so hard that Misty’s head tore from her body, as though it had been precariously balanced atop her shoulders all her life. And maybe it had been.
Momma sneered. “Take her to the kitchen.”
Reb grabbed Misty by her good arm and began to drag her across the floor. Michael’s hands shot out, clutching the hem of his sister’s nightgown. His eyes glittered with terror. His breath hitched in his throat.
“No!” he cried out, so strained that it was a wonder it had made it out of his throat at all.
Misty turned her head to look at him as Reb pulled her along. When their eyes met, she began to weep—huge, gasping wails, like a girl headed to the gallows. She could see into the future as clearly as he could. It was over. This was the end.
“No!” he screamed again, wanting to grab Misty by her other arm. But he was afraid to hurt her. That collapsed shoulder looking so wrong. If he tried to pull her back, her arm may have come clean off in his hands—like Reb jerking the wing off a pheasant, dooming the animal to a slow and painful death.
By the time the three of
them reached the kitchen—Rebel dragging Misty, Michael behind him—Momma was standing next to the table with something tucked away in a dish towel. A wooden handle jutted out of the fabric, held tight in her right hand. Michael skittered across the floor and wrapped his arms around his sister. He tried to envelop her completely, desperate to make her disappear, but a hand fell against the back of his head. Fingers tangled in his hair. Rebel yanked Michael back, peeling him away from Misty’s huddled form, and for half a second Michael was sure his own life was over too. Momma loomed above him, the blade of a butcher’s knife glinting in the light. Her mouth was a hard, straight line, her eyes drawn into slits. But she didn’t pull the blade across Michael’s throat. Instead, she mimicked Reb’s move, grabbed Misty’s hair and pulled back. Misty’s head came up, her face puffy and red from crying.
Before Michael could react, the razor edge of the blade sliced across the base of his sister’s neck. Michael’s eyes widened as gore fanned out across his face and arms. Misty’s blood splashed hot against his skin.
Wrenching himself free of Rebel’s hold, he lunged for Misty’s crumpled body and tried to stop the bleeding. He frantically pressed his palms against her neck, but it was no use. Within seconds, they were both covered in iron-scented red. Blood soaked Misty’s once-white nightgown, staining it a deep burgundy. The ends of Michael’s hair dripped like wet paintbrushes waiting for a canvas.
Momma threw the knife onto the floor. It clanked against the boards next to Michael’s knees. He didn’t acknowledge the weapon, didn’t look up to see what he was sure was written across her face: this was Misty’s own fault. And as a parting gift, Michael would be the one to sop up her blood.
Michael sat with Misty in his embrace, rocking her back and forth as he stared across the kitchen into nowhere. By the time he finally gathered the strength to look up, the room was empty and the house was eerily quiet.
And for the first time in his life, he truly understood.
This was not his family.
This was not supposed to be his life.
22
* * *
WHEN REB STEPPED inside the green-shuttered house through the unlocked sliding-glass door, Bonnie was sitting on the couch watching some sappy made-for-TV movie. She turned away from the television and blinked in surprise. But rather than panic at the stranger standing in her home, she smiled.
“Michael,” she cooed, rising up from where she sat, giving Reb a kiss on both cheeks. “What are you doing here? You should have called. I’d have made something to eat.”
Reb returned her smile. “That’s why I didn’t call. Didn’t wanna put you out.”
Bonnie tsk-tsked at that, pulled her long, box-dyed hair back into a ponytail, and blushed with embarrassment when she realized what she was wearing.
“Well, you could have at least called so I could have gotten decent, you know. I’m a mess.”
Bonnie Rasmussen wasn’t exactly stylish. Reb took in her loose-fitting sweatpants and pale-blue tank top with a cartoon sheep in the middle. He was convinced the woman owned nothing but shirts with some sort of animal printed on them—cats or dogs or cartoon owls. Judging by the photographs on the wall, she hadn’t always dressed that way. A hallway photo that must have been taken in the 1950s or ’60s had Bonnie looking like a wind-chafed starlet. Her hair was big and bouncy like Brigitte Bardot’s. A wide-legged jumpsuit had been cinched at the waist with a thick, woven belt. Time had not been kind to Bonnie. She had lost her looks and fashion sense. All that was left was a depressed widow whose interests stopped at birds, books, and bad TV.
But her limited hobbies were exactly what Reb had been hoping for. It left her free of distraction and wide open to making a new friend. She had been reluctant at first, nearly not letting Reb inside to use her phone when he’d pulled the oldest trick in the book.
Sorry, ma’am, but I think I’ve run outta gas and I ain’t got no way of gettin’ home. Mind if I use your phone?
Bonnie had been dubious. No matter. Reb had given her a megawatt smile. Two minutes later, he was standing dead center in her kitchen while Bonnie offered him a glass of iced tea.
