Authors: Scott Nicholson
"Attaboy," Joshua said. "Don't fight it no more."
Jacob must have entered a brief fugue state, because the next thing he knew, he was standing between the twin bunks that stood against opposite walls. Jacob's childhood bed now seemed too impossibly small to have held all those terrors and shivers. The closet door at the foot of the bed was ajar and he studied the harsh angle of blackness for any signs of movement.
Joshua sat on his own bed and made an awkward attempt to stretch out. "Brings back a lot of memories, don't it?"
"Not really," he lied. "My childhood is just sort of one long blur. Why would I want to remember it?"
Joshua sat up with a hard groan of bedsprings. "Because I want you to, dear brother. Those were best days of my life, and I'd like to have them back."
Jacob shook off the malaise that had engulfed him. "Is that why you hate me? Because I finally had some happiness? Because I succeeded while you ended up in a slave-wage job in Tennessee? Because I had a loving wife and kids while you were shacking up with some trailer-trash slut? Because I left all this behind and you had to live in it day after day because it's all you ever had? Is that why you hate me?"
Joshua smiled, his lips like those of the zombie-doll heads hanging from his car mirror. "I don't hate you. I love you. Why else would I go to all this trouble?"
"It's not trouble. It's luck. You happen to show up here just when I hit bottom."
"You got a nice, soft pile of green to catch your fall."
Jacob stared into Joshua's eyes, those deep, soulless, hazel-ringed holes that swallowed any light that struck them. He wondered how closely his own eyes matched Joshua's. In the mirror, he never saw himself as merciless. But he wondered how others saw him. Could anyone really escape the corrupt taint of their genes?
"I'm not like you, Joshua. I don't feed on the pain of others."
"Like hell. You turned into the old man. A chip off the fucking block. As much as we used to despise him, looks like he had the last laugh after all."
"You didn't even know him. At least he had enough of a soul left at the end that he could face his sins and apologize. But you don't even think about making amends. You just keep on digging a deeper hole, getting closer to hell with every shovelful."
"Mighty fancy words for a make-believe poet. But at least I'm not burying my kids."
Joshua reached to the shelf above his bed. The shelf was built into the wall and held the artifacts of a lost childhood. A ragged teddy bear flopped against a baseball glove, and an amputee G.I. Joe doll stood sentry over a stack of baseball cards crimped by a rubber band. Without looking, Joshua ran his hand over a Rubik's cube and a dented Tonka dump truck. He pushed the toys aside and pulled a dusty book from the recesses of the shelf.
Jacob recognized it instantly, though he hadn't seen it in more than a decade. "My diary. How did you get that?"
"It's my story, too, Jakie. Hell, I coulda wrote it for you if I wasn't so lazy."
Jacob stood. The past was sealed in its vault, yesterdays were the stuff that filled coffins, memories were for those who lacked the strength to bury them. Skeletons weren't meant for closets, they were to be hammered into a thousand bone fragments and scattered to the far corners of the world. Driven to dust. No evidence must ever remain.
No evidence...
"Give me that." Jacob's blood was frigid lava.
Joshua leaned back against a faded pillow, cracked the book to somewhere in the middle, and began reading, all trace of his rural accent gone.
"'January 17: Cold and gray. Looks like snow. Joshua got me in trouble in school today. He marked over part of my homework and drew pictures of naked girls. He made an A and I got sent to the principal's office.'"
Joshua looked past the diary, his grin that of a devilish boy's. "Hey, I'd forgotten all about that. Good thing you wrote it down, or it might never have happened. What else did you say about me?"
"That's none of your business. Give me that."
Joshua flipped through a couple of pages, the paper rustling like the lungs of a dying man. "Oooh, here's a good one. 'February 3: Cynthia Chaney sat with me at lunch today. I had peanut butter and jelly. She gets free lunch because her family is so poor. Cynthia said she's scared of Joshua because he spies on girls going into the restroom.' Hell, brother, you ought to give up real estate and go to Hollywood. With some of this stuff you make up, you're bound to be a hit."
"That really happened. It's all true."
"Bullshit. I was the one who ate lunch with Cynthia Chaney. Walked her home. Screwed her in the bushes behind the trailer park. She had this crazy idea that I was gonna marry her and rescue her from her pathetic excuse for a life. Dumb bitch."
