Brothers

by Tess Oliver

  "Stupidly, I hesitated when I thought this fool was going to crown himself on a tree." I walked to the truck and pulled the water jug out of the bed. Icy water dribbled back along my face as I lifted it to my mouth for a drink.

  "Sorry man, saw the opportunity and took it." Jesse dropped his helmet and gloves in the duffle bag. "Besides, I had plenty of room between those trees."

  I lowered the jug of water and wiped my mouth with the back of my hand. "You and I have a different definition of 'plenty of room'. But whatever. We need to get back to the shop. We've both got knives to finish."

  A cloud moved in, blotting out the sun as we loaded the bikes into the truck. It was spring and most of the winter frost had melted, but Tanglewood was high enough on the mountain that there was still a chill in the air. Especially when the sky clouded over.

  Locals liked to brag that Tanglewood was a small town with a big heart, a romantic way to describe a place where you could run from one end to the other in thirty minutes and where a person couldn't sneeze twice without everyone else in town talking about it. And when it came to Jesse and me, news and gossip traveled extra fast and usually with a lot of bullshit added on top to make it more interesting. We weren't just any locals. We were Coltranes. Our great-grandfather, John James Coltrane, had founded the town. He'd started as a blacksmith, but his skills with a forge and hammer catapulted him to local fame. Eventually, every sportsman in the country wanted to own a Coltrane knife. Our grandfather, Zeke Coltrane, followed in his father's footsteps, although he never achieved the status that ole' John James had. But his son, our dad, William, had been just as good as his granddad. He couldn't keep up with the orders and pushed himself so hard, it eventually killed him. Jesse and I had been making knives since we were big enough to swing a hammer. Bladesmithing was a family tradition, a tradition I was born into but one that I never chose on my own. A day never passed when I didn't wonder just how different my life would be if I hadn't been expected to follow the family trade.

  Sundance climbed into the backseat. I hopped behind the steering wheel as Jesse snapped shut the tailgate.

  "Hey, you going to Roxie's party tonight?" Sundance asked as Jesse opened the passenger door.

  "Fuck yeah, I'm going," Jesse answered before I could respond.

  "I know you are, dickface, I'm asking Zach. I heard Katy and Helen are both going, so that could be a good or bad thing since they both have their sights set on you."

  Jesse sat down hard on the seat and used the hem of his shirt to wipe sweat and dirt off his face. "Either way, you're guaranteed to get laid, and frankly, you've been in a terrible fucking mood lately so you need it."

  I peered over at him but didn't respond.

  "What? It's true. You're a grump all the time. Reminds me of that teacher we had in first grade, Mrs. Sourpuss or whatever her name was." Jesse twisted his mouth. "You've been wearing that same pinched face she used to wear when we got too noisy."

  I continued to look at him as he carried on with his comparison. He eventually caught the silent warning in my expression and zipped shut his big mouth. Jesse and I were pretty close in size, but I had more bulk. If the two of us ever came to blows, he'd be in trouble. Not that we'd ever come to blows. After our dad's unexpected death, Jesse and I had been left on our own. I was seventeen at the time, and even though I was only fifteen months older than Jesse, I'd always felt that I needed to be the one in charge, the one to look after my little brother. Now that we were grown, we always had each other's backs, a brotherly bond made more secure by the fact that we were each other's only family. We'd grown up with Sundance, and in a lot of ways, he was like a brother. Our dads had been best friends. Sundance was with us the day we found our dad collapsed dead over his anvil, and he took it just about as hard. I think that day sealed his friendship with us for good.

  The truck lurched from side to side as I turned it along the unpaved road leading back to the highway. Sundance leaned forward with his phone in hand. "I just told Roxie you'd be there, Zach, so no backing out now."

  I glanced up at the mirror. Sundance's reflection had that wide, jackass grin he was usually wearing.

  "Told you I hadn't decided yet."

  Sundance sat back against the seat and turned his attention out the window. "Roxie will be pissed if you don't show."

  "Yeah, pissed at you, weasel. You're the one who told her I'd be there."

