Every Shallow Cut (5 page)

I killed most of the day. I don’t know how. I circled town going nowhere, looking at nothing for hours. We had lunch at another fast food place. Church enjoyed his burgers. I knew I wasn’t doing him any favours by feeding him that shit, but he loved it. He slept and I circled some more, drove down to the bay, then north to the sound, then out east to the lighthouse. We walked along the beach for a while. I think I wrote some more.

Finally I pulled into my brother’s driveway. It was time to face him. He heard my car door slam and moved to stand at his bay window. As I crossed the yard he nodded to me without expression, but he still managed that chuckle of self-righteousness. I smiled pleasantly. I hadn’t showered or changed my clothes in four days. At his front door he sniffed and brought the back of his hand to cover his nose, but to his credit he didn’t say anything about it.

He gave me the first of the sad, slow once-overs. I knew more would be coming.

“You’ve lost weight,” he said.

“Yes, I have,” I agreed.

“A lot of it.”

“Yeah.”

The next thing to say would naturally be that I looked good. Except he didn’t because I didn’t.

He turned his head and glanced at me askew. “Your nose.”

“My nose?”

“What’s different about your nose?”

I knew what he meant. “What do you mean?”

“It’s . . . bent. A little crooked.”

“You need glasses, man.”

He did but he’d never admit it, just like I’d never admit that my nose was a little more spread out across my face. He turned away and nodded to himself, agreeing with who knows what the fuck kind of misgivings and suspicions he already had. “You’ve been fighting.”

“Not too much,” I said.

Church yawned loudly enough to get noticed. My brother looked down at him and pulled a face. “You have a dog.”

“His name is Churchill.”

“An English bulldog named after the most famous English Prime Minister. Cute.”

He didn’t think it was cute. My brother hated dogs. Church yawned again. I was starting to sweat and feel a little wobbly on my legs. It had been a long ride and it still wasn’t over. Seeing my brother only proved that I wasn’t home, that I had no home to go to ever again.

“You look feverish,” he said.

“I got caught in the flood.”

“The flood?” He flicked his tongue like the word tasted bad to him. “Which flood?”

“Any flood. All floods are the same.”

“They’re the same?”

“There’s lots of water.”

“What are you talking about?” he asked.

“What are you talking about?” I countered.

This is how it usually went. We confused each other. We distrusted each other. We looked enough alike to remind each other of ourselves seen through cheap warped glass. We drove each other crazy.

I was still on his front porch. We both noticed at the same time and he backed out of the doorway and said, “Come on in.”

“Thanks.”

“The dog is house-trained?”

“Yes, Churchill is.”

My brother’s expression shifted again. It showed doubt and dismay and apprehension. He had a thousand of these faces he could pull. Ten thousand. I knew I’d see a lot more of them before the night was out. “Okay then.”

I stepped in and Churchill followed and my brother walked us down the main hall directly into the kitchen like he was ushering caterers to set up for a party. The whole place sparkled so brightly it took my eyes a few seconds to get used to it. Copper pots and pans hung from the ceiling over the centre island. The stink of lemon-scented cleaners made my mouth pucker. He’d grown even more fastidious in his old age.

“Are you hungry?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“I was about to make myself a steak. Want one?”

“Sure.”

He opened the fridge and stared at the beer for a while before making up his mind that alcohol wasn’t a part of my problem. Then he offered me one. I took it, sipped, and sat.

I knew he was going to only make himself half a steak. I wondered if he was going to offer me just the other half or actually make a separate T-bone for me. He wavered, thinking about it himself, and then drew out two slabs of thawing meat from the lowest shelf. Churchill perked up and wandered over to my brother, his stubby tail wagging, his hindquarters swaying. He let out a growl of joy.

I watched my brother carefully as he broiled the steaks, chopped vegetables, made a fruit cocktail, and threw dashes of spices across the various plates and bowls. He moved around the kitchen in ways that reminded me of both my mother and my father. There was a muscular, powerful presence to him and also a delicate agility. Once he bent too sharply and his knees cracked as loudly as rifle shots.

We made small talk. It was so small that we couldn’t even find it moment to moment. Our voices trailed off. The hum of the microwave made us repeat things that didn’t even matter the first time around. He told me about his job. I told him about the flood. He told me about some kind of weed killer he found very effective. I told him that Churchill was up to date on his shots. He told me it was going to be sunny for the next few days. I told him about my latest nomination for a literary award.

He asked me if there was any money involved.

I asked him, Well, what the fuck do you think?

I enjoyed the salad and had another beer. He fixed us both plates with lots of garnishes and fed me well. The T-bone was perfect, and I ate quickly. I hadn’t realized I’d been so hungry. Right before I finished up he cut his own steak in half and put the extra piece on my plate. It was an oddly affectionate gesture, the kind my father would have made.

Churchill kept waiting for me to toss the bone on the floor for him, but there was no need to provoke my brother. He was having a hard enough time already. I put Church out in the yard and threw the bone to him. It would keep him busy for hours. Even before he got his teeth on it he barked at it and cavorted wildly. Then he threw his cannonball bulk at it and started to chew.

I sat again and sipped my beer. My brother laid his knife and fork across the centre of his plate, sat back in his seat, and eyed me.

“She was never right for you,” he said.

“You’re probably right,” I admitted.

And there it was. In three seconds of conversation we’d pretty much wiped out the last decade of my life. I wondered what other slates we were about to clear.