"Cynthia was a nice girl. She couldn't help it that you ruined her."
"Cry me a goddamned river. Any girl that spreads her legs when you whisper the word 'love' deserves everything she gets."
"She had to move to Florida after the abortion."
"If you believe all the other stupid sluts. I'd bet money she was looking for an excuse to drop out of school and came up with that one because nobody would blame her. People are real good at arranging the truth to fit their needs. And I wasn't the only one to ride that little pony, anyway."
"The next day..." Jacob looked out the window, the anger seeping out of him along with his strength. "Cynthia thought I was you. She came up to me behind the gym and kissed me on the mouth, said meet her at lunch and make plans for running away together."
Joshua laughed. "Told you she was a dumb bitch. You probably felt sorry for her. Shows how messed up you were back then. Hell, I knew it two years before the doctors did. Didn't take a college degree to hear those loose screws rattling around inside your skull."
"Give me the diary."
"Wait. We're about to get to the good part. 'March 3: I wonder what it's like to be Joshua. They say twins often share a psychic bond that goes beyond anything that DNA can explain. This book I read said that's why twins separated at birth will often lead lives that seem amazingly parallel.' Hey, that's a good one. 'Psychic bond.' Do you really believe that crap, or is it some screwy shit the doctors told you?"
"We're alike in a lot of ways. In ways that make me ashamed. But Dad thought I was the troubled one. I guess you're right about people seeing what they want to see."
The sun was slanting through the window at a low angle, illuminating the dusty clutter under Joshua's bed. That thing about monsters under the bed, the hand rising up to snatch children away to that dark land beneath, had been nothing but a story. Yet as the shadows of the room grew deeper, Jacob sat on his childhood bed and had to fight an urge to pull his feet up from the floor and tuck them under his knees. The monsters were long gone, their power to scare sealed away in the dead hollows of closets and empty toy boxes.
Joshua turned a few more pages and a piece of crinkled celluloid fell out of the diary. Joshua picked it up, glanced at it then spun it over to Jacob as if it were a square Frisbee. Jacob caught it. The Polaroid portrayed him and Joshua in matching blue sailor suits, aged about seven. It must have been early summer, because neither wore shoes. It took Jacob a moment to recognize himself as the one on the right, the one who held a small sailboat. Jacob had loved that sailboat and had slept with it on the windowsill at the head of his bed.
Then one day Joshua had torn it from his hands and set it loose in the river, where it plunged over the tumbling, rocky currents and headed for a plunging froth of falls. Jacob had raced after the boat, almost jumping in the river to save it, but he couldn't swim and the water was fat and brown from recent rains. He ran along the riverbank as the briars and scrub locusts ripped jagged red lines across his arms and legs. He finally watched, helplessly tangled, as the sailboat careened against a protruding monolith of granite and shattered into bright scraps of painted wood and cloth.
"'April 11,'" Joshua read. "'Mother is sick again. She stayed in bed all day and I had to bring her soup. She wouldn't eat any solid food. Medicine and wine. Her face is pale and her hair somehow turned gray over these past few weeks. Father stays downstairs in his study. Joshua hides when it's time to take food to Mother. We should get a nurse for her.'"
Joshua slammed the diary closed. "Mommy's little pet, weren't you?"
"It was an accident," Jacob said, looking out the window, seeing the broken sailboat in his mind, splinters in the foam.
"Nothing's an accident. We get everything we deserve."
"No." The river rose up, dark waters rimmed with white teeth.
"You pushed her, Jacob."
"No." The river opened like a large mouth, the cold current inviting him inside.
"You killed your own fucking mother."
Jacob rubbed the bottoms of his fists against his eyes, trying to wipe the sight of that broken sailboat out of his mind. Somewhere, far from here, its wreckage must have reached the bottom of a calm sea.
R
enee drove by the remains of their house Wednesday just as the sun hit the far tops of the Blue Ridge. She had meant to keep going, but found herself turning into the driveway as if she were back from a run to the grocery store. The block footprint of the building lay like a lidless coffin. Yellow plastic tape still stretched around the charred wreckage, though it was ripped in places, the pieces fluttering like the tails of tangled kites.
