Brother/Sister (18 page)

Something had to change.
I
had to change. The first step—the only right thing for me to do—was to confess to somebody about what we’d done. To Keith, maybe. Mom was right, he was a kind man. He cared about me and he cared about Will and I was sure he’d see how complicated this all was. I wasn’t sure if he’d know what to do, but he’d try, and then, hopefully, we could figure out what to do next together.

Keith had been heavy.
I’d only managed to topple him over the edge, lodging him half in and half out of the water. Once it was over, I stood on my cliff for a very long time, staring down into the bay, watching the water crash against the rocks, watching it reach its hand out and pull Keith’s body slowly down into its dark current. I thought about how heavy that water was, how powerful it was.

Then I staggered away, into the woods, following the path back toward the house. I was exhausted, physically, mentally, emotionally. Totally spent, like I’d come to the end of a triathlon and suddenly now, with my adrenaline receding, the bruising truth of what I’d put myself through was finally registering in my consciousness. My legs wobbled under me. My muscles twitched. There were aches in my upper arms like I’d never experienced.

Keith had put up more fight than I’d expected from him—there was a lot of strength inside that dried-out beef jerky frame of his. Even after I’d gotten in a few good hits with my golf club, he’d managed to throw me off of him, and we’d tumbled and flailed over each other quite a bit. I had cuts and scratches. I could tell already that I was going to have some bruised ribs.

When I got to the shed, I paused briefly to wipe the sweat from my forehead and discovered that it wasn’t sweat at all but blood. Lots of blood. I dug my fingers through my hair, ran them along my forehead and scalp, trying to figure out how bad the damage was. The cut seemed deep, and long, but beyond that, hard to tell.

And here’s the thing. I wanted to feel bad for Keith. Part of me couldn’t help being sentimental, remembering those few times throughout my childhood when he’d done what he could to pay attention to me. He’d taught me how to use a hammer and a saw and a screwdriver. We’d built a rickety little side table together once, back when I was eleven years old or so. I had a few memories like this, where he was doing some vaguely fatherly thing with me, introducing me to songs by his favorite bands—Deep Purple, Led Zeppelin—baiting hooks for me and showing me how to cast a fishing line off the edge of his houseboat down at the docks.

And he’d done more for Mom than my father ever had. No question about that. He’d pulled her away from fights out at the bars. He’d driven her, limp and moaning, halfway to passing out, home from wherever it was she might have been, never once roughing her up, never once being anything but careful and tender with her as he draped her arm across his shoulders and walked her through doorways and up stairs.

In a lot of ways he hadn’t been such a bad guy.

But not in the way that counted most. When it came to Asheley, he was a total perv. Lecherous. A revolting dirty old man. I can’t count how many times I’d watched him sprawl in the rotating chair in the living room, a near-beer in his hand, his eyes hidden behind those oversized dark glasses of his, thinking nobody was noticing how completely focused he was on Asheley’s every twist and turn on her pillow on the floor, on how her butt looked in her shorts and how her tank top fell just the slightest bit at her bust when she leaned over in just the right way. When he went to hug her, I’d watch him let his hand slip just a little too far down her back, his fingers lingering there at the base of her spine. It was disgusting. Unforgivable.

Totally unforgivable.

And except when I mentioned it to her in private, Asheley was oblivious. That’s the thing about her. She so wants to believe that people have kind intentions—she needs to believe it. I responded to all the shit we’ve been through by sharpening myself, learning the danger signs and keeping vigilant look out for them. But her response was the total opposite. She bent herself all up trying to find the good in the world. Refusing to see how ugly other people really are. Unless someone comes out and blatantly attacks her, she’s going to believe they’re basically good.

But they’re not. People aren’t good. Men especially. And men who are all hopped up with desire? Forget it. They’d do anything, connive and sweet-talk and fill your head with all sorts of happy promises to get what they want. Then, once you’ve let your guard down, once you’re open to them, they’ll unsheathe their claws and tear you apart. Taking whatever they want from you. Your body. Your soul. Everything. They’re ruthless. They’ll savage you.

