Brother (6 page)

Michael followed Rebel inside. The interior of the record store smelled funny—like sweet smoke and faraway places. If the walls inside the shop were as colorful as those outside, he couldn't tell. There were too many posters tacked up, ­creating an intricate patchwork of smiling musicians and Day-Glo flowers. The Beatles greeted him in fluorescent suits of ­yellow, pink, and blue. The quartet stood in front of a huge crowd of people, flowers spelling out the name of the band at their feet. It was the
Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band
album. Misty Dawn owned it. Michael's favorite track was “When I'm Sixty-Four.” As expected, Bob ­Marley—­another face he recognized from Misty's ­collection—grinned at him from various corners of the shop. Bob's head was thrown back in ecstatic joy, dreadlocks slithering across his ­shoulders like snakes. Janis Joplin gave a wicked smile courtesy of an old concert poster advertising a show at a place called the ­Alexandria Arena. Michael liked Bob and Janis all right, but not as much as he liked the Beatles. And while Misty Dawn would have preferred more pop than rock in her ­record collection, she didn't ever complain. Beggars couldn't be ­choosers, and Misty was certainly the former. All those albums had been stolen. When Michael had managed to stick ABBA under his arm, she'd screamed with delight. She'd played that album on a loop for what felt like a solid month. It seemed like the stylus should have cut that vinyl record right in half.

What looked like a black-and-white mug shot of Jimi Hendrix stared at Michael from the back wall. The poster was so massive that he couldn't help but imagine Misty going gaga over it. It wasn't Swedish pop, but Misty had eclectic tastes. Some of the stuff she listened to, even Wade liked. Sometimes Wade would go up to her room and listen to bluesy rock on her record player. Creedence Clearwater Revival would twang through the wall that separated Michael's and Misty's rooms. Michael would close his eyes and try to imagine himself in the stories Wade loved to tell. The jungle. Crawling through swamps. A rifle in one hand and a Lucky Strike tucked between his lips. Charlie just around the corner. Death only a few steps behind. And then there was Misty's other stuff—the Bee Gees and Peaches & Herb, Bonnie Tyler, and Rod Stewart. That was the stuff Rebel would yell for her to turn off because it was giving him a headache. That was the music Wade muttered about being “behind all the trouble with those fags in DC.”

Michael looked across the expanse of wooden crates on top of what looked like homemade tables. The crates were packed full of record sleeves. Handwritten signs separated the tables into decades. Decades were portioned out by letters of the alphabet, and the most popular artists got their own tabs. Rebel stood close to the front window on the left side of the store, the sun shining on his back. He was leaning against the front counter, grinning at a strawberry blonde who was laughing too freely for the two of them to have only just met. Then again, Reb had a way with girls.

Rebel turned his head and regarded Michael with a nod. He was smiling, but as soon as their eyes met, his expression went hard.
Don't screw this up
, it said, and for a moment ­Michael didn't get what that could have meant. But then he saw the way Reb was looking at the girl. She was twisting a lock of hair around one of her fingers, snapping her gum between giggles. He supposed not screwing up meant not robbing the place. He was tempted to steal a whole armload of records and make Misty Dawn's day, but that wouldn't go over too well with the employees
.

Michael looked away and stepped up to the nearest crate, flipping through record sleeves while the girl chuckled at something Reb had said. He kept his head down and his eyes diverted as he slowly moved from the front of the store toward the back. He was trying to place the song that buzzed through a speaker mounted in the top corner of the room, thinking about how Misty would have known it after the first few bars. It seemed like she knew every song on the radio—lyrics, title, artist, everything. Every time they caught
Name That Tune
on TV, she'd have a higher score than any of the contestants.

The song playing overhead was loud and rollicking with a fast beat and horn accompaniment. It was bouncy and buoyant despite its rough edge, as exotic as the smoke that curled up his nostrils and filled his lungs. Michael cast a glance at the speaker, waiting for it to reveal its secret as he listened, only to hear the slap of record sleeves against linoleum a few feet behind him. Sure that he'd nudged something in passing, he twisted around to see what damage he had done. But instead of finding an overturned crate at his heels—
Thank God, because Reb would have been pissed
—a girl was crouching there, collecting a few spilled records into her arms.

