Brother (20 page)

The world stopped.

For one perfect moment, every person who had ever existed in his life vanished from the earth, leaving only her.

Their kiss lasted two seconds, three at most, but it felt as though they had sealed Michael's fate.

He knew then that he could be happy, if only he could make Alice a part of his life. If he stayed with the Morrows that could never happen, not without twisting her into something unrecognizable. Into someone like him.

Alice leaned back and slid the Ronald McDonald glasses back onto her face. “A little birdie told me it's almost your birthday,” she said. “Is that true?”

“Yeah, it's true,” he said, and he suddenly knew what to wish for—something impossible, something he doubted he could ever have. He pictured them both climbing into the Olds­mobile and driving out of West Virginia; him barreling down the road without a license; heading toward the ocean, toward golden yellow sand and a pink hotel.

“I'll have to get you something, then,” she said. “Maybe a David Bowie record to go along with that shirt. How old are you going to be, anyway?”

“Twenty.”

The number gave her pause. She pulled the glasses from her eyes and searched his face, as if looking for an answer to a question she hadn't asked.

“What?” he said.

“Nothing,” she said, a veil of uncertainty blurring her features. She continued to stare at him for a while longer before clearing her throat. “We should probably get back. My break's been over for ten minutes now.” When she rose from the table to leave, a rush of panic overwhelmed him. He hadn't asked her to keep what they had discussed a secret. If she told Lucy, if Reb found out . . .

He dumped their tray of wrappers into the trash bin and followed her outside, trailing her back to the store.

Michael followed her into the Dervish and took a deep breath, the cool air redolent of exotic smoke. The customers that had been inside the store were gone, replaced by a lone girl perusing the new arrivals. But Lucy didn't seem to care that the Dervish had a customer. She was perched on top of the counter with Rebel between each of her jeaned knees, as though she was in her own bedroom rather than at her place of employment. They were both grinning as Michael and Alice approached, their amusement clear. “Well, well,” Reb chimed in. “If it ain't the lovebirds.”

Alice rolled her eyes, but she was smiling despite herself. “You shouldn't be canoodling like that, especially not with . . .” She tipped her chin toward their customer. “If Jason comes in and sees you that way, he's liable to fire us both.”

“Oh
please,”
Lucy scoffed, but she gave Reb a little push and dropped down from the counter with a pout. “Like he ever comes in here, right? That's what he's got us for.” She turned her attention to Michael, changing the subject. “Hey, I heard it's almost your birthday. That's fun. Gonna have a party?”

Michael ducked his head into his shoulders and gave the group an embarrassed shrug.

“Well, we
call
it his birthday,” Reb clarified, “except that we ain't actually sure it is.”

“What do you mean?” Alice gave Michael a curious look, and for a moment he caught a flash of reluctance in her eyes.

“I think we should go,” Michael murmured. He wanted to tell Alice about himself in his own way, at his own pace. He didn't need Rebel laying out the details as though they were his to give. Except that, according to Reb, they
were
his to give. His brother had given Michael a taste of freedom, and now he was going to sour it with a grim reminder—freedom was nothing but an illusion. Any autonomy Michael felt was a privilege, not a right.

“He didn't tell you?” Reb feigned surprise. “Michael was ­adopted.”

Alice blinked at the news.

Lucy shifted her weight from one foot to the other, her arms crossed protectively over her chest.

Michael frowned at the floor. He didn't want to talk about it, not like this, not in front of Reb and Lucy. He suddenly felt like he was perched on a tightrope, Reb threatening to push him off balance, threatening to clue Alice in to the fact that this tattered curtain of normalcy was nothing but a ruse, that the spaceman was from a planet of hard-hearted brutality.

“I'm gonna wait in the car,” Michael said beneath his breath. He could hardly hear the conversation over the thud of his heart. One wrong word, one weird look, and Reb could ruin everything.

 • • • 

Rebel remained inside the Dervish for an unnerving amount of time. Michael paced around the Oldsmobile as the sun beat onto his shoulders, imagining the worst possible things—Reb telling the girls about the woman from the night before, describing the way Michael had dragged her down into the basement. He was sure he had been alone, but what if Reb had seen Michael touch the dead woman's breast? What if he'd seen ­Michael press his mouth to her dead, blue lips? What if, somehow, he knew Michael had been wishing it had been Alice?