I’m glad I killed Keith, if that’s what it took to keep Asheley safe. I’d do it again. I’d kill anyone who tried to hurt her. Who tried to convince her to give them her body, and for what? So they could get their jollies for a couple hours? So they could take her and use her and throw her away?

And they would. Ash was at that age, and she had that trusting smile. Every man out there was going to try his luck.

But how does somebody protect the ones he loves from an enemy that massive? Is it even possible?

Doesn’t matter. Doesn’t matter one bit. Who was it—Mitch Hedberg?—who said, “If you love someone, lock them up and throw away the key”? Whoever it was, they were right. And the time had come—the danger was way, way too high—for me to take that kind of preventative action to ensure that no one would ever hurt Asheley.

The trick was to get her to go along with it. To get her to realize this was the best of all choices. While I washed the blood off my face and hands, while I wrapped my drenched, torn clothes in a plastic bag, I stewed on this question. What to do? How to do it?

The cut on my forehead was pretty bad. I doused it with water, then hydrogen peroxide, then I sprayed Bactine on it. It started up in my hair where it wasn’t visible, but the last inch or so extended down over my temple. No way to hide it, not even if I parted my hair to the side. But I didn’t bandage it. Better to not draw attention to it. If Asheley asked, I’d say I’d been pounding my head on a door, taking my worry about things out on myself. I’d been known to do it before, and she was wise to lame excuses. She’d heard about a billion of them from Mom over the years.

But what to do? Where to go?

The one thing I knew for sure was that we had to leave. Keith, Craig, Naomi—they’d be able to triangulate the three and when they did, the lines would all intersect at Asheley and me.

I packed up a duffel bag of clothes for myself.

Mom was paranoid about banks. Don’t ask. Something about them wanting her social security number. And then, also, she was convinced, if her money was in the bank, that the government, or like, the loan collectors who were always after her to pay back her student loans, might be able to just reach in and confiscate it. And I knew, when I was a kid, anyway, she used to keep her cash hidden in her room. So I took a look. I dug around in her room until I found her money in one of the empty shoe boxes in her closet. A couple thousand bucks. That was going to help.

Feeling a little manic, I headed into Asheley’s room to pack a bag for her. I took great care in picking out her clothes, folding them, laying them nicely in her fresh pink-, yellow-, and baby-blue-striped rollie bag. I knew exactly what looked best on her, and I made sure to include as many of those things—dirty or not—as I could.

Then, ’cause I knew how much she’d appreciate me for it, I dug through the pile of clothes on her floor until I found the bright red Stanford sweatshirt she liked so much. It reeked of that talcum powder and lavender smell from the perfume she liked, but then, also, under this, there was a richer scent, a slightly acidic musky smell—the smell of her. I held the sweatshirt to my face and breathed in her essence. It was like smelling salts. It took me down a notch. Folding the sweatshirt up, I placed it in her bag and zipped it up.

What did she love the way I loved her scent? Where did she look when she needed to renew her hope? I wanted to think she looked to me, but I wasn’t so sure of that.

On her bedside table, in a plastic frame made of interlocking hearts, was a fading photo of her as a baby, cradled in Dad’s arms. I flashed rage for a second seeing the expression on his face. Was that adoration? Pride? Whatever it was, I was sure he’d forgotten all about it.

Then I noticed something I hadn’t seen before in the photo.

His T-shirt. Stanford. His alma mater.

My synapses started crackling with connections. I knew what my plan should be and I knew Asheley would be happy to come along.

I was hunched over the door,
my back to the street, rattling the key in the lock that always jams at Milky Moo’s, trying to close up for the day, when I heard wheels peeling around the corner behind me, and then an engine gunning, loud, right at me. I turned and fell backward and there was Keith’s Eagle, riding right up onto the sidewalk and screeching to a halt. I swear, it came about two inches from hitting me.

Either Keith was in a rage like I’d never seen before, the kind of rage I was pretty sure he wasn’t capable of, or it was Will.

It was Will.