Their second meeting had been less awkward. Reb had arrived on her doorstep with a bunch of cheap carnations from the nearest gas station—red and white, a few of them dyed a garish blue in celebration of the Fourth of July. When Bonnie answered the door, she looked about ready to cry at the sight of him. She invited him in for lemonade and they watched a Pirates game together. She asked him questions about himself, which he answered with quaint-sounding lies. He told her he was four years younger than he was, that his father was a miner, and that he had a younger sister who was a senior in high school—she was a creative type, the kind of girl who could really make something of herself if she could just get out of West Virginia.
By the time Reb stepped uninvited into Bonnie’s house while Michael waited outside, he had visited her every week for nearly a year.
He had bought her a greeting card for her birthday. Had given her chocolates on Valentine’s Day. Had sat with her at the kitchen table and gorged himself on mashed potatoes and turkey a few days before Thanksgiving. At Christmas, he had presented her with a small heart locket he’d torn from a screaming girl’s neck. He could tell Bonnie looked forward to their visits by the way her face lit up, knew that he’d thoroughly wormed his way into her heart when, rather than scolding him for not knocking, she smiled when he appeared unannounced.
“Let me at least put on something decent,” Bonnie insisted. She tugged down on her blue tank top as though trying to hide the ugliness of her sweats. “I have a cheesecake in the fridge. Just picked it up at the store this afternoon. I even got a can of whipped cream, just the way you like.”
“You shouldn’t have,” Reb told her, but she waved her hand at him, dismissing his niceties, and sidestepped him on her way to the master bedroom. Reb took the opportunity to sidle up to the main window, hook a finger around the curtains, and peek out at the Delta in the driveway. Michael’s shadow shifted somewhere in the front yard. It was too far to be discernible, but he was definitely there, counting down the minutes before following Reb inside.
He cleared his throat, pulled his attention from the TaB commercial playing on TV—the beautiful drink for beautiful people—and moved through the living room to the darkened hallway. Bonnie had closed the door to the master bedroom behind her. Reb opened it without a knock. Standing in nothing but her underwear and her cartoon-sheep tank top, Bonnie gasped when the door swung open. She yanked the shiny satin bedspread toward herself in an attempt to cover up.
“What are you doing?” she squealed. “Michael, get out!”
He smiled, and while he couldn’t see himself, he hoped he looked like a wolf—the big bad boy who had spent a year planning on blowing Bonnie’s house down.
“Don’t be shy,” he told her, stepping further into the room. Bonnie gaped at him, still clutching the duvet despite it hardly covering her at all. He paused at a chest of drawers and drew his hand across its top in an almost coy sort of way, like a little boy about to make an attempt at his first kiss. “You know, over our last year together, I’ve grown pretty, um”—he shrugged, gave her a bashful look—“fond of you.”
Bonnie blinked at him. The weird mix of fascination and confusion she wore made him want to snap her neck. Something about it made her look so stupid, something about it reminded him of Michael.
“Come on,” he murmured, “don’t look so surprised. I mean, we’ve spent a lot of time with each other.”
“But never with the intent of . . . of . . .” Bonnie stammered. “My God, Michael, I thought you knew.”
“Knew what?” he asked, inching closer. “That you ain’t interested?” He raised an eyebrow at her, challenging her to admit it. “That you and me were just friends?” He lifted his hands, made air quotes around the word to emphasize his point. “Come on, Bonnie. You’re breakin’ my heart.”
“I . . . I had n
o idea . . .” She shook her head. “If I had known, I would have made it clear, I would have told you, I . . .”
“You . . .” Reb stopped at the foot of the bed, not more than five feet from where Bonnie stood.
“I would have called the whole thing off!” She spit out the words. “Now I think you should leave.”
“You think I should leave,” He echoed, frowning at the carpet. “After a year of bein’ friends, you’re gonna kick me out like some stray? You know how much that hurts?” He grabbed a handful of comforter and gave it a firm pull, yanking it from her fingers. She gasped and stepped back, stretching her blue tank top over her hips, still trying to be decent despite her growing fear. “I don’t like it when people hurt my feelin’s, Bonnie. You can understand that, can’t you?”
“You’re crazy,” she whispered, seeing her young companion for what he truly was. “Please, get out. Leave me alone, before I call the police.”
Reb held up his hands as if in surrender. “Okay,” he said. “I’m sorry.” He saw her relax. As if it could be that easy, he thought, and he lunged at her before she had a chance to think. He threw her on the bed and pinned her to the mattress. And while he worked the top button of his jeans, he was fascinated by how simultaneously turned on and revolted he was. She was lying about how she felt about him—she had dyed her hair strawberry blond after he had told her how good she would look as one. She had invited him over time and again, cooking for him, sitting a little too close to him on the couch, her hand occasionally brushing his. Cheesecake. Oh, and that canned whipped cream he liked so damn much. If Bonnie had been anyone else, Reb would have dragged her outside and tossed her in the trunk without laying a finger on her. But Bonnie wasn’t anyone else. She was his project, a yearlong effort, his magnum opus of patience and planning.
He pushed her panties aside and hissed into her ear. “You have no idea how long I’ve been waitin’ for this. You’re my masterpiece, Bonnie.”