When Reb finally came out of the record store, he was smiling with a sort of self-satisfaction. Something about it pushed Michael to the edge of his patience. He couldn't help himself. His willpower to keep silent withered and the words came tumbling out.

“Why did you
do
that?” he demanded, staring across the plane of the Oldsmobile's brown roof at his brother. “You say you want me to be happy, and then you turn around and butt in.”

“
Hey
.” Reb gave him a stern look. “Don't forget who you're talkin' to, shithead.”

“Oh, I remember who I'm talkin' to, Reb. I'm talkin' to a guy who tells me to do one thing and then tries to screw it up!”

“How am I screwin' it up?” Reb asked, suddenly casual about the whole argument, as if it was of no consequence at all. “I just said you were adopted. Like you weren't gonna tell her anyway.”

“Except I wasn't.”

“How's that? You just weren't gonna talk about yourself at all?”

“About the family?” Michael shook his head, incredulous. “Why would I talk about the family? Why would I, Reb? That don't make any sense.”

“You want to be with her?” Reb asked, nodding toward the Dervish. Michael failed to respond, and Reb narrowed his gaze at his brother's silence. “I asked you a fuckin' question,” he snapped. “You best answer before I get pissed.”

“Yes!” Michael spit out.

“You like her, then. That's good. I'm happy for you, brother. But you remember what I told you a while back, when we were talkin' about wives and killers and how they live with the lies?”

Michael clamped his teeth together, glaring down at the roof.

“You want her, you gotta bring her into the fold.”

He swallowed, felt his mouth go dry. “And Lucy?” he asked, almost afraid to hear the answer. “You gonna bring her into the fold too?”

Reb laughed, and when Michael looked back up, Rebel was looking at the tie-dye colors of the store, as though contemplating going back inside. “Lucy?” Reb shook his head and gave Michael a menacing smile. “You notice Lucy's hair? Claudine's favorite.”

The whole world shrunk in on itself.

Michael shot a frantic look back at the record store. He wanted to rush back in, scream for both Lucy and Alice to get the hell out of there, to run to wherever they could, as long as they didn't tell Reb where they were going.

Reb slid into the car. The engine roared to life. Michael watched Alice step in front of the plate-glass window, her figure faint and milky behind the glare of the sun. But he could see her well enough to watch her raise a hand in a silent good-bye, as if it were forever instead of just for now.

The heat hit him hard.

He felt like he was going to be sick.

“Get in the car,” Reb barked from the driver's seat. “I was just kiddin', you idiot. Take a fuckin' joke.”

Michael ducked down to look through the open window. Rebel sighed dramatically and slumped in his seat. “I swear,” he said, holding up his hands. “I like Lucy. I shouldn't, but I
like
her.”

For a second, Reb actually looked uncomfortable, a look that nudged Michael away from panic and toward belief.

“You swear?” Michael asked. He knew he sounded pathetic, but he didn't care. This was bigger than the both of them, bigger than Momma and her urges or keeping Misty safe.

“I pinkie swear.” Reb snorted. “Faggy enough for you? Now get in, for God's sake. I'm meltin' out of my fuckin' skin.”

Michael shot a look back toward the shop. Alice was still standing there, watching their exchange from behind the glass. He forced a smile and lifted his right hand in the same silent good-bye she had moments before. But even with Reb's assurance, it still felt like the farewell was permanent.

 • • • 

That evening, the Morrow house was heady with the scent of a rich beef stew. Momma had sliced up carrots and potatoes and simmered the entire concoction down until it was thick and delicious. But it was so hot, both outside and in the house, that it was difficult to enjoy. Reb, Wade, and Michael sat around the table in nothing but their stained white undershirts and pants while Misty fanned herself with a folded up
Seventeen
magazine. She hummed an Elton John tune beneath her breath. Momma didn't seem to notice the heat, eating her dinner with her head bowed, her eyes fixed on the scarred tabletop. Rebel cleaned his bowl, wiping it down with a piece of white bread. When he rose from his seat, Michael followed him across the kitchen with his eyes. Reb's joke about Lucy was still sitting heavy in his chest. Michael wanted to believe Reb didn't mean her any harm, but the longer he thought about it, the more uncomfortable he felt. The fact that the Dervish had become a regular spot for them was problematic, because before the Dervish, regular spots had always been jobs.