Leaving the engine running, he flew out the door and roughly picked me up from the sidewalk, talking fast and low. “You okay? Come on, get in.” He had me by the shoulder, his hand clamped tight, steering me toward the passenger door. And he was jittering like he does when he’s in a state. Refusing to look me in the eye.

I tried to squirm out of his grasp, I swear, but he wouldn’t allow it.

He shoved me in the car and then he raced around and hopped into the driver’s seat.

I don’t know why I didn’t jump out and run. I was scared. Terrified of what he’d do to me if I tried to run. He was completely out of his head. And also, what good would it have done? He’s way faster than me. He would have just chased me down and dragged me back.

The other thing was, yeah, I felt responsible in a way. I could just tell he was going to do something bad, if he hadn’t already, and I understood that I was the only one who could reach him, the only one who could talk sense to him, and I . . . You know what I mean? I wanted it to stop. All of it. I didn’t want anybody else to get hurt.

So, then, we were off, going way too fast, jolting around corners and running stop signs, all of it. Will had both hands on the wheel, squeezing so tightly his fingers were turning white. He was muttering to himself—I have no idea what—like, cursing under his breath at the people who turned to look as we raced past.

I was almost too terrified to think of what to say. I knew I had to be careful. I mean, obviously, he was losing it, and if I said the wrong thing, who knows what would happen.

“Thanks for picking me up,” I said.

He grunted in response.

We were heading out of the downtown area, away from the knickknack shops and restaurants and all that into the wider streets that curved through the hills. Moving sort of toward the high school.
Not
toward the house. That’s not what was freaking me out the most though. The thing that was freaking me out most of all was the car. I mean, Will had his own car. And if he was driving Keith’s, then . . . and that cut on his head, too . . . Just thinking about the possible reasons for this was almost too much for me to take.

“What happened to the Saab?” I asked.

He muttered again.

“I can’t understand what you’re saying,” I said.

He gulped down a big breath, then said, more clearly, “Something’s wrong with it.”

“And Keith let you run off with his car?”

I couldn’t tell if he was nodding or just bouncing his head up and down, counting off the thoughts galloping through his mind.

“How’s he going to get to work?” I asked.

“I guess that job’s over,” he said.

“That was nice of him,” I said, “to let you take his car.”

“Wasn’t it?” he said. Then he glanced at me and winked.

Yeah, I suspected. But, I don’t know. I was so focused on keeping him calm. Also, something in the shy wisp of a smile on his face told me not to push the subject any further than I already had. I felt sick to my stomach and I rolled down the window to let in some fresh air. It didn’t help.

By now we were shooting along Paradise Drive, almost at the strip mall way on the edge of town.

“Hey, where are we going, anyway?” I said, trying to sound like I was excited to be on an adventure with him.

He followed Paradise Drive up toward Highway 1, then turned onto 41. I knew this route. This was the way we went when we were headed inland toward Bakersfield.

“Will, really? Where are we going?”

In the back seat were a couple of bags. His rubberized sports duffel and an old striped roller bag of mine from when I was thirteen and into large blocky primary colors. I don’t know how I hadn’t noticed them before.

“We’re going somewhere, Will. Obviously. So tell me what’s up.”

He just kept on driving.

And I started to panic. I was totally losing it.

“Tell me!” I pounded my palm against the seat, the door, the dash. “Tell me!”

He glanced at me, finally. “You really want to know?”

“Do I look like I want to know?”

“It’ll ruin the surprise.”

“I’m sick of surprises. I hate surprises. This isn’t fun for me, Will. Really.”

“Hey—” He patted my knee. “Don’t . . . It’s . . .” He kept looking over at me, truly concerned. “Okay. So you’re not going to believe this, but I got a call from Dad today. Really. Turns out he’s been trying to get in touch for a while but, I don’t know, we’re never home when he calls. He’s been worried about us. All this time, it turns out. It just took him forever to get up the courage to try and get in touch. So, I told him about Mom and her situation and you’ll never guess what he said. He said, ‘Come on down and hang out in Mexico for a while. Let me see what I can do to buck you guys up.’”