Brother (23 page)

Suddenly, words were tumbling out of Michael's mouth.

“Misty gives a shit about me.”

It was reflexive—an involuntary spasm that had come in the form of a sentence rather than the jerk of a knee or the twitch of a muscle. Michael watched Rebel's expression shift from belligerent to deadly with understanding, and he immediately regretted saying anything.

“Misty.” Their sister's name slithered through Reb's teeth. “She the one who packed your bags and took you on this guilt trip? Made you feel bad 'cause she's cooped up in the house and”—Reb gasped dramatically, pressed a hand to his chest and batted his eyelashes—“oh
no
, she's
lonely
. What else did she say? Or, maybe I should ask—what else did she
do
?”

“Nothin'.” Michael shook his head, insisting.

“Like what she did when I had to pull her offa you? That sort of nothin'? Like what she did when I had to shove her across the room and smash your stupid
face
in?” Reb leered at him. “You know that's why Claudine hates her, don't you? She's sick, Michael. That girl's a whore.”

“She didn't do nothin', Reb, I just—”

“You're just lovin' on Alice one day and want nothin' to do with her the next.” Reb nodded, satisfied with his conclusion. “Oh, I get it. Now I
get
it. You're just tryin' to protect your sister. That's real sweet.”

Michael nearly recoiled when Rebel patted him on the arm.

“
Real
sweet, you watchin' out for the family and all. But like I said—Misty? She's sick. And when you're sick you need some medicine. Who better to give you medicine than your own sweet momma?”

The air left Michael's lungs.

He opened his mouth to speak, to scream, to beg Reb not to do this, but all that came out was, “I need to talk to Alice.”

Reb gave him a sad sort of smile and shifted into drive.

“Yeah, you do,” he agreed. “And you
will
. But not today. We gotta get back home. Somethin' just came up. Somethin' I gotta take care of right about now.”

M
ICHAEL LEAPT OUT
of the Delta before it came to a stop, ran across the backyard, and took the stairs three at a time. Misty Dawn's bedroom door swung wide and slammed against the inside wall. It vibrated in its frame, the doorknob knocking a crescent-shaped hole in the old wallpaper. A few paperbacks toppled over with the impact, spilling to the floor from the two-by-four Wade had nailed to the wall as a makeshift shelf. Misty yelped when Michael grabbed her by the arm and pulled her out of bed. She'd still been asleep despite the hour and her hair was wild and matted.

“Get up,” he said, but he hardly looked at her as she found her footing. He was too busy shooting glances over his shoulder, sure that Rebel wasn't far behind. “We gotta get out of here,” he said, but he had no idea how they were going to escape the house or where they would go once they did.

Better to hide in the woods than die inside those rooms.

“Michael, what . . . ?” Misty's words trailed off when a bang sounded from downstairs, like someone upending a table. Reb yelled from one floor down, a bellow that made Michael's blood run cold.

“Here's
Johnny
!”

Michael spun around and looked into his sister's confused face. She was toeing the edge of fear, trying to keep it together, because she didn't have the facts, had no idea what was happening. He could see her fighting against an onslaught of panic. The muscles of her face twitched. Her face flickered through expressions like a cheap TV: apprehension, anxiety, cowardice, dissent.

“What—is that Ray? Who's Johnny? What's goin' on?” But there was no time to explain. Michael grabbed her by the hand and rushed into the hall. Other than taking the stairs straight down into Reb's arms, the second-floor windows were their only option. Michael's window was above the back porch. If they hopped on the roof, they could shimmy down one of the gutters and book it into the trees.

There were footsteps on the stairs, but Michael could hardly hear them over the pounding of his heart. He dragged Misty behind him as he bolted for his bedroom door.

“They're coming to get you, Barbara!” Reb yelled from down the hall. Michael didn't know who Barbara was, but he wasn't going to stick around to find out. He lunged for the window and struggled with the latch, but it was rusted in place. Michael hadn't opened the window in years despite the heat. None of the windows had screens, and Michael didn't like the bugs. He spun around, searching for something he could use to smash the glass—his desk chair. He let go of Misty's hand to grab it, hefted it up in his arms, ready to swing.

“Michael?!” Misty's eyes were wide. She was waiting for direction, pleading with him for some means of flight. Before Michael could smash the glass, Rebel filled the doorway and gave them both a strangely upbeat smile.

“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.