The conversation danced around. I drank more beer but felt as sober as I’d ever felt in my life. Every so often one of us would ask a real question or make a bold statement. The other would mostly divert and dive for cover. He brought out a devil’s food cake and ate half a piece.

I couldn’t figure out why he didn’t have a woman. When he was twenty-one, with biceps the size of cannonballs, he always had a girl around. They never lasted long but I always figured that was because he was playing the field. Maybe I’d been wrong. For all I knew he was gay or asexual. I should’ve had the nerve, curiosity, or the concern to ask, but I just didn’t.

“Have you been to the cemetery lately?” I asked.

His lips smoothed into a bloodless line. “Every week.”

“Why so often?”

He shrugged his broad shoulders. I thought with shoulders like that I’d be able to rule the world. “It relaxes me. I go out there and walk the little paths through the place. Bring a few flowers, say some prayers. The ritual of it helps me to meditate.”

“I didn’t know you meditated.”

“I don’t except when I’m there.”

Exhaustion hit me heavily. I glanced at the window and saw it was dark outside. I’d lost another day to the haze. I went to the back door and called Church. He pranced inside, his muzzle covered with marrow. I sat again and Church flopped at my feet and immediately went to sleep. His snores soon began to rattle the copper pots.

My brother kept scrutinizing Church. He was already worried about the dog. His eyes flashed with visions of shit-stained carpets, pee-soaked couch cushions, shredded throw pillows, having his throat torn out in his sleep. His breathing grew more rapid. I wondered if he was going to suddenly grab up a frying pan and attack my sleeping dog. I glanced around for a weapon. I spotted a ladle. In a clutch it might still prove useful. I imagined my brother and I in a death match involving kitchen utensils. I saw us wrestling and bleeding across his immensely clean floor, me whacking him over the head trying to crush his skull with the ladle. I could hear the ka-bong of the frying pan smashing my jaw, could almost feel my teeth rattling loose in my head. I don’t know why I didn’t see myself drawing the gun. I seemed to keep forgetting there was a gun.

“You’re always welcome here,” he said, “but the dog stays in the garage. He stinks.”

I heard the hanging implication in his voice. He meant, The dog stinks even worse than you.

“I’ll give him a bath,” I said.

“That’s not good enough. Then the house will just smell like wet dog, and that’s even worse.”

“I’ll dry him.”

“Don’t argue, right?” he said.

I looked deep into my brother’s face. As usual, there was no give there, no mercy. He always held his chin high, his shoulders squared. It was a good tactic that made him more imposing. He was still tall and muscular and cut a real swath. His eyes were hard as shale.

I got up, shook his hand and said, “Good seeing you,” then started for the door. “Thanks for dinner.” Churchill grumbled as he climbed to his feet and followed me.

“You’re leaving?” my brother asked.

“Yes.”

“Because of a dog?”

There was no way to explain it to him so I just said, “Yes, because of a dog.”

“What the hell has happened to you?”

“Is that the question you’re really asking?”

He gave me the sad long once-over and shook his head sorrowfully. He couldn’t meet my gaze. “All right, the dog can stay in the house. But give him a fucking bath now. And he doesn’t roam the house until he’s completely dry. And if he pisses or shits inside even once, he’s in the garage for good.”

That sounded fair. And all I was looking for was fair.

I stood under the shower with the spray coming down, the bathtub about half full, water coming halfway up my calves. Church sat at the other end of the tub with two-in-one shampoo and conditioner worked into his fur and a pile of bubbles on top of his head. He didn’t look amused. My brother wasn’t going to be either.

I still thought it would make a funny scene in the movie version of my memoirs, with some B-grade beefcake actor playing the loose cannon dude in the shower with the trained dog barking on command. There would be witty dialogue because I wouldn’t be the screenwriter. The guy would say something cute to the dog, and the dog would make funny faces and groan and belch, and the audience would laugh. On the daytime talk shows the screenwriter could say he wrote the script in a divine cathartic expulsion. God moved through his body and into his fingers. The host would have tears in her eyes.

I got out and towelled off. Then I drained the tub and rinsed Churchill and dried him too. My brother had a lot of aftershave, colognes, and body powders on his bathroom counter. Too many, I thought, but who was I to judge.

My brother was sitting in his den with his feet up on an ottoman, reading a celebrity magazine. It surprised me more than anything else we’d talked about all day. I’d never have imagined him reading that kind of thing. Then again, he was squinting so badly that maybe he thought he was reading the Wall Street Journal.

He looked up and said, “You’re tired. Go get some sleep.”

“Okay, thanks.”

I turned to go and he said, “So what are your plans?”

“To go to bed.”

“After that.”

My shoulders tensed and my stomach tightened. “Dream the dreams of the righteous.”

It made him toss his magazine aside. He couldn’t quite hit me with his usual glare, but a dark light filled his eyes. There was sadness in there, and even some humility, but still no mercy. My brother liked to educate and advise and nail down matters of large import, especially if they weren’t his own.

I cocked my head at him and wondered which topic he was going to tackle right now. What he was going to tell me to do first thing in the morning? Shave my beard? Find a job? Hit the gym? Check in with the collection agencies and start the long process of cleaning up my credit score? Meditate at the cemetery? I waited expectantly. He wet his lips. He stared at my dog. He sniffed the air and could only smell his own body powder. Church had a dab of it on his ass still.