  "So, Jes, how is that bowie knife coming along?" Sundance deftly changed topics. A smart move. "Zach said the guy is some rich collector in New York."

  "It's fine." Jesse reached forward and cranked the music, leaving Sundance in another one-sided conversation. Since this topic didn't grate on my hide like the last one, I decided not to leave Sundance hanging.

  "Jesse's got to restart the blade. He decided he could pass on the quench test to see if the steel bar was strong enough. Thing busted clean in half just as he was getting the point right."

  Jesse looked over at me. "You take just a little too much fucking glee in retelling that story."

  I lifted my shoulder. "Not going to lie. It's pretty damn entertaining. In fact, I think it gets better each round." The truth was, Jesse had always been the one who had the potential to become a true master, a craftsman just like our great grandfather. He saw shapes and blades in a raw piece of steel long before he etched them on paper. Jesse could hold a bar of high carbon steel in his hand and know exactly what it could be before he even pushed it into the forge. But he refused to take the time to do it right. You could pound out the most beautiful blade in the world, but it didn't matter if you didn't pay attention to the details. But Jesse hadn't figured that out yet. His heart was in it, but his head was still clouded with pretty women, racing bikes and anything else that gave him a thrill. For Jesse, it was still about having a good fucking time, no matter the cost.

  "Deer." Jesse's hand shot forward to point through the windshield.

  The buck darted across the two lane highway. Sundance's phone popped out of his hand as I hit the brakes. It slid under the seat before he could retrieve it. Jesse grabbed it and immediately ran his fingers over the screen, twisting away from Sundance as he shot forward and reached for the phone.

  Jesse's wide, white smile flashed in his dust covered face as he tapped the phone. "Too late. I hit send." He handed it back.

  Sundance grabbed his phone and read it. "What the fuck? You asshole."

  "What did you write?" I asked.

  Jesse laughed. "Hey baby, I'm going to need a blow job later."

  Sundance smacked the back of the seat hard.

  Jesse turned around. "What are you so pissed about? Just tell Roxie it was me."

  "I wasn't talking to Roxie, dickwad." Sundance sat back and kicked the seat.

  I checked his face in the mirror. It was beat red. "Who were you talking to?"

  "I was talking to my mom." He kicked the seat again. "Fucker."

  Jesse's laugh shrank to a low 'oh, shit'.

  "Wait," Sundance said with renewed enthusiasm. "You're right. I'll just tell her it was you."

  "Don't you fucking dare." Jesse twisted around, leaned over the seat and fought Sundance for the phone.

  I slammed my foot against the brake hard enough to pitch Jesse back against the dash.

  My brother looked at me with angry pinched brows as he rubbed his back. "Fucking hell, Zach."

  I lifted my hand and pointed out the windshield. "Deer."

  3

  Jesse

  Zach's hammer came down on the white hot bar of steel. I pressed my fingers against my temples to keep my head from exploding. A long night of partying never worked well with a long day of making knives, but I'd done it to myself. It wasn't as if I didn't know that my work day would be filled with the loud, continuous clang of a hammer. But I was sure my brother was pounding the pre-form just a little bit harder and louder than necessary. The smirking grin he was hiding behind his heavy facial hair assured me of it.

  I walked ov
er to my work table and stared down at the bar of steel. Somewhere inside the crude piece of metal was a bowie knife, and I needed to coax it from its hiding place. The customer wanted a Coltrane knife for his collection. He already owned two of my great-grandfather's and one made by my dad. Seemed to me that he had enough Coltrane blades to last him a lifetime, but he insisted he needed one from the new generation. I just wasn't sure my finished blade should sit next to the other Coltrane's in his collection. But the task fell to me. Somewhere along the way, Zach had decided that I had the skills to make our great-granddad proud. I just wasn't sure how he came to that conclusion. Zach was a great knife maker too, only I knew his heart wasn't always in it. For me it was the opposite. I had the heart for it but not always the head.

  I'd grown up knowing that I was going to be a bladesmith. While my friends were dreaming of wearing a police badge or a fireman's hat, I dreamt of wearing a leather bladesmith's apron. Dad even bought me one for my eighth birthday, along with a hammer light enough for me to swing.

