The Unwilling(40)

He handed me a whiskey. It burned going down.

“So why are you here?” he asked.

“I think maybe Tyra’s dead.”

“Bullshit.”

“Seriously.”

He was unconvinced, so I told him how Tyra had gone missing, and how Martinez and Smith had rolled up to the condo, hot, distrustful, and angry as hell. That led to a description of Dad and Burklow, of how they’d rolled up the same way, bundled me into a car, and argued, later, about things they did not want me to hear. “Murder cops,” I said. “All four of them. It has to mean something. I think it means that Tyra’s dead.”

I’d hoped to see his face in an unguarded moment. Instead, I got a raised eyebrow as he poured another whiskey. “None of that means Tyra is dead. It could mean anything.”

“I don’t know, man. They were arguing hard, and Dad looked pretty scared. He’s looking for you, too. I thought you should know as soon as possible.”

“That’s why you’re here?” Jason frowned, and lowered the whiskey, untouched. “Why, exactly, do you think I should know something like that as soon as possible?”

“You know, in case they show up here.”

“You could have told me on the phone.”

“You’re my brother. I wanted to come.”

Jason’s eyes narrowed, and the frown deepened. Standing abruptly, he checked the street, left and right. “You should have stayed home, Gibby.” He closed the blinds; checked the stairwell. “These people. This place…”

“Are you angry?”

“Only with myself.” He snatched a duffel bag from the closet, stuffing in clothes. “This is a dangerous place. You shouldn’t be here.”

“I can handle myself.”

“No, you really can’t.”

“Don’t say that.”

“Listen, kid. You think you know me, but you don’t. You want to be in my life, and I think that’s cool. I wanted to be in your life, too, but I’ll drag you down, you give me half a chance. I see that, now. Hell, I’ve already done it. Tyra. The cops. I mean, damn. If they raided this place right now, with you here…” He pinned me with those cold, bright eyes. “You should be hanging out with Chance or some other kid or that pretty girl from the quarry. That’s your life, and I should have left you in it.” He tossed the bag on the bed. “I shouldn’t have come home at all.”

“I can help you. Whatever this is…”

“Jesus, kid. You won’t listen!”

He stormed across the room, and I followed him. “What are you doing?”

“Making my point the best way I can.” He braced one hand on the safe; spun the dial with the other. “You tell me words matter, and that’s true, they do. But actions matter even more.” The door swung wide, and I saw dark metal as Jason stepped aside. “Now, do you understand?”

I did. I didn’t want to.

He pulled out a rifle, cleared the action, and tossed it to me. “That’s an M16A1 rifle, fully automatic and highly illegal. I have thirty of them.” He pointed at other weapons. “Those are CAR-15s.” He pointed again. “Thompson submachine guns, very hard to come by. Those are AK-47s, Russian-made, the good stuff, Colt 1911s, of course…”

“Slow down, man. I don’t understand.”

He dragged a satchel from the safe, rolled back the zipper, and showed me all the cash inside. Thousands of dollars. Tens of thousands. “This is what I do,” he said. “It’s who I am.” He took the rifle from my hands, and racked it with the others. “I’m not a good person. You shouldn’t be here.”



* * *



In bed that night, I dreamed of brother Robert. He stepped from the deep jungle, and I saw the hole in his chest, the shattered bone and the ruby-dark stain. When I whispered his name, he looked up, and blackness filled the place his eyes should be. He tried to speak, but his tongue was gone, too; and when he fell at my feet, I knew in the way of dreams that I should lean close, so that’s what I did. I ignored the smell of him and the empty sockets, the night sounds and the grass and the speckled sky. I poured my soul into knowing my brother, but none of that mattered. His last breath was gone, and the knowing of him with it.

I woke from that dream with tears in my eyes, then dressed in the quiet, and slipped outside to cool air and light that was watery and gray. In the car, I thought how strange it was to be born with two brothers, yet be so ignorant of both. I was a child when Robert died, and missed the chance to know him man-to-man. Jason was a mystery, too, and determined to stay that way. That left a distant father and an unknowable mother, the whole situation so fucked up and faceless that when I drove, it was to the quarry, where I hiked to the cliff’s edge, and stood alone to watch the day break as a red sun rose.

I thought this was the time to do it. Robert had died hard, no matter what the government said, and standing there, I felt the same emotions that had driven Jason to enlist and take action. My father said once it was a stupid war for stupid reasons, but he’d been drunk at the time and had never said anything like it since, so I thought maybe Jason was right to fight and kill and get even.

I stared into the quarry, a hole in the world still filled with the darkness of night. At my feet, the stone was sunrise red, but only as far down as a tall man could reach. Beyond that was the blackness, like there was no water at all, and maybe I would fall forever. Stripping off my shirt and shoes, I pictured Robert’s perfect dive, the way he’d hung and fallen and risen beside me, laughing. Let the Vietcong touch that, he’d said; but they’d killed him, anyway. I thought of Jason, who’d made the dive, too, but wanted nothing to do with me. For a long time I stared into the pit.