“This is good stew,” Reb said, complimenting the chef. “Real tasty. We should have this more often.” He came around the table and grabbed Michael's empty bowl. When Michael made like he was about to rise, Reb shook his head. “Take a load off,” he said.

He slid one bowl onto the kitchen counter while taking the other to the large pot on the stove. He dipped the ladle into the stew and spooned out a fresh helping, then pivoted on the soles of his shoes and returned to the table, sliding a second serving in front of Michael with a smile.

“I'm goin' out,” Reb announced.

Michael stared down at the steaming bowl before him, nausea tightening around his neck like a noose.

“Goin' out where?” Wade asked.

“It's a secret.” Reb fished the car keys from his front pocket, the eight-ball keychain catching Michael's eye. There was something there, along with the keys . . . a square of paper that Reb was quick to tuck back into his pocket.

“You need me to come?” Michael asked, standing from his seat, but Reb placed a hand on his shoulder and pushed him back down. “Eat up. Relax. Listen to records with Misty.”

Michael gave Misty a questioning look. She shrugged and continued to fan herself, sweat glistening on her forehead.

“I told you,” he said. “It's a
secret
. You can't come.” Rebel stepped out onto the back porch without another word.

“Maybe it's for your birthday,” Misty said after a moment.

Michael stared down at his bowl and willed himself to stay in his seat. He listened to the Delta's engine roar outside, thought about long walks and shovels and wolves. And then he took another bite of stew, not because he was hungry, but because it was the only thing to do.

O
NLY DAYS AFTER
Lauralynn's disappearance, seven-year-old Michael wobbled into his and Ray's shared bedroom, dragging a weatherworn Pearl Lager cardboard box behind him. Ray watched his little brother in silence as Michael piled what little possessions he had into the crate, stripped his bed of its dirty sheets, and hugged his pillow to his chest before stalking down the hall. Tailing him out of curiosity, Ray found Wade and Misty in Laura­lynn's old room. Misty had her own box and was filling it with items from Lauralynn's closet—dolls and books and clothes. Ray couldn't help but sneer at the fact that the boy responsible for his sister's death would now be sleeping on her mattress and drawing pictures at her old desk. Laura­lynn was being erased and neither Misty nor Michael seemed to care.

Ray tried to comfort himself with the fact that at least now, with ­Michael down the hall, he'd finally have some privacy, but loneliness came on fast. Before long, Ray started sneaking downstairs in the middle of the night to steal Wade's bottles. He figured if whiskey numbed the pain of a broken arm, it could probably dull the ache of a broken heart. He was right, and two years later, Wade presented Ray with a case of cheap gin for his thirteenth birthday. He had tied a shoddy bow around the box and muttered, “Now you can stop stealin' my stuff,” as he pushed it toward his son with the toe of his boot.

By fourteen, Ray had changed his name to Rebel, though nobody except Michael cared. Reb and his parents would square off every other day. Sometimes he'd think about outing them to Michael and Misty. He'd tell his siblings about what he had seen that night years ago, explain that they couldn't go visit Lauralynn, not because Claudine hated her own parents, but because Lauralynn had never set foot in North Carolina at all. But Reb continued to hold his tongue. Because, when it came down to it, it hadn't been Claudine or Wade who had sealed Lauralynn's fate. It had been Michael, and Reb wanted vengeance.

Rebel began to stalk the woods with Michael during his hunts. It gave him the opportunity to push his now-ten-year-old brother around without Wade glaring from across the yard or Misty protecting him with her pleas and sheltering hugs. But Reb soon acquired a taste for killing, and it wasn't just watching Michael shoot at birds with that old kiddie rifle.