  The shop lit up with bright light as Zach pushed his tongs into the forge. Through the generations, the contents of the shop had been updated with a few modern tools, machines our great-grandfather would have laughed and sneered at. Like the power hammer that did a lot of the grueling work of pounding out a blade, and the belt sander that sped up the sanding process and kept you from grinding down your fingertips. But the rest of the shop looked as if it had been pulled right out of the past. The rough-hewn bricks lining the walls and the floor had all been hand laid by ole' John James himself. Some of the original tree stumps, permanently set in mortar in the center of the shop, had, through time, become closer to rock than wood. Two walls were lined with hammers and tongs of various shapes and sizes, some retired for good and some that Zach and I still used. Our dad had updated and enlarged the forge from the original. He'd also added hooks on the wall to keep our safety goggles, another addition that would have given John Coltrane a hearty laugh.

  Bear's big head popped up and a growl followed. Sundance walked through the open doorway of the shop looking just as hung over as me. His face scrunched at the light blaring from the forge. "When the heck is that dog going to recognize me?" he grumbled as he glanced back at Bear, who was still eyeing him like a piece of raw steak.

  I walked to the hook to grab my apron. "I told ya, Bear doesn't like strangers."

  Sundance held his hands out. "I've known that dog since he was a big, stupid puppy."

  I dropped the apron around my neck. "Still doesn't erase the fact that you're strange."

  "You're a fucking comedian this morning, Coltrane." Sundance walked over to one of the stools in front of the work table and sat down. The scar he had that lined the side of his face from his eyebrow to the top of his cheek was puckered pink from the cold morning air. The mark had been there since we were ten and Zach and I had dared Sundance to climb to the top of a thirty foot pine tree. He got up there just fine, fearless fucking nut that he was, but once on top he had a run in with an angry mother hawk. His descent was a little too reckless, and he managed to hook his face on a branch on the way down. His mom was so pissed at Zach and me for nearly causing Sundance to lose an eye that she banished us from their house for a month. By the time Sundance turned sixteen and passed six feet, he discovered that the scar was a great way to attract girls. Of course, the story of how he got it had changed from being hooked by a branch as he fled an angry bird to an all out battle with a vicious bear. Sometimes the tall tale earned him an eye roll, and sometimes it earned him a sympathetic kiss.

  Sundance leaned his elbows back on the table. "I was pretty wasted last night, but before I headed upstairs with Roxie, I saw you on the couch with Tammy and Jill. So?"

  "So?" I reached past him for my black marker.

  "Who'd you end up with? Tammy or Jill?"

  "Yep." I placed the metal bar on the table and began sketching out the form of a bowie knife.

  "You dawg. Both of them?" He laughed as he slapped his thigh. "I need to hear details."

  I skittered the felt tip of the marker across the rough surface of the bar. "If it interests you."

  "Fuck yeah, it does." Sundance shifted forward on the stool, looking all ears and anticipation.

  "Tammy had scrambled eggs and toast. I think she used the strawberry jelly, but my head was kind of fogged from beer. I had one of Maggie's hash brown skillets, and Jill just ordered coffee."

  Sundance's face drooped with disappointment.

  I smiled as I turned back to my work.

  "Yep, a regular fucking comedian." He glanced over at Zach. "How come he didn't show last night? What's up with him? Is he thinking about Sage again? She's been gone for four years."

  "Nah, I don't think that's it. He's just getting that antsy feeling again, like maybe he made a mistake sticking it out here in Tanglewood. Just fucking restless as usual. He goes through those moods every few months. He'll be back to himself soon."

  Zach and I were close, so close that sometimes it seemed we could read each other's minds. I knew with him there was always those little pin pricks in his mind, poking at him, making him wonder if he should move on from this life and from Tanglewood. Sage, his high school sweetheart, had left three years after graduation, at a time when Zach had only one goal, to become a master bladesmith and carry on the family business. But Sage wasn't willing to commit to a life in Tanglewood. The breakup was mutual and easy, considering how fucking crazy they had been about each other.