She looked up at him, her cropped black hair making her skin shine like freshly poured milk. Their eyes met, and ­Michael's heart tripped over its own beat. She looked like Snow White from Lauralynn's old book of fairy tales, except a hundred times more beautiful and wearing all black, looking about as modern as the music sounded. A smile crossed her lips, and she looked down at the floor, sweeping up the last record before rising.

“Sorry,” she said. “You need help finding anything?”

Michael watched her lips move, mesmerized by the way she formed her words. He smelled spearmint. She turned to file a couple of records into the crate at his elbow. Her profile was astounding. The length of her neck. The way her earlobes seemed to flow into the angle of her jawline. She shot him another glance, raising an eyebrow at his lack of response. When he looked away a little too quickly, she chuckled to herself and lifted her shoulders into a shrug.

“Okay then,” she said just beyond his shoulder. “If you change your mind, I'm easy to find. It's rockabilly, by the way. Brand new.” She pointed to the speaker. “Stray Cats.” Stepping around him, she left a waft of mint in her wake.

Leaning forward more than necessary, Michael allowed his hair to form a curtain around his face. There was something about her that twisted his stomach into knots—nervous excitement. A scary, forbidden longing. He had felt that dangerous hunger a few times before. Once, Reb had bent a girl over the hood of the Delta and pushed her underwear around her ankles. Her eyes had fixed on Michael through the windshield as she moaned. There had been a couple of times in the basement, as Michael stripped Momma's girls of their clothes. Each time had felt wrong, as though his body was responding to something prohibited, something poisonous.

He edged back to the front door, hoping Rebel would take notice and decide it was time to go. It didn't feel safe here. He felt vulnerable, as though at any minute he could fall into something he'd never be able to pull himself out of. Despite the horrors back home, at least there he had routine. Lingering beside the exit, Michael leaned against the shop window next to the door. He waited for the strawberry blonde behind the counter to stop her chatter so Reb could take notice.

As if on cue, Rebel looked back, rolled his eyes, and shoved away from the register with an easy shrug of the shoulders. “See you later,” he told the girl, then pivoted on the soles of his boots and made for the door. Pulling it open, he grabbed Michael by the shoulder and shoved him outside.

Michael waited for Rebel to unlock the Delta's door, then slid back into the car and hunched his shoulders as he stared at his knees. Reb was clearly pissed, buzzing like an electric wire. He didn't say anything while pulling out of the parking lot, but he didn't have to. Michael knew he was spitting sparks, ready to ignite just as soon as they were on the road.

“What's wrong with you?!” he demanded once they put the Dervish and, to Michael's disappointment, McDonald's in the rearview mirror. “That girl was tryin' to talk to you, and you acted like a retard sprung fresh from Weston State.”

“She just asked if I needed help,” Michael murmured. “I didn't.”

Reb laughed—a cold one, the kind Michael hated. “Yeah right,” he said, “
you
don't need help. Man, you need more help than anyone I've ever met. I wonder about you, Mike.”

“Wonder about what?”

“Whether you're human or not,” he said. “Didn't you like that girl? She was hot. Even better than that chick at the counter. Probably freaky too. You see the way she was dressed?”

Michael didn't respond.

Reb sighed in frustration. “You like going into town, don't you? Wanna pick up some records for Misty every now and again?”

“Yeah.”

“Great. So I'll take you into town with me more often, but you can't go actin' like a freak, alright?”

Michael nodded slowly, still unsure of Reb's intention.

“It's about time we start actin' more like brothers, huh?” Rebel said. “Stand united and all that crap. Like them protestors Wade loves so much.”

“What about Momma?”

“Oh, fuck her.” Reb just about spit the words. “She don't need to know what we do when we ain't workin'. Besides,
I'm
in charge, remember? If I say we're gonna have a good time, then we're gonna have a good time.”

Michael looked out the window. It seemed to him that Rebel always had a good time. He wasn't sure why he suddenly had to be involved.

 • • • 

Michael stared at the thick slab of meat on his plate, his Big Mac craving stronger than ever. There were no potatoes today, no vegetables, not even a slice of bread. Just a rare steak that oozed red against a chipped white plate.

The dining room was silent, save for the scraping of knives and Wade's chewing. It didn't matter what Momma put on Wade's plate—he always seemed to be working his teeth around a mouthful of rocks. The man could crunch tapioca pudding, his teeth gnashing against each other behind his lips. He stared across the table at Michael and Rebel as he ate, a look of suspicion pulled tight across his face.

“You boys were gone an awful long time today,” he said. “Mind tellin' me where you two were at?”

Reb shifted in his seat. He looked uncomfortable but held his tongue, as if waiting for Wade's question to pass without requiring a reply.

Wade forced a tight-lipped smile at his adopted son. ­“Michael,” he said, “everything okay?”

Michael swallowed the wad of sinewy meat he'd been gnawing and gave his father a slow nod.

“It don't look it,” Wade said. “So . . . where you been?”

“We were scopin' out the new mark,” Reb told the table. “Michael fell asleep on the goddamn hill, birds chirpin' around his head. Like Sleepin' Beauty.”

Something about the statement made Misty Dawn smile. She gave Michael an almost dreamy look, like she'd fantasized about dozing atop a hill of her own.

“Sounds peaceful,” she mused.

“Yeah, it was warm,” Michael said, his voice below a murmur. “The birds were nice.”

Wade gave Michael a dubious glance, as though he'd said something wrong.

“Don't be a fag,” Rebel said, giving Michael a hard glance before continuing. “The place is out in the middle of nowhere. I mean
real
isolated.”

“And you were able to find it?” Misty asked, something dangerous sparking behind the green of her eyes.

“Why the hell wouldn't I be able to find it?”

“I don't know.” She raised her shoulders in an idle shrug. “Lots of things can happen between here and there, especially when you're good and drunk.”

Michael winced at her boldness. Before he could give his sister a look that pleaded for her to shut up and not make trouble, Momma reached out and gave Misty's hair a vicious yank. Misty yelped.

“Hey, fuck you, Misty,” Reb shot back.

“Enough from the both of you,” Momma hissed.

“You best watch yourself, Misty Dawn,” Wade said, his tone strangely solemn.

“Yeah,” Rebel said. “You push hard enough and you'll end up at the grandparents' house with Lauralynn.”

Both Wade and Momma tensed.

Michael could feel Reb itching to jump out of his seat, to launch himself onto the table and start kicking glasses into the walls, but he didn't understand why.

Momma stared at Reb like he'd just told the family he had called the police and turned them all in, having tired of his part in everything. The little color that had been in her thin, sallow face had faded. She stared at her son with wide, disbelieving eyes, the gold and brown tones in her floral-print dress making her skin look sickly and yellow.

They all sat in uncomfortable silence for a long while. ­Michael listened to the cacophony of everyone's breathing while Momma and Reb stared across the table at each other like a pair of vicious dogs. The quiet was finally broken when Momma shoved her chair away from the table. The legs screamed against the hardwood floor. She slammed her hands onto the tabletop. Everyone's utensils jumped and clanged against their plates. Her nostrils flared and the sinew in her neck stuck out like ropes. Michael had to look away when her lips turned up in a snarl.

“I don't never want to hear that name said in this house again,” she growled, her eyes fixed on her oldest boy. “You ­understand me?” When Rebel didn't reply, her tone pitched toward a scream. “
You understand?
!
”

Her arms jerked to the side in a mechanical sweep, sending her plate off the table and onto the floor. It shattered as soon as it hit the hardwood, bits of steak plopping onto the planks, red juice spraying the baseboard. She stepped behind Misty, who was now cowering in her seat, and grabbed her by the ears. “I'll deal with
you
later,” she spoke into Misty's hair, then shot a final piercing glare at Reb before stomping out of the room.

Michael caught the startled shine in Misty's eyes, but she said nothing, and she didn't allow herself to cry. After a tense moment, Misty gathered herself up and began clearing the table as though nothing of consequence had occurred.