At the rear of the backyard, a small storage shed had been blackened but otherwise undamaged. The branches of the oaks and maples nearest the house were stunted and bare, crippled fingers among the vibrant spring foliage. A split-rail fence along the western side of the property had been knocked down, probably by one of the tanker trucks. The front yard was crisscrossed with ruts, the sidewalk cracked, mail-box leaning like a penitent drunken priest.
A few blackened timbers poked up from the sunken pit of debris. Twisted metal and smoky stones were scattered in the dead embers. The refrigerator had once held pictures of Mattie in her soccer uniform, foolproof recipes, wrinkled tests with red letter A's circled at the top, all stuck to the door with colorful magnets. Now the rusty appliance lay on its side, adorned with nothing but shards of gray glass.
She shouldn't have come. The fire chief, Davidson, had told her the scene investigation was complete, though some evidence was being tested in the state lab. She and Jacob were welcome to salvage anything they wanted. Davidson said they could even come in with a front end loader and dump truck and clear the remains, get a fresh start on the existing foundation.
Remains.
Easy for Davidson to say, a woman who was married to her work and whose only responsibility was to duty. Maybe Davidson, in the privacy of her lonely bed, could cry over firefighters killed in televised tragedies or mourn victims of distant wars. But Davidson didn't have some of the flesh of her own flesh seared into these ruins. Renee did. She wore the smoke like a burial shroud, and the loss was a hot bed of eternal coals in her chest.
She sat in her car for a moment, looking up the street at the perfect houses with bright lights, television, and laughter behind the drawn curtains. She hated those people. They had no right to fortune and happiness. Renee had built her life from the ground up, driven each nail carefully, caulked every opening to prevent hard winds from penetrating. Yet she had failed somewhere. You could worry all you wanted about locks and safety lights, take every precaution, but tragedy still kicked in the front door, walked up the stairs, and whispered, "Nice to see you again."
Or maybe it slipped in a back door that someone else left open...
A BMW drove by, one of the flattened and ugly newer models, probably driven by a perfect mother from the far side of the subdivision. One whose children were brushing their teeth and getting ready for a night of sweet dreams. A woman whose children were full of blood and breath and chicken soup. A woman with copper-bottomed skillets hanging in sequential order, arranged by descending size. A woman who watched Dr. Phil with a knowing, sympathetic smile, secure that her marriage had no hidden cracks or stress fractures.
Renee got out of the car. The air was damp with summer dew and thick with the stench of burnt wood. She was amazed that so little of the house remained. Curls of wire, warped pipe, some dark, wet mounds of gypsum, and a few clumps of charred clothes were scattered among the black embers. Something caught and reflected the dying sunlight, a bright beacon in the blackness.
It was the hand mirror her mother had given her, a family heirloom. Renee had passed it down to Mattie. The ornate silver framing had melted into shapeless slag, dark ashes stuck to the metal, but the glass was intact.
Renee edged the line of cinder blocks that had served as the basement wall. She was wearing slacks, and her shoes would be ruined, but she worked her way down into the hole that had once been her house. A jagged strip of sheet metal cut into her ankle. She hissed the beginning of a cuss word then stopped herself, as if she were committing sacrilege on hallowed ground. The burnt wood crumbled under her feet, black dust rising and clogging her throat and nostrils.
She reached the spot fifteen feet from the wall where the hand mirror's surface gleamed between the twisted hulks of two rafters. She pushed a path to the mirror and picked it up, then knelt in the rubble and placed it against her heart.
When she had given the mirror to Mattie, she had told her the story of Snow White, and how the wicked stepmother had asked the mirror about beautiful women.
"Mirror, mirror, on the wall, who's the fairest of them all?" Renee had said, in her most gravelly, cruel voice.
"Who, Mommy, who?" Mattie replied, bouncing her bottom on the bed, eyes wide enough to reveal white sclera all around the pupils.
Renee turned the mirror around so that Mattie could see herself, rosy lips and crooked baby teeth, softly curving nose and pink cheeks, hair as golden as her mother's, but much finer. "Why,
you
are, silly," Renee had said.