  Sundance pulled out his phone. "Shit, Roxie is pissed that I left without waking her." He texted something back.

  "Not very gentlemanly," I quipped.

  "Yeah, coming from the gentleman expert. I knew if I stayed, then we'd have to have a whole conversation about which way things were going, and as far as I'm concerned, they aren't going anywhere."

  I turned the metal bar to point the opposite direction and continued my drawing. "So, you just wanted to fuck? A fuck and leave."

  "Hey, up yours. You are the king of the fuck and leave," he said sharply and then pressed his fingers against his forehead. "Damn hangover. Everything I learned I learned from my two best buddies, the Coltrane boys. So don't start any sermon, asshole, because I'm not buying it."

  "No sermon. You do whatever you want. I'm changing my ways."

  "Right. I'll believe that when I see it."

  In the back of my mind, I'd been working hard to convince myself to straighten out in both my work life and my social life. So far, my convincing just hadn't worked too well.

  "Hey, did you see it's going to be spitting icy rain for a few days?" Sundance changed to the default topic of weather.

  "Spring sure looks more like winter than spring this year. I guess we'll have to postpone our next ride."

  "Looks that way." Sundance hopped off the stool. "I'm out of here before Zach starts pounding that hammer. I've got work to do." Zach and I weren't the only locals who had a family trade handed down through generations. Sundance, or Nathan Armstrong the third, as he was more formally known, was from a long line of leathersmiths. Sundance and his dad made all of the custom leather sheaths for our knives. His sister, Sherry, had gone a different direction than leather and used her artistic talents to become a tattoo artist. We were a town of five thousand, and we had our own tattoo parlor. Zach was more than a frequent customer. Sherry liked to joke that he technically owned more of her house than she did. I'd always considered it pretty damn cool to grow up in a town filled with people who could create amazing objects and heirlooms with their hands. And those skills were passed down through generations. It was exactly the vision John Coltrane had had for the town when he laid the first row of bricks for the shop.

  "What are you working on?" I asked.

  "I've got to finish that damn saddle before Turner changes his mind on the design again. Later." He glanced toward the forge as he headed out. "Later, Zach."

  "Later, Sundance."

  My shoulders scrunched up aro
und my ears as Zach turned to the anvil with his glowing piece of metal. He lifted the hammer and let it drop with an extra loud clang.

  4

  Joelle

  Turned out an open boxcar wasn't the most comfortable way to travel. Especially when the passenger had no sweatshirt, no snacks and desperately needed a bathroom. I had been too hungry and cold and uncomfortable to sleep. Even when the rhythmic click-clack of the wheels on the track had lulled me into a drowsy state for a few minutes, there was always some noise or jolt or interruption in the rhythm to snap me out of it. But the new day brought with it new hope.

  I wrapped my arms around my knees and brought them close to my body, hoping the smaller I was, the less cold I would be. My arms and legs were covered with gooseflesh, but it wasn't just from the chill in the air. My elation at freeing myself from Bobby's control had been quickly replaced by the terrifying reality that I had jumped into an empty boxcar heading north all alone, without money, or phone, or even a damn sweatshirt.

  I looked at my bleak surroundings and wondered how long I'd be stuck inside the shambling wood box. My answer came sooner than expected. I fell sideways as a hissing squeal pierced the air, and a sudden deceleration slowed the train.

  I pushed to my feet and walked to the opening. The landscape outside had shifted from unkempt, mostly uninhabited flatland to rocky inclines and fragrant evergreens. We were heading through the mountain pass. The sun had slipped behind a quilt of dark clouds. The frigid air made more sense now, but that didn't help my situation.

  Another drop in speed nearly pitched me sideways again. I definitely still hadn't grown sea legs, or, in this case, train legs. I held fast to the edge of the door and watched as the gravel-covered ground floated past. Even at a snail's pace, a jump from the car seemed daunting, as if I could easily snap both ankles on the landing. That would just be the cupcake's icing, two broken ankles in the middle of nowhere. On the bright side, I'd most likely freeze to death long before tomorrow